‘Who is this, please?’
There is a child sat nearby with her head bowed over the pages of a book, forehead furrowed in concentration and teeth biting down on her bottom lip. It’s an expression Tilly knows well and for a moment the memory of reading like that, totally absorbed, is so all-consuming that when the man on the other end of the phone speaks again she wonders if she has perhaps imagined the words.
‘I’m Alfie Lane, the manager of Book Lane. The bookshop in Primrose Hill. I’m calling as we have an order here for you to collect.’
‘But I haven’t placed an order.’
Not only has she not set foot inside her local bookshop for a long time, but it has been over a year since Tilly picked upa book – unless you count the manuscripts she edits at work, which she doesn’t.
‘The order was placed for you by Joe Carter,’ comes the voice on the other end of the line at the exact moment that the woman ahead of Tilly in the queue steps aside and the receptionist calls, ‘Next, please.’
‘Did you say Joe Carter?’
She can feel her chest tightening and she is suddenly very aware of the smell of mint mouthwash and latex gloves. Despite the concrete-grey day outside, the waiting room feels cloyingly, oppressively hot.
The receptionist drums her nails on the desk. ‘Can Ihelpyou?’
Tilly stumbles forward, holding the phone away from her face as she tells the receptionist her name.
‘That will be sixty-five pounds, please.’ Tilly fumbles for her card and hands it wordlessly over as the gravelly voice on the other end of the phone says, ‘Yes. I have an order here for Matilda Nightingale, placed by Joe Carter.’
‘But that’s impossible.’ The edges of her words catch like sandpaper against Tilly’s throat.
In an instant she sees Joe in her mind, his wide, open smile, his short blond hair covered by a baseball cap in the summer and a beanie in the winter. Average height but broad shoulders and an athletic physique from growing up on the baseball field and, in later years, from playing softball in Regent’s Park with his colleagues. The bump on the middle of his nose where he broke it as a kid, trying to win a bet with his brothers that he could climb to the top of their garage roof. The sound of his voice, cheerfully teasing as Tilly arrived home with a bulky paper bag, asking if she’d really bought more books and whether he’d soon have to move out to make room for her collection. Or soft and croaky in the mornings, reaching out for her and telling her that he loved her.
‘I think it would be best if you came into the shop so I can explain,’ says the man on the other end of the line. ‘I think I would find it easier than doing this over the phone, if you don’t mind.’
Tilly had a plan for her last day off that involved restocking her empty fridge, catching up on her inbox and maybe treating herself to a good cry in the bathtub. But the pull of Joe’s name is too strong to resist.
‘OK. I can be at the shop in five minutes. But I’m telling you now, there’s no way Joe could have ordered a book from you.’
The shop manager offers no further explanation. He simply says that he will see her soon, before hanging up.
Tilly steps out on to the cold London street just as the thick grey clouds part for a moment and a solitary beam of sunlight shines down on the damp pavements, making them glitter. Tilly hugs her coat tightly and glances up at the sky.
‘This has to be a mistake, right, Joe?’
2
The bookshop stands in the middle of the parade of enticing boutiques, delis and cafés that feels more like a village high street than a neighbourhood within walking distance of the busy streets of Camden and the iconic buildings of central London. There’s a bicycle chained up outside the dark red shopfront, the words ‘Book Lane’ written in bold white letters.
As Tilly steps inside she is immediately met by the familiar onslaught of bookshop sensations. The smell of the paper, the respectful hush, the stacks of books with titles that would once have called out to her. The shop is small but packed with books, unsteady-looking piles crammed between the top of the bookshelves and the ceiling. There’s a ladder propped up near the back and tiny paper cranes hang from the ceiling, their bodies printed with the pages from old books. Tilly does her best to block it all out as she walks straight to the counter.
A man wearing an oversized cable-knit jumper and navy chinos leans over a box of books, eyebrows furrowed and thick dark hair sticking up wildly. He pauses to push a pair of tortoiseshell glasses up his nose, and as he does he looks up at Tilly for the first time, warm brown eyes meeting hers.
‘Hi, sorry, I didn’t see you there,’ he says as he straightens, his mouth set in a neutral expression and framed by scruffy facial hair that sits halfway between stubble and a beard. ‘I’m just getting the shop back in order after the holidays. Can I help you?’
There’s a somewhat overweight tabby asleep on the counter and the man reaches out to run a hand through its fur, the cat letting out a deep purr. Both of them look so at home in here that it makes Tilly shuffle awkwardly on the spot. She used to feel the same way in bookshops but now it feels as if she’s wandered into a shop that sells fishing equipment or scuba gear.
‘I’m not sure. I’m Matilda Nightingale. Are you Alfie Lane? I just received a phone call …’
‘Oh, right. Of course. Yes, that was me. Thanks for coming in.’ Tilly recognizes the gravelly voice from the phone but she’d imagined someone older when she spoke to him. Although it’s hard to guess his exact age. While his eyes are bright there is a deep crease between his eyebrows and a few more at the corners of his eyes. If she had to guess his profession from his outfit alone she would have said someone who restores old manuscripts or works in the archives of a museum. He looks like he might own both a typewriter and the knowledge to keep it running smoothly.
‘As I said on the phone, it must be a mix-up. Joe can’t possibly have ordered a book.’
The bookshop manager runs a hand along his jaw, his fingers scraping against coarse hair. ‘I’ll be honest, it was one of my more unusual order requests,’ he says, nudging his glasses up his nose again with his thumb. ‘And we’ve had some pretty weird orders. Like the nice old ladies who came in looking for books about Satan, or the middle-aged male barrister who pre-orders every Colleen Hoover.’ He clears his throat and adjusts his face as if grabbing hold of his train of thought like the tail of a kite. ‘Your husband came into the bookshop about a year ago –’
‘A year ago?’ Tilly interrupts, her heart catching on memories like splinters.
