‘The business plan was very comprehensive,’ she answered as she dried her hands. ‘One of the girls who worked for Gwendoline is going to stay on to work the till but your sister is selecting the books, running the social media, the marketing, the online store, all of that. She’s been taking business classes online.’
‘And she’s going to run the shop remotely from Durham, is she?’
For a split second, my mother’s shoulders seized up then she opened the fridge and pulled out an open bottle of white wine, refilling a glass hiding behind the KitchenAid mixer.
Ah-ha.
‘She’s taking a year out.’
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. There was just no way. My parents were obsessed with education.Obsessed.The pair of them had such a fearsome reputation, my GCSE English teacher actually hid on parent-teacher night and when William got an A in English language and not an A*, they insisted on reviewing the school’s curriculum to ‘ensure the same travesty didn’t impede the future of any other children’. Now Charlotte was taking a year out to run a bookshop across from the post office. I couldn’t make it make sense.
‘All right, I’m on to you. First you’re baking cakes and now you’re letting Charlotte defer uni for a year?’ I said. ‘Who are you and what have you done with my mother?’
After adding more wine to the glass she set the bottle down with a shaky hand.
‘It’s only one year and I’m completely on board.’
I wasn’t sure who she was trying to convince, me or herself.
‘The only thing is …’ She leaned against the sink, nursing her wine. ‘I can’t say I’m entirely supportive of the books she’s decided to sell.’
‘Which are?’
‘She’s focusing on YA.’
‘That makes sense,’ I replied. ‘Since she is a YA.’
‘YA and …’ My mother took a large mouthful of wine to give her the strength to complete her sentence. ‘Romance novels.’
A sob escaped the back of her throat as I considered grabbing the glass right out of her hand. My need was definitely greater than hers.
‘All because she’s obsessed with this one godawful book,’ she went on, shaking her head. ‘The bloody thing is never out of her hands.’
‘What book?’ I asked, really not wanting to know the answer.
Mum sharpened her eyes and summoned all her venom for the book that had corrupted her precious youngest daughter.
‘Butterflies.’
CHAPTER SIX
One of my favourite things about the summer were the long, light nights and even though Harford was only a couple of hours further north, the nights were even longer and lighter here than they were at home. The evening shadows stretched lazily across the golden grass by the time I finally escaped Mum’s unrequested TED Talk on how books like mine were destroying the youth of today, the sun finally surrendering to the night and slipping away over the horizon. My head was swimming with everything I’d been through in the last twelve hours: meeting with Mal, karaoke with a wanker, the train ride from hell, Charlotte’s bookshop, Mum’s disgust. Not to mention the Baileys, prosecco and a McDonald’s milkshake. I felt worse than her cake looked and if William didn’t come running out to declare my bag had been found and secured, I’d be joining it in the bin.
‘As I live and breathe, if it isn’t the world’s greatest teacher, Sophie Taylor.’
The silhouette of a tall, stout man rose up against thepaling horizon, flat cap on his head, work boots on his feet. Not William but almost as good. My dad.
When he lived in London, Hugh Taylor was strictly a suit and tie man. Polished shoes and freshly pressed shirt from Monday to Friday, only dipping into something more casual on the weekend, maybe a polo or rugby shirt teamed with chinos and a respectable loafer, and while the rest of us had silently agreed jogging bottoms were acceptable apparel in almost all circumstances, Hugh Taylor clung to his belted trews like his life depended on it. But something had changed in the last six months. As his sixtieth birthday loomed, my dad was trying his hand at all sorts of new experiences: TikTok, oat milk, trousers with lots of pockets, and rumour had it, there was even a hoodie lurking in the back of his wardrobe. Mum wasn’t sure he’d ever worn it but she definitely saw him slip it into the trolley at Tesco.
‘World’s greatest is a bit of a stretch,’ I said, giving him an enormous hug. Even if he’d changed up his wardrobe, he still smelled the same, same deodorant, same fabric softener, same cheeky cigarette he’d had at some point in the afternoon and still thought none of us knew about. ‘I’ll accept Hertfordshire’s greatest though. I’ve been offered head of year next term.’
‘Soph, that’s marvellous. Moulding young minds. Setting the next generation off on the right path.’
‘Or at least trying to convince them there are other career aspirations beyond dancing on the internet or appearing on a reality dating show.’
‘How old are the kids you teach again?’
Dad’s forehead crumpled, trying to work out whether or not I was telling the truth.
