‘Oh god, I’m so sorry.’
He immediately crouches to pick up the pieces.
‘Don’t worry about it. I’ve never liked these plates.’
‘In that case, I can smash some more of them if you like?’
Tash laughs, then pulls him in for a hug.
‘Thanks for coming. Mia loved her presents. You’re a good man, you know that, Alfie Lane? Don’t go forgetting that. And don’t you think that maybe …’
‘Maybe …?’
‘You know you’ll always be part of our family. You’re a great uncle. But you’d be a brilliant dad too. I know the shop is important to you, but make sure you don’t forget aboutlifetoo. I know Freya messed you around, and things were really hard in the years after we lost Dad, but … well, life goes on, Alf. It has to, doesn’t it?’
Her eyes glisten as she turns to look at him, the remnants of her daughter’s birthday tea scattered around them.
‘Life goes on,’ Alfie repeats, kissing her on the side of her head. ‘Thanks for inviting me today. You and Stu made two great kids.’
‘Love you.’
‘Love you too.’
His nieces squeeze him goodbye before Tash sends him off with a bag filled with leftover birthday cake, and he heads back to Primrose Hill alone.
The next morning, as he unlocks the shop, there are the usual bills and catalogues waiting for him on the mat, along with apostcard. The image shows a white sandy beach dotted with palm trees, the sun setting over the horizon.
Dear Alfie,
The sun is shining here in Bali (sorry to make you jealous).
I wanted to let you know I’m halfway throughBeach Readand loving it. I think you described it as the perfect rom-com and I’d have to agree.
I hope all is well in the bookshop. See you again soon. I have a feeling I’m going to be needing more book recommendations.
Tilly Nightingale
Alfie pins the postcard to the shop noticeboard, and with no one there to see it he lets himself smile. But as soon as he opens the next letter in the stack of post, the smile slips from his face.
Tilly puts off turning on her work phone until she is back in her flat after the holiday and has unpacked her suitcase. She finds a dusting of sand in the bottom that brings back memories of their last evening when they joined a full moon party and danced the night away, barefoot under the stars.
As soon as she switches it on, the phone lights up with notifications.
She starts with the voicemails, and is surprised to hear Esmerelda Love’s voice filling her flat.
Tilly. We need to talk. I’ve had some ideas for the memoir that I want to run by you. Call me back as soon as you getthis. I’ve been thinking about the cover too. What do you think about getting Annie to take the photo? Leibovitz, obvs. Call me back!
All of the voicemails are from Esmerelda, as well as ten of the emails, each getting increasingly irate about Tilly not answering. Esmerelda is screeching by the time Tilly reaches her final voice message.
I know your out of office said you’re on holiday, but this is really not acceptable. I’m Esmerelda Love! I’ve got nine hundred and fifty thousand followers … no, wait, nine hundred and fifty-three thousand. How many do you have? Oh yes, that’s right, fifty. I looked you up. And I bet half of those are your family. You’re making me feel like you’re not interested in sharing my story. I bet plenty of other publishers would be. CALL ME!
Her last words are shouted so loudly that Tilly expects her neighbours must have heard. Every instinct urges her to call Esmerelda back straight away.
‘Fuck this shit,’ Tilly says under her breath. She tosses the phone into her empty suitcase, makes herself a cup of tea and picks up the book she was reading on the plane. She was just getting to a good bit.
Book Lane Recommends
Paris,je t’aime
