Julius didn’t protest. Though he was surprised anyone could turn their back on their own flesh and blood, it would be easier for him, too. To have no interference.
‘If you change your mind, just get in touch.’
Thomas Quinn gave a half nod, half shake of his head that indicated they probably wouldn’t, but that he was grateful for the offer.
Julius walked away knowing that he had made the final transition from boy to man.
He got back to the house. It was mid-afternoon. It felt like the quietest time of day. He made himself a cup of tea, then made up a fresh bottle of baby milk and left it to cool. He put Nina Simone on the record player.
Then he lay on his bed with his knees crooked up and put Emilia on his lap so her back was resting against his thighs. He held her in place carefully and smiled. He picked up his camera and took a photo.
His baby girl, only two weeks old.
He put the camera down.
As the piano played out he pretended to make Emilia dance as he sang along.
He’d never really met a baby before, he realised. Not to pick up and hold. How funny, he thought, for the first baby he’d ever met to be his own.
Three
It was a delicate balance, trying to hit the right note between a tribute and a shrine. The last thing she wanted to be was mawkish, yet she couldn’t think of a nicer memorial than filling the book shop window with all of Julius’s favourite books. But at the rate she was going, thought Emilia, every book in the shop would be in here.
Amis (father and son), Bellow, Bulgakov, Christie, Dickens, Fitzgerald, Hardy, Hemingway – she was going to run out of space long before she got to Wodehouse.
She had resisted the temptation for a black backdrop, instead opting for a stately burgundy. Nor had she put up a photo or his name or any kind of pronouncement. It was just something she wanted to do: capture his spirit, his memory.
And it took her mind off the fact that she missed him.
The shop had been busy over the past week, busier than usual, with people dropping by. Every time the bell tinged, she looked up expecting it to be him, walking in with a takeaway coffee and the day’s newspaper. But it never was.
Her eye was caught by a large car drawing up and parking on the double yellow lines outside the shop. She raised her eyebrow: the driver was taking a risk. The traffic warden in Peasebrook was notoriously draconian. No one usually dared flout the rules. When she looked closer, however, she realised this particular driver had no regard for the rules. It was an Aston Martin, with a personal plate.
Ian Mendip. Her stomach curdled slightly as he got out of his car. He was tall, shaven-headed, tanned, in jeans and a leather jacket. She could smell his aftershave already. He stood for a moment looking up at the shop, eyes narrowed against the sunlight. She could imagine him calculating the price per square metre.
It was ironic he had chosen not to use the book shop car park, as that was what he was after. Nightingale Books fronted onto the high street next to the bridge over the brook. Behind it was a large parking area owned by the shop, with room for at least ten cars. And adjacent to the book shop, behind the high street and backing onto the brook, was the old glove factory, disused and rundown, which Ian Mendip had snapped up for his portfolio a few years ago. He wanted to turn it into luxury apartments. If he had the book shop car park, he could increase the number of units: without the extra allocated parking his hands were tied, as the council wouldn’t grant him permission without it. Parking was enough of an issue in the small town without extra stress being put on it.
Emilia knew Ian had approached Julius, who had quietly shown him the door. So she wasn’t surprised to see him, though it was a bit soon, even for someone as hard-bitten as Ian. She knew him of old: he’d been a few years above her at Peasebrook High. He’d never looked at her twice then. He’d been a player, a chancer; there’d been an air of mystique about him that Emilia had never bought into, because she could see how he treated women. Not well. He had a trophy wife, but there were always rumours. He turned her stomach slightly.
She clambered out of the window so as to be ready for him. The bell tinged as he came into the shop.
‘Can I help?’ She smiled her widest smile.
‘Emilia.’ He held out his hand and she really had no choice but to shake it. ‘I’ve come to give you my condolences. I’m really sorry about your dad.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, wary.
‘I know this might seem a bit previous,’ he went on. ‘But I like to strike while the iron’s hot. You probably know your dad and I had conversations. And I thought it was more polite to come and see you in person to discuss it. I like to do business out in the open. I like a face-to-face chat. So I hope you’re not offended.’
He gave what he thought was a charming smile.
‘Mmm,’ said Emilia, non-committal, not giving him an inch.