‘That’s because cats and book lovers are quite similar when it comes down to it.’
‘What do you mean?’ Matilda’s nose wrinkles slightly as she says it, a bridge of freckles forming that makes it suddenly hard to remember what he was going to say.
‘They both like spending time indoors or lounging in sunny spots,’ he says, counting each point off on his fingers. ‘Fond of snacks. Enjoy quiet time in their own company …’
‘Are you still describing cats or me?’ she says with a soft laugh.
‘Plus,’ adds Alfie, ‘I can just imagine Georgette reading a book among the stacks when my back is turned. You’d never catch a dog reading a novel.’
She looks up suddenly and gives him a strange look that makes him want one of the shelves to topple down and bury him in books. But to his surprise she nods. ‘I think you’re right. And there are so many books that feature cats …’ She frowns again, a tiny crease forming between her eyebrows. ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s…The Master and Margarita. Oh,Carbonel. I loved that one as a child.’
‘Me too.’ He considers for a moment, then adds, ‘The Travelling Cat ChroniclesandThe Goodbye Cat.’
‘His Dark Materials,’ she volleys, ‘if we’re counting wild cats in the category.’
‘I think I’ll allow it. The Cheshire Cat inAlice’s Adventures in Wonderland.’
They spar back and forth, bouncing from Doris Lessing’s memoirOn Cats, to Sosuke Natsukawa’sThe Cat Who Saved Books, toKafka on the Shoreand several Terry Pratchett novels.
A wide smile spreads across Tilly’s face as she plays her final trump card. ‘And the greatest cat book ever written,The Cat in the Hat.’
‘Well, obviously. A literary masterpiece. I can’t argue with that.’
‘Maybe you should do a cat-themed window display sometime.’
‘Maybe I should. I bet Georgette would love that.’
‘Oh, I nearly forgot,’ she says, reaching into the satchel slung over her shoulder. She pulls out a Tupperware containing what looks like an extremely squashed slice of cake. ‘I’ve been doing way too much baking thanks to Delia. There’s no way I can eat it all by myself. I hope you like coffee and walnut. I swear it tastes better than it looks. The shop always smells a bit like coffee so I thought …’
She trails off, her hand still outstretched. Alfie has occasionally been given gifts before from customers. Biscuits from their regulars to help them through the manic Christmas season, and a bottle of champagne from a happy author as a thank you for hosting their book launch. But he has never been given a home-made slice of his favourite cake.
Alfie coughs slightly. ‘That’s very kind, thank you.’
‘Maybe don’t thank me until you’ve actually tasted it.’
As he takes the box their fingertips brush but he pulls his hand back quickly, placing the cake on the counter and reaching for Matilda’s parcel.
‘Your March book.’
To his surprise she lifts it up and begins immediately tugging at the pink ribbon. She looks up, her grey-green eyes flashing up to meet his. ‘Do you mind? I just don’t think I can wait until later. I’ve been trying to guess what he might have chosen butI have no idea. If last month’s was on cooking maybe this will be about DIY.’
‘Go for it.’
As she tears at the paper he turns away, busying himself with scrolling through some online orders on the shop’s computer.
‘Oh,’ she says, and Alfie can’t help but look up. She turns the book over in her hand, the cover bright and colourful.
‘Beach Readby Emily Henry,’ she reads out loud. ‘I’ve heard of Emily Henry but never read any of her books. It’s a romance … It looks … interesting.’
He can hear the hesitation in her voice and he can’t help himself from blurting out, ‘It’s more than interesting. It’s the perfect romantic comedy. Fantastic characters, spot-on dialogue, the way she understands and subverts familiar tropes …’
He is aware of her staring at him, and for the second time that morning he wishes for a very small and isolated natural disaster. Just bury him in books.
‘I’m not sure how I feel about reading a romance, to be honest,’ she says. ‘I don’t exactly believe in happily-ever-afters any more.’
Alfie knows the feeling.
‘But isn’t that one of the great things about fiction?’ he says. ‘It’s an escape. Somewhere to go when you don’t want to be where you are.’
