Mia and Jackson walked back from Nightingale Books in the lamplight.
Mia had drunk two cocktails and was quite garrulous. Jackson supposed that as she barely ate anything these days they must have gone straight to her head. She was a little unsteady on her feet, and as they reached the edge of the town he took her arm. She didn’t seem to mind. She leant on him as they walked up to the house. He thought it felt a bit like the old days, when they’d first got together and had gone out on the town with their mates.
But the minute they got inside the door of the house, Mia went quiet and cold.
‘Thanks for a lovely evening,’ she said, but it sounded automatic rather than genuine. ‘I’m off to bed. Thank you for sitting, Cilla.’
And she was gone.
Jackson was flummoxed. He looked to his mother for an explanation.
‘Ten minutes ago she was babbling about what an amazing evening she’d had. Suddenly she’s like an ice queen.’
Cilla looked knowing.
‘She’s scared.’
‘Of what? Not me, surely.’
‘She feels a fool,’ said Cilla. ‘She knows she was wrong to kick you out, but she doesn’t know what to do about it.’
‘Why can’t she just say she was wrong?’ Jackson was puzzled.
Cilla sighed. ‘You don’t understand women, do you?’
‘No,’ said Jackson. ‘But if that’s what she feels, what am I supposed to do?’
‘Woo her back.’
‘That’s what I thought I was doing.’ He shook his head. ‘Sometimes I think I didn’t get the instruction manual.’
‘You’ll be all right.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I just do.’
Jackson hugged his mum. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I’ll just go up and give Finn a goodnight kiss, then let’s get home.’
Ten minutes later he bundled his mum into his jeep, popped Wolfie in the boot and walked round to the driver’s door. At the last moment, he looked out and saw Mia peering out of her bedroom window. As soon as she saw him looking, she dropped the curtain and was gone.
In the quiet of the empty shop, Emilia gathered up the last of the cocktail glasses that were scattered around and took them upstairs to wash them and put them back in the box to be taken to the wine merchant.
It had been a wonderful evening. It had lifted her heart. So many people had turned up to see Mick Gillespie, old customers and new. There had been a real buzz in the air.
Of course, Emilia knew that she wouldn’t get a star like him to come along to the shop every week. And the novelty would probably wear off. But it had given her a glimpse of what could be done and they had rung more through the till that evening than they did in a week because people had bought other books as well as Mick’s. Dave and Mel had worked hard to make the display tables as enticing as possible so people would make impulse purchases, and they had.
Of course, there had been one thing missing. Her father would have loved it. But she was determined not to think like that any more. Julius was gone, and she was clomping about in his shoes, trying them on for size. Sometimes they felt either too small or too big as she stumbled around.
Nights like this, though, made her feel as if his shoes fitted perfectly.
Just before midnight, June heard the wind get up and the rain begin. It was wild; she shut the curtains tight, grateful that she’d had her little cottage double-glazed when she moved in full-time. She went into the kitchen to make a cup of camomile tea, then heard a mighty rapping on the stable door. She froze, wondering who on earth it was at this time. It wasn’t as if she was on the way to anywhere. She decided she would ignore it.
Then she heard shouting. An indignant roar that carried through the gale. A roar she would have recognised anywhere.
‘For the love of God, would you open the door?’
She marched across, slid back the bolts and turned the lock. She just opened the top half, in case. And there, framed in the doorway, was Mick Gillespie, soaked to the skin.
‘Thank Christ for that. Will you let me in?’
‘Give me one good reason why I should?’ She put her hands on her hips.
‘Because it’s pissing with rain and I’m soaked through and I’ll get pneumonia. I’m an old man.’
She couldn’t help smiling. What a bloody fuss. She stood back and he bowled in through the door. She smelled wet wool and him. She took his coat – cashmere and no protection from the rain – and hung it on the Aga.
‘They told me at the hotel it was only ten minutes’ walk,’ he grumbled.
‘How did you find me?’
‘You don’t need to be Sherlock Holmes. And the people in this town aren’t very discreet, you know.’
‘You recognised me, then?’
‘Of course I did,’ he said. ‘But I didn’t know what to say. You didn’t say anything so I thought it was best left, maybe. But then I thought: you wouldn’t have been there if you hadn’t wanted to see me.’
‘You’re a better actor than I thought. I didn’t think you had a clue.’