No matter how muddled I’d felt when I left the cottage, it was impossible to be miserable when the world was sunshine, blue skies and strawberries and cream. The air smelled sweet and full, the taste ofsummertime tangible on my tongue and there was something about the green grass under my feet that made me smile. Well, the grass and the tremendous amount of coffee I’d consumed at Sarah’s. There had to have been at least three shots in Mr Atkinson’s coconut flat white because I was pretty sure no one else around me could hear the buzzing sound that echoed in my ears.
I skirted around the edge of the green for fear of being drafted into helping to set up the best vegetable competition, and without planning on it, found myself in front of another new addition to Harford’s high street. There it was, right where the greengrocer’s once stood. The flaking green paint had been replaced by a fresh vivid blue and there was a neon sign in the window, and another hand-painted above the door, both of them declaring this to be ‘Charlotte’s Bookshop’.
‘Wow,’ I said softly. ‘It’s really real.’
I wasn’t sure what I’d been expecting but it wasn’t this.Thislooked like a proper bookshop. Not all the way finished yet but even from the outside I could see how great it was going to be: the open shelves, the cute little reading nooks and even a branded ‘Charlotte’s Bookshop’ mirror for selfies. My sister had done all thisandpassed her exams? The results weren’t in yet but she had never achieved anything less than top marks for as long as she had lived. She was even in the top percentile for growth and weight when she was a baby so I had no doubts.
It wasn’t much after ten a.m. and, aside from the flurry of activity around the fête, our sleepy town was still quiet, save the odd woollen-socked rambler beginning or returning from an adventure in the peaks. I was still staring in Charlotte’s shop window when a cartrundled up the road, slow enough to suggest it was looking for something. When it rolled to a stop, I realised it was a car I recognised.
A Range Rover.
‘Not the sister I was expecting to see here,’ Joe said as he opened the door and hopped down to the pavement, phone in one hand, cup of coffee in the other. A not particularly pleasant mix of anxiety, arousal and caffeine spiked in my bloodstream, and I shrank back a step. Somewhere in the evolutionary mess, my fight-or-flight reactions had both been accidentally set to ‘curl up into a ball and hope it goes away’, which I was fairly sure only worked on bears. Or was it wolves? Either way, it definitely wasn’t going to work on Joe Walsh.
‘You’re meeting Charlotte?’ I combed my hair through with my fingers, all too aware there was nothing I could do about my creased-up dress and comfy old cardigan. He looked fresh and crisp, I looked like I’d got dressed in the dark.
Which I had.
But Joe didn’t seem to notice. He never once took his eyes off mine.
‘She wanted to show “Este” the shop where she’ll be making her first-ever public appearance.’
I looked away first, turning my gaze to the unfinished window display.
‘What happened to telling everyone it was a mistake?’ I asked, fingertips lightly touching the glass. ‘I thought it was all going to be straightened out by now.’
‘Small bump in the road with that plan,’ he replied, screwing up his face with evident frustration. ‘Your sister doesn’t believe me. She says—’ He paused and pulled out his phone to accurately quote her message.‘I’m eighteen not an idiot, see you at the shop, Este, then there’s about five thousand kisses and a gif of Lisa Simpson dancing.’
‘Mad to think we’re living in a time when we don’t believe someone, even when they’re trying to tell you the truth.’ I rubbed my temples as he turned the phone around to show me the message, Lisa Simpson undulating underneath a row of X’s and O’s.
‘Perhaps if we were telling her the whole truth, she might be more inclined to believe it.’
‘And perhaps if you hadn’t said you were Este Cox last night—’
‘Hey, Sophie, here’s an idea. Do you want to continue this pointless fight inside?’ Joe interrupted with a glorious and unbothered smile. ‘Charlotte’s running late, she gave me the keycode to let myself in. Although how she got my number in the first place is a mystery.’
‘My sister could find Amelia Earhart’s contact details if she put her mind to it. I’m sure your phone number was no trouble whatsoever,’ I replied, declining to acknowledge his comment about the pointless argument, even though he was right. Especially because he was right. WhywouldCharlotte believe he’d made something like this up? Even I wasn’t really sure and in theory he’d explained it more than once.
Concentrating, he tapped a six digit number into the silver keypad on the blue door and I noticed the distinctive pink shade of his cardboard coffee cup as he brought it up to his lips.
‘Where did you get the coffee?’ I asked.
‘Coffee shop,’ he replied smartly. ‘Down the street.’
We must have just missed each other. The thoughtof Joe buying coffee from Sarah without either of them knowing who the other was gave me an unexpected thrill I hadn’t felt since she worked weekends at the big Tesco when she was sixteen, and texted to tell me Dev Jones, my unrequited sixth form crush, was looking at condoms in the personal care aisle.
‘It’s pretty good for outside London,’ he added.
‘Wild that something as rare as coffee exists outside a capital city,’ I replied, leaping to Sarah’s defence. ‘There are other places in the country, don’t be such a snob.’
Biting his lip to restrain a grin, he held the door open with his body, forcing me to sidle past him to pass through the old narrow entrance, coffee and pastry held up above his head. The smell of last night’s barbecue clung to his hair, the smoky aroma blending beautifully with his warm skin and fresh deodorant. I breathed in as I passed, my back brushing against his front, and my head swam.
This man was going to be the death of me.
The shop was even more impressive on the inside than it was from the street. I inhaled the fresh paint, woodstain and boxes and boxes of brand-new, unread books. To me it was even better than new car, cut grass or freshly washed sheets. I wished there was a way to bottle it and keep it forever, but I must’ve bought at least a dozen different ‘bookshop-scented’ candles and was still searching for the perfect blend. No one could capture this magic.
As Joe closed the door behind us, I found myself in front of a table full of contemporary romance. These were the books I’d turned to when things fell apart withCJ, the stories that helped me believe life wouldn’t always be so miserable and imagine a time I might feel good again. Emily Henry, Mhairi McFarlane, Elena Armas, Tessa Bailey, Tia Williams, Lucy Vine, Rebecca Serle, Sophie Cousens, Kennedy Ryan, Jasmine Guillory, Sarah MacLean, Beth O’Leary, Fallon Ballard, Ali Hazelwood, Sarah Adams, Hannah Grace, Lucy Score, Lia Louis, the list went on, the list was endless. So many women writing so many words and every single story essential. Charlotte had covered all her bases, historical, fantasy, sci-fi, classics, graphic novels and even a few select thrillers even though I knew they were not her thing at all. The other side of the shop was dominated by her immense YA section and the thrill of seeing so many different books from so many different authors was overwhelming, every kind of person seen, heard and represented. I turned in a slow circle and breathed in deeply. Paper and ink and binding glue. Perfection.
‘I’ve always loved the smell of books,’ Joe said, reading my mind. He picked up a beautiful hardback edition ofWuthering Heights, one I hadn’t seen before, opened it up and sniffed. I turned away from the rapturous look on his face and wandered over to the small collection of second-hand books on the back wall.
