She flicked on the lights in the living room. With its deep red walls and long tapestry curtains, there seemed to be more books here than there were in the book shop. Bookcases covered two of the walls, and there were books piled high on every surface: on the windowsills, the mantelpiece, on top of the piano. Next to that was Julius’s precious cello, resting on its stand. She touched the smooth wood, realising it was covered in dust. She would play it tomorrow. She was nothing like as good a player as her father, but she hated to think of his cello unplayed, and she knew he would hate the thought too.
Emilia went over to the bookcase that was designated as hers – though she had run out of space on it long ago. She ran her finger along the spines. She wanted a comfort read; something that took her back to her childhood. Not Laura Ingalls Wilder – she couldn’t bear to read of big, kind Pa at the moment. Nor Frances Hodgson Burnett – all her heroines seemed to be orphans, which Emilia realised she was too, now. She pulled out her very favourite, in its red cloth cover with the gold writing on the spine, warped with age, the pages yellowing. Little Women. She sat in the wing-backed chair by the fire, slinging her legs over the side and resting her cheek on a velvet cushion. Within moments, she was by the fire in Boston, with Jo March and her sisters and Marmee, hundreds of years ago and thousands of miles away …
By the end of the following week, Emilia felt hollowed out and exhausted. Everyone had been so kind and thoughtful and said such wonderful things about Julius, but it was emotionally draining.
There had been a small private funeral service for Julius at the crematorium, with just his mother Debra, who came down on the train from London, Andrea, Emilia’s best friend from school, and June.
Before she left for the service, Emilia had looked at herself in the mirror. She wore a long black military coat and shining riding boots, her dark red hair loose over her shoulders. Her eyes were wide, with smudges underneath, defined by her thick brows and lashes. Her colouring, she knew from the photo kept on top of the piano, was her mother’s; her fine bone structure and generous mouth her father’s. She put in the earrings he had given her last Christmas with shaking fingers and opened the gifted Chassagne Montrachet, knocking back just one glass, before putting on a faux fox fur hat that exactly matched her hair. She wondered briefly if she looked too much like an extra from a costume drama, but decided it didn’t matter.
The next day, when they had put Julius’s mother back on the Paddington train – Debra didn’t like being away from London for too long – Andrea marched her over the road to the Peasebrook Arms. It was a traditional coaching inn, all flagstone floors and wood panelling and a dining room that served chicken Kiev and steak chasseur and had an old-fashioned dessert trolley. There was something comforting in the way it hadn’t been Farrow and Balled up to the rafters. It didn’t pretend to be something it wasn’t. It was warm and friendly, even if the coffee was awful.
Emilia and Andrea curled up on a sofa in the lounge bar and ordered hot chocolate.
‘So,’ said Andrea, ever practical. ‘What’s your plan?’
‘I’ve had to jack in my job,’ Emilia told her. ‘They can’t keep it open for me indefinitely and I don’t know when I’m going to get away.’ She’d been teaching English at an international language school in Hong Kong. ‘I can’t just drift from country to country for ever.’
‘I don’t see why not,’ said Andrea.
Emilia shook her head. ‘It’s about time I sorted myself out. Look at us – I’m still living out of a backpack; you’re a powerhouse.’
Andrea had gone from manning the phones for a financial adviser when she left school to studying for exams at night school to setting up her own business as an accountant. Now, she did the books for many of the small businesses that had sprung up in Peasebrook over the past few years. She knew how much most people hated organising their finances and so made it as painless as possible. She was hugely successful.
‘Never mind comparisons. What are you going to do with the shop?’ Andrea wasn’t one to beat about the bush.
Emilia shrugged. ‘I haven’t got any choice. I promised Dad I’d keep it open. He’d turn in his grave if he thought I was going to close it down.’
Andrea didn’t speak for a moment. Her voice when she spoke was gentle and kind. ‘Emilia, deathbed promises don’t always need to be kept. Not if they aren’t practical. Of course you meant it at the time, but the shop was your father’s life. It doesn’t mean it has to be yours. He would understand. I know he would.’
‘I can’t bear the thought of letting it go. I always saw myself as taking it over in the end. But I guess I thought it would be when I was Dad’s age. Not now. I thought he had another twenty years to go at least.’ She could feel her eyes fill with tears. ‘I don’t know if it’s even viable. I’ve started to look through the accounts but it’s just a blur to me.’
‘Well, whatever I can do to help. You know that.’