Bea Brockman loved Peasebrook on a Saturday. It seemed to be fuel-injected: it was faster, busier, more animated than it was during the week. The market was full of interesting stalls: people selling berry-bright liqueurs made from local fruits, tables piled high with artisan bread, handmade beeswax candles in hot pink and emerald green and cobalt blue. She was ever on the lookout for the next new thing. It was – or had been – her job for so long, she had never lost the habit.
She dressed up on a Saturday more than she did during the week – though there was no point in doing full-scale London-style dressing. Monday to Friday she wore her casual-trendy mum-uniform of Scandi chic – asymmetric jumper, black skinny jeans and black trainers. Today, though, she had on a pretty dress, red suede boots and an Alexander McQueen scarf. Her hair was tied in a messy knot, and she’d painstakingly painted her mouth a luscious dark pink. She knew people looked at her. She was a tiny bit vain, Bea, and she missed the attention she’d had as a single girl. Though she loved being a mother. She adored Maud, who was proudly showing off her new beaded moccasins to anyone who cared to look from the depths of her fashionable all-terrain pushchair.
Bea had done the market, her favourite café, The Icing on the Cake, for a blueberry friand, and the butcher for a French-trimmed rack of lamb. She decided to head up to Nightingale Books for something to read. She had lists of all the paperbacks she should be reading to keep in the know, but there was nothing like a good browse in a book shop to broaden your horizons. She rolled the pushchair along the pavement, relishing the autumn sunshine that turned the buildings in Peasebrook to golden treacle. She was looking forward to their first winter in the country. London was so drab and bitter once the chill wind got a grip, chasing litter along the streets and alleys. Here, the air would be rich with the scent of woodsmoke, and there would always be a pub to hunker down in; game from the butcher to be transformed into a warming casserole. She’d already spent the happiest of days that week making damson jam and apple chutney from the windfalls in the garden, with fashionably minimalist labels she’d designed herself.
She was quite the country mouse.
Nightingale Books was like stepping back in time. She loved its bay windows, the ting of the bell as she walked in, and the smell – a rather masculine smell, a combination of wood and parchment and pipe tobacco and sandalwood and polish that had accumulated over the years.
She hadn’t been in for a while, because there hadn’t been much time to read over the summer. Autumn and winter were for reading. She remembered seeing in the local paper the owner had died. Nevertheless, the shop was busy. Someone must have taken it over. They’d made a few changes: the displays were a little less haphazard, and it definitely looked less dusty, although the dust had been part of the charm.
Her eyes were immediately drawn to a display at the front of the shop. It was a huge coffee-table book, of photographs by the iconic Riley. It was lavish, beautiful, and at a hundred and thirty pounds, eye wateringly expensive. She picked up the display copy – all the others were shrink-wrapped to protect them – and leafed through the pictures.
An assistant passed by her and smiled.
‘Stunning, isn’t it?’
Bea sighed. ‘It’s gorgeous. I love his work.’
‘Who doesn’t? He’s a genius. You should treat yourself.’ Then she coloured. ‘Sorry – I’m not trying to do a hard sell. Well, I suppose I am. It’s a limited edition.’
Bea shook her head. ‘I can’t afford it.’ She smiled. ‘It’s a lot of jars of organic baby food.’ She put her hand on the handle of the pushchair by her side. Maud was gazing up at them as if fascinated by their exchange.
‘She’s adorable,’ said the assistant.
‘She’s taking up all my money.’
‘Oh my goodness. I love the shoes. Teeny little moccasins.’
Bea wasn’t going to tell the girl how much they had cost. It was embarrassing.
‘Me and Maud are going to choose a book together. You can’t start them too young.’
‘Absolutely. Get them a book habit. We’ve got lots of lovely new stock. I’m trying to build up the children’s section.’
Bea was curious.
‘Is this your shop, then?’
‘It was my father’s.’
‘I heard he’d passed away. I’m so sorry.’
‘Thank you.’
‘It’s great that you’ve taken it over. I love it in here.’
‘Good. Just let me know if there’s anything you want. I’m Emilia.’
‘I’m Bea.’ They exchanged smiles, then Emilia walked away.
Bea looked down at the pile of Rileys.
In a trice, she took the top one off the pile. Then she pushed Maud over to the children’s section, and they spent the next ten minutes browsing through any number of board books until they chose just the right one.
‘I Love You To The Moon and Back,’ said Bea. ‘It’s true, darling Maud. I do.’
She pushed Maud over to the counter.
Maud stared up at Emilia, the board book clutched in her hands.
‘Ah – that book’s lovely. She’ll adore it.’
‘If she doesn’t eat it first.’ Bea smiled. ‘Everything goes straight in her mouth at the moment.’
‘Is that all?’
‘For today. Yes. Thank you.’