It all looked a bit vague and nebulous. The problem was Nightingale Books had been the way it was for so long she couldn’t imagine it any other way. She completely understood Andrea’s concerns, and that it couldn’t carry on the way it was. But did she have the wherewithal to turn it around?
She had no idea what to do for the best. She tried to empty her mind and focus, so she could identify what she wanted, but it was impossible, because what she wanted was for everything to still be the same, for her father to be here, and for her to be able to drop in whenever she liked; have coffee with him, a meal with him, just a chat with him.
She sighed. It was only half past two, and she felt as if she could go to bed now and not wake up until tomorrow.
She couldn’t though. Julius’s friend Marlowe was coming over to give her a lesson on Julius’s cello. She desperately wanted to play ‘The Swan’ by Saint-Sa?ns at his memorial, but she hadn’t played for so long, and she’d sold her own cello when she went abroad.
Julius had been a founder member of the Peasebrook Quartet along with the formidable Felicity Manners, who had retired from the quartet a couple of years ago when her arthritis became too bad for her to play the more intricate pieces. Marlowe, who had been second violinist, had taken over as first and now did a wonderful job of choosing and arranging pieces that pleased both the hoi polloi and the music snobs (of which there were quite a few in Peasebrook).
The quartet was affiliated to Peasebrook Manor and played a variety of concerts in the gardens every summer, and at half a dozen carefully chosen weddings, as well as a popular Christmas carol service in the chapel. That way the quartet didn’t take over their diaries, and left them room to get on with other things. They were respected and enjoyed, and although they were never going to make millions, they were all passionate about the music they made.
And Marlowe fuelled that passion. Marlowe was a true renaissance man. He quietly earned a small fortune, composing music for adverts, and he was an exquisite violinist. He was one of those understated people who made you believe anything was possible. He was never still for a minute, yet he had time for everyone.
Although Marlowe was nearer Emilia’s age – mid-thirties, she thought – he and Julius were as thick as thieves, sitting at the kitchen table for hours drinking bottles of New World Cabernet while they decided on the programmes for the quartet. They’d watched every series of Breaking Bad together, fuelled by tequila and tacos, and compiled an annual New Year’s Eve quiz for the Peasebrook Arms, with fiendishly difficult questions.
Emilia had always been drawn to him, and occasionally wondered if there could be more between them, but somehow, over the years she had known him, either she or Marlowe had always been attached to someone else. He had a string of glamorous girlfriends, usually musicians, whom he treated with benign absent-mindedness, always preoccupied with his latest project.
When Emilia had phoned and asked Marlowe for help to practise the piece she wanted to play at Julius’s memorial, Marlowe hadn’t hesitated.
‘That is quite wonderful,’ he told her on the phone. ‘Your father would be delighted. I can’t tell you what a loss to the quartet he is. We’ve asked Felicity back pro tem, though it will limit what we can play. Petra’s still on viola, of course. Delphine’s going to take over from Julius, though cello’s not her first instrument and so she won’t be a patch on him. But don’t tell her I said so or she’ll have my balls for earrings.’
Delphine was the French mistress at a nearby prep school and Emilia was fairly sure that Marlowe and Delphine were an item. Julius had hinted at it, expressing the merest hint of disapproval, which surprised Emilia. Her father was rarely judgemental, but he found Delphine terrifying.
‘She stands too close. And I never know what she’s thinking.’
‘She’s very attractive,’ Emilia had pointed out. She’d met Delphine briefly on several occasions, but knew instinctively they would never be kindred spirits. Delphine was a fashion plate, always perfectly made-up, inscrutable, with a hint of the dominatrix that Emilia knew she could never pull off in a million years.
Julius shook his head. ‘She’s scary. And she doesn’t eat. I’m not sure what Marlowe sees in her.’
Emilia could see exactly. Delphine was the stuff of male fantasy.
‘She’s very demanding,’ added Julius. ‘Maybe Marlowe will get fed up with it in the end.’
Emilia laughed. ‘Just don’t criticise her,’ she advised. ‘Or you’ll only make her more attractive to him.’
Marlowe arrived promptly. He gave Emilia a huge hug. He felt warm and comfortingly solid in a big cashmere overcoat, his curls stuffed underneath a bobble hat.
‘How’ve you been?’ he asked.
Emilia just shrugged. ‘You know. Vacillating between grief and despair.’
‘It’s awful for you.’
‘It is.’