‘What did you love about it?’
Despite all the books in her bedroom growing up,Madelinewas the one she always came back to, wanting to read it againand again. If she closes her eyes she can see its distinctive cover as though recalling the face of a beloved relative.
‘I think it helped that the main character, Madeline Fogg, had red hair like me. She was the only girl in her class who did, just like I always was. But aside from that we were completely different. She lived in a boarding school in Paris and I have still never been to Paris, despite having dreamt about it ever since reading those books. And Madeline was so feisty and brave.’
‘You don’t think you’re like that?’
Tilly laughs out loud, but the expectant expression on his face makes her remember that she’s only just met him. He doesn’t know that her idea of brave is trying a book in a new genre or opting for a different brand of tea on her weekly shop.
‘No, not exactly. And I definitely can’t ice-skate as well as Madeline could.’
They have reached the fiction floor by now and, not knowing what else to say, Tilly reaches for a copy ofA Man Called Oveand hands it to him. Their fingers brush as he takes it, her skin tingling at the touch. She is relieved when he examines the cover as it gives her time to smooth down her hair which is frizzy from the rain.
‘If you enjoy it, I’d recommend readingThe Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fryby Rachel Joyce, orOlive Kitteridgeby Elizabeth Strout. If you haven’t read them already, that is.’
‘You really do know your books.’
‘Well, I do work in publishing. Although in non-fiction right now. I edit celeb memoirs.’ She says it with a roll of her eyes that belies the five interviews, grammar test and the weeks she spent preparing the presentation that secured her the job. ‘It’s just temporary, to get my foot on the ladder. What I really want to do is edit novels.’
‘I bet you’d be great at that.’
She lets out a laugh. ‘How do you know that? You’ve only just met me!’
‘And you’ve already given me a ton of recommendations. You’re clearly passionate about books. If I were ever going to write a book, that’s the kind of editor I’d want. A real bookworm like you.’
Their eyes meet and Tilly feels her face flushing. He doesn’t look away.
‘Did you know that the Italian translation for bookworm istopo di biblioteca,’ Tilly blurts, wishing that she could get her mouth to close before the first thing in her head comes out. But it is too late for that. ‘I read it in a book about idioms from around the world,’ she explains. ‘It means “library mouse”. I’ve always thought I’d rather be a mouse than a worm.’
‘Library mouse,’ he repeats, his nose wrinkling in pleasure. ‘I like that.’ He looks at her for a beat longer, then says, ‘I really want to ask for your number. But there’s something you need to know about me first.’
She glances at his left hand. No ring. But maybe he is married but doesn’t wear one. Or perhaps he is into some really niche kink that is so specific he feels he has to divulge it before even going on a date.
‘So, here’s the thing. I don’t read. I only came in here because it was raining. I haven’t read a book since high school and, even then, only because I had to. I can understand if someone like you isn’t at all interested in someone like me. But I’d really like to see you again.’
At first it feels like an even more shocking revelation than a foot fetish would have been. How can anyone not read? What do they do with their evenings? All of her (not many) previous boyfriends have been readers. Her most recent ex was a writertoo, who liked to read her his terrible poems as a form of foreplay.
Maybe it is time for a change.
‘I’d really like to see you again too.’
The brown paper falls away to reveal a book that Tilly knows well. There’s a note too and her heart aches as she recognizes Joe’s familiar handwriting – the letters large and wide-spaced – and begins to read.
Dear Tilly,
Happy Birthday! By now you’ll know about my gift for you. A book a month for a whole year. Great idea, huh? I was pretty pleased with it anyway.
I wish I could be making you pancakes and wishing you Happy Birthday in person, but I hope this will count as the next best thing.
I know you stopped reading when I got my diagnosis. You told me you just couldn’t concentrate on reading any more, and I got it, but it still made me really sad. For as long as I’ve known you (and long before that) you’ve been a reader. It’s who you are. You need books, my library mouse. And I suspect you need them now more than ever.
I remember asking you once why you loved reading so much and you said that books can change lives. I am determined that these will change yours.
I’ve started with a book that always makes me think of you. How could your first book not be this one? I hopethat reading the book that is your namesake might remind you of how and why you became a reader. And that Roald Dahl’s Matilda might make mine smile again.
I love you.
Joe x
