Page 12 of The Sugar and Spice Bookshop Bakery

‘Miss Anderson told me.’

‘Oh. So everyone knows?’

Her mother nods. ‘You know what she’s like. She was positively gleeful.’

‘But how did she know about it?’

And, more to the point, what did she know?

‘I think there might have been something in the paper.’

‘D’you know what exactly?’

‘Only that the reviews haven’t been good. Pretty terrible, in fact. And it isn’t selling very well. I’m guessing that’s why you left your job?’

Louise nods. At least the full story isn’t out. She’d been expecting bad reviews and poor sales. She hasn’t dared to look online at what’s been written about the book; it had seemed better not to know.

‘What are you going to do, Lou? If you don’t want to work in the bakery.’

‘I don’t know.’ Louise shrugs. But she does know. Since that very first morning in the bakery, when it occurred to her that the place would make a wonderful bookshop, the idea has been brewing in her mind, gathering pace, her plans becoming more concrete. The crime novels in one corner, with an armchair and a small table of carefully curated titles. Romance in another corner. A section devoted to books about Yorkshire, and a small selection of other non-fiction books too.

‘When you were a child, you always dreamed of becoming a writer,’ her mother says.

‘A writer? I wish.’ Her name is mud in the book industry right now. No one would publish anything she wrote. ‘Miss Anderson told me over and over again that I didn’t have the talent.’

Elizabeth looks shocked. ‘That’s terrible, Lou. I had no idea. A teacher discouraging her students like that.’

‘You should have heard what she said to the ones who weren’t good at English.’ Louise shakes her head, remembering. ‘She wouldn’t be allowed near a classroom today. But you know, she was right. I’m a good editor – at least, I was a good editor – but I don’t have what it takes to be a writer. Are you very disappointed, Mum?’

‘That you’re not going to be a writer?’

‘That I don’t want to run the bakery?’

‘I won’t lie. I’m disappointed. But it’s your life.’ She sighs again. ‘I saw how much work your gran put into the place, starting it from scratch like she did. And when I was growing up, I dreamed of taking over from her, working here alongside her. And I did, and we had many happy years here together, side by side. And then later, when I had a daughter, I always imagined that you’d work here with me, and then that you’d take over one day. I thought you might have a daughter of your own, and she’d follow in all our footsteps. Several generations of women running the Applethwaite bakery.’ Elizabeth looks wistful.

‘There’s a flaw in that plan anyway,’ Louise says. ‘I don’t have a daughter.’

‘There’s still time.’

Louise shakes her head. ‘No. I’m through with romance, Mum. There’s been no one since Graham. That was… such a difficult time. As far as relationships are concerned, I prefer to enjoy them vicariously, through the pages of books.’

That was true.

Well, sort of.

It was certainly safer to enjoy romance books rather than embarking on an actual romance. Reading a novel didn’t land you married to someone who’d been lovely when you first met him, but once you were married, barely seemed to see you. Since her divorce, she’d developed a preference for fictional heroes over real life ones. Much easier. Much less hassle. And just as enjoyable.

Well, almost.

Although…

Her conversations with Jack had stirred something in her that hadn’t been stirred for a long time. It wasn’t just that he was good-looking – although he was the most attractive man she’d met in ages. It was his kindness. But no…it was more than that. He made her feel seen. Understood. And last night, curled up on the sofa wrapped in the soft cashmere throw, she’d allowed herself a brief fantasy about what might happen if she and Jack saw each other again. There’d be scented candles, a bubble bath so full it was almost overflowing and a bottle of champagne in a silver bucket filled with ice. And kissing. Lots of kissing. Jack’s hands on her skin and…

‘Oh, Louise, that’s so sad. You’re only just forty!’ Her mother stands up and stretches out her arms. Louise stands too, allowing herself to be pulled in for a hug. She feels herself relaxing in her mother’s embrace.

‘I’m forty-one,’ Louise says as they finally pull apart.

Her mother keeps her hands on Louise’s shoulders, and regards her. ‘So you are. Time flies. I forget what day it is sometimes, let alone what year. But you know, you’re going to be all right. This is a new chapter in your life. A new beginning. You just have to work out what you want that chapter to be.’