‘Yes. He came in and explained his situation and placed this order. He said that if he hadn’t come in before the following Christmas I was to know what that meant and should call you on the second of January. I kept hoping he would come in. I’m so sorry for your loss.’
Tilly nods, accepting the words like someone mindlessly taking a leaflet for something they have no interest in but are too polite or simply too exhausted to refuse.
‘Not that those words mean much, do they?’ the bookseller adds, fixing her with a steady gaze. ‘But it’s hard to come up with an alternative, isn’t it? I make my living out of words and I still haven’t come up with anything better.’
Tilly falters, surprised to hear someone express the thing she has thought so often over recent months. ‘That’s true …’
‘I should also say happy birthday,’ the bookseller adds, making Tilly wince slightly.
Before she can say anything in reply he turns to search for something on a nearby shelf, returning with a parcel wrapped neatly in brown paper and tied with a white ribbon.
‘This is the book I called you about. Joe wanted you to have this today. And there will be another book next month. It’s his gift to you. A year of books.’
Tilly’s heart squeezes. She has spent the day determinedly trying to forget the date. When the postman rang the doorbell and handed over a parcel from her parents, she tried not to think of the huge bouquet of flowers Joe had sent to her office on her birthday the first year they were dating, and every year after that. She knew that there would be no flowers this year but now here she is, staring at a parcel from Joe containing abookof all things, feeling as if her world has just been shaken like a snow globe. As she is about to reach for the parcel it hits her that there isn’t justoneparcel for her to collect.
‘Can I have the other books now too?’
Alfie Lane’s face twists. ‘I’m afraid I can’t do that.’
‘What do you mean? I’m here now, and you said Joe placed an order for twelve books. I don’t see why I can’t just collect them all now.’
Because despite the cosy atmosphere in the shop and the soft purr of the cat asleep on the counter, Tilly doesn’t see herself coming back here any time soon.
‘Joe wanted it to be one book per month,’ responds the bookshop manager. ‘That was the gift.’
‘Are you serious? So, I have to wait a whole month to find out what the second book will be? Andtwelve monthsto receive them all? Even though you know what they are and could easily just give them to me right now?’
‘That was what I agreed with Mr Carter.’
‘But Joe is dead! He’s not here any more!’
The cat startles, leaping off the counter and darting to hide in a half-empty box of books. The bookseller glances in the cat’s direction then back at Tilly. His expression is soft but when he speaks his words are surprisingly firm.
‘I’m really sorry. But I made a promise.’
‘Right. Fine, then. Thanks for yourhelp.’
Tilly snatches the book from his hand, grabbing it so forcefully that he flinches. But she doesn’t care. If he’s not going to help then she at least needs to get homeright nowso she can open the parcel. Without saying anything else she spins around and storms out of the bookshop, letting the door blow closed behind her.
As Tilly pushes open the front door she immediately trips over a pair of Joe’s running shoes. She nudges them to one side then hangs her coat on the peg alongside Joe’s favourite grey hoody, dull and threadbare now. She recognizes her mother-in-law’s handwriting on what must be a birthday card, but leaves it onthe mat to deal with later, and climbs the stairs up to the open-plan living space in the tiny mews cottage.
The matchbox size of the flat was the compromise for them living in a neighbourhood they both loved, and it overspills messily with their joint belongings: Joe’s workout gear piled in a corner, a desk littered with his paperwork, her half-finished craft projects on any spare surface and, in shelves spanning the entire height and length of one wall, her books. The rest of the flat might be messy but these shelves are meticulously organized, their spines lined up neatly and small printed labels signposting sections for different genres. Except for the past year her books have been gathering dust.
Tilly places the brown paper parcel on the coffee table and stares at it.
Six months have passed but it is still hard to accept that Joe is really gone. Every day she wakes up expecting to feel his presence in their bed. Sometimes, she likes to turn the shower on in the bathroom and sit in the living room for a while, pretending that he’s just in the room next door taking a shower and will be in soon. The rest of the world keeps telling her it is time to move on. The funeral flowers have long since withered and been thrown out, the calls from people checking in have become less frequent, and work is busier than ever. But Tilly is stillherein a flat that was once her sanctuary, surrounded by her dead husband’s things, with no idea what she is supposed to do with herself now.
Opening this parcel will scratch at the wound she keeps being told will heal, over time. Maybe it would be better to put it in a drawer and try to forget about it. No book can bring Joe back. But even as she thinks it, she knows that while she might struggle to deal with whatever is inside the parcel, she does not have the strength to resist opening it.
She unties the ribbon and tears open the paper.
3
They met in a bookshop …
It is a rainy day in August and while the rest of London might have been disappointed with the turn in the weather, Tilly doesn’t mind. Because it is the perfect weather for spending an entire day in a bookshop, which is exactly how she intends to spend her Saturday. She heads for ‘the big Foyles’ at Charing Cross with a plan to start on the ground floor and meticulously work her way up to the fifth.
Stepping out of the rain, she lets out a contented sigh as she looks up at the words spelt out in greeting:Welcome, book lover, you are among friends. Tilly has always thought of bookshops as a gathering place: all those books lined up neatly on the shelves like potential friends she just hasn’t met yet.
