It would be so easy to leave things there. The shop is saved and Alfie is her friend again. But then Tilly thinks of John, taking a second chance on love. She thinks of Lola and how she hasn’t given up hope of finding someone. She thinks of Ellen reassuring her that it’s OK to make space for another love, and of the feel of Alfie’s warm hand cradling her face as he kissed her on a balcony looking out over the city, making her feel safe but also sparking a stirring of something she never thought she’d get to feel again. Hope that there might be more love left for her in the world, after all.
‘I’m not sure I want to be just your friend, though,’ she says softly, tilting her head up to look at him.
‘No?’ he replies, his voice catching in his throat. ‘Because I meant what I said. That can be enough for me. I know it’s scary to think of anything more. It’s scary for me too.’
Tilly thinks back to what John told her. She finds Alfie’s hand, slipping her palm in his.
‘Love is always scary. But maybe we can be brave together.’
He touches her cheek ever so gently and she stretches up on to her tiptoes, wraps her arms around his neck and kisses him.
When they part they’re both smiling. Alfie rests his forehead against hers.
‘If this were a book or a film, it would start to snow now,’ he says.
Tilly glances around. Her eyes light on the shop window display, liberally decorated with fake snow, and she reaches for a handful.
Alfie grins and does the same.
They lift their hands and at the same time, eyes locked on each other, they let go.
60
Later that evening Tilly kneels in front of her Christmas tree, a brown paper parcel tied up with green ribbon held in her lap and the flat decorated with all five boxes of Joe’s Christmas decorations. Tomorrow her home will be full of people and the smell of Christmas dinner cooking. Alfie and the Parisians have agreed to come by in the evening after their own celebrations.
But for now, she is alone. It is calm and quiet, steam curling from tea in her favourite mug. Behind her is a backdrop of books, a pair of running shoes acting as bookends. The thought of leaving tugs at something inside of her. But she feels ready for it too – for a new start. She doesn’t need the same walls around her to protect her memories. Nothing can take those away. And it might be nice to have a bigger kitchen.
She lifts a hand to gently touch the decorations on the tree. A red postbox she bought Joe for his first Christmas in London with her. The wooden snowflake with their names etched into it that was a gift from his parents a few years ago. And the letter ‘J’ decoration she made, hanging in pride of place in the middle of the tree.
‘I’m going to hang it there every year,’ she says softly, touching it and watching it spin. ‘And every year I’ll think of you. I’ll never stop thinking of you, Joe. You’re with mealways.’
She runs her fingers gently over the brown paper parcel in her hands.
‘I’ve been so scared of opening this last book, Joe. I guessI worried that opening it would mean losing you again. Losing you for good. But I realize now that you’ll always be here.’ She places a hand to her chest. ‘I think I’m ready.’
She unties the ribbon and peels back the paper. Inside is a plain green clothbound book, empty apart from the letters ‘M. N.’ etched in gold on the bottom right-hand corner. She opens the book to find pages and pages of empty lines, and one final letter.
Dear Tilly,
The last book of the year, and it felt only right that it should be this.
I have tried to give you books to help you through this year – to keep your heart (and your stomach!) well fed, and to bring you inspiration and comfort. I hope these books have helped you find some answers. But the truth is, you have always had everything you need – these books were just intended to remind you of that. You are kind and curious and stronger than you know. And it has been the greatest honour of my life to love you and to share the time we’ve had together.
It feels hard to know how to end this letter, because everything I want to say feels too much like a goodbye. This isn’t a goodbye. I will always be with you. But your story doesn’t end here. It’s time for you to write your next chapter. I have no doubt that you’ll make it a good one. Because you are strong and brave and have so much love to give.
I love you, Matilda Nightingale.
Joe x
Six months later
The Times
‘A Book Made Me Do It’
Introducing our new book column with a difference
by Matilda Nightingale
