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Noémi picked at her croissant while her mum tucked into her third, perhaps having forgotten the previous two. Less food guilt was probably the only ‘positive’ of your memory failing, Noémi sometimes lamented. She leaned across and helped her mum open the tiny pot of jam. One thing Élisabeth hadn’t forgotten was that it was only strange English folk who added butter to a butter pastry.

‘I’m hoping for a busy morning at the bookshop,’ Noémi told her mum, keeping her voice upbeat. ‘I’ve been telling everyone about our first meeting for the book club.’

‘Yes, yes,’ Élisabeth replied, from behind slightly vacant eyes.

‘We’ll use the time to get to know each other and to choose books to read. Maybe something nice and Christmassy to start with. What do you think?’

‘Yes, yes, Madeleine.’

It was the name of Élisabeth’s older sister, who lived in Normandy. Or perhaps the cake. Noémi had learned not to become too disheartened.

‘I might even float the idea of walking tours that tie in with book themes. Though I don’t know how I feel about that.’

Élisabeth shook her head, as though she wasn’t sure about it either.

‘And I found your old Christmas costume. La Mère Noël.’ Noémi did her best to sound flamboyant in the hope of snagging her mum’s interest.

Élisabeth looked at her blankly. ‘Funny balls.’ Then her gaze went back to the gardens outside the window.

Noémi guessed her mother was referring to the jumper Noémi was wearing today, which was a hand-knitted creation from the craft shop, complete with festive red baubles stitched onto it – not all of them in convenient places. Well, at least she hadn’t said ‘sore nipples’ – which is what Daniel had called it.

‘Do remember your old books?’ Noémi asked, trying another topic that had been troubling her. She pulled out her phone to show her mum photos of the vintage book collection, because they were too precious to cart here in her patchwork handbag. The interested collector had dropped by the shop again, but Noémi still felt strangely reluctant to sell them. She was hoping the images would trigger something in her mum’s memory and she’d get a sense of whether they were still important to her in an effort to take the decision off her hands.

But her mum simply responded with ‘Vieux’, before going back to staring out of the window.

Old. Well, that didn’t really help.

The care home’s music system seemed to be stuck on ‘Do They Know It’s Christmas’, and just as Noémi was wondering if this was the fifth or sixth time she’d heard the same doleful lyrics, Élisabeth sprang to life.

‘Shay! Cher Shay.’

Dear Shay? Noémi’s gaze snapped to where her mum was looking. Why was it she could remember the name of a near stranger, and recognize him even when he was dressed as – what was that? A carrot? She’d seen it all now. And what exactly was he up to? Noémi narrowed her eyes. He was making his way across the grass, looking shifty. Not that she could see his face. But he damned well ought to be looking shifty, with that shovel sticking out of his backpack, dragging a long black bag the size of a body.

Noémi stood quickly, the contents of the table rattling as her legs knocked against it. ‘Damn it.’ And now she’d spilled her good coffee, which was not OK. ‘What is he up to?’ Noémi asked Judith the carer, who’d come into the room and was fiddling with the music player.

Judith glanced out the window, her eyebrows knitting. ‘Gosh, I don’t know. Looks a bit suspicious, doesn’t it?’ She laughed.

Why were people laughing at suspicious behaviour? Shouldn’t such a thing be reported? Just because he was dressed as a festive vegetable, it didn’t mean he could be trusted any more than a bank robber dressed as a parsnip. Noémi considered opening the window and yelling, but she wasn’t one for making a huge scene, and ‘Cher Shay’ was now too far across the lawn to hear her. He was heading into the wooded area – which was exactly where shady people might go to carry out dishonest shenanigans.

‘I’ll report it to Lisa on the way out,’ Noémi said firmly. Though she half-expected the receptionist would start raving about the look of his legs in a pair of orange tights and calling him a DILF.

‘Top o’ the morning,’ Élisabeth said gleefully, even though Shay had disappeared.

So now she could remember the man’s stupid catchphrases too.

‘Fly through the sky,’ said Élisabeth, her hand making an arc above her head, her eyes following.

Was she talking about zip wires? Could that be what was in his mysterious bag? The guy only needed two trees, and he’d be setting this place up for geriatric flying lessons. Well, Noémi was not having that. She’d be questioning him about his clandestine antics as soon as his beta-carotene-coloured bottom was back in the avenue.

Chapter 21

Yes, this was it, Noémi thought with excitement, as a crowd of people made their way along the street towards her bookshop. Things had been perking up with online sales of books and book boxes; thanks to the extra effort she and Daniel had been putting in on social media. But what she really craved was more real-life customers in the shop. People who loved books and wanted to talk about them, to stroke their spines, to be there in her bookshop, which smelt of pencils and paper, mixed with eau de Christmas tree and embers. Future book-club-goers who would relish buying books and bringing the bookshop back to life with their love of stories, washed down with hot drinks and a nice slice of cake.

Noémi moved to the window, feeling good in her strong librarian look of a white blouse with a bow under the neck and a long plaid skirt that swooshed a little. She raised a hand in greeting. There was Prisha’s husband Tanveer and their boys, some other parents and children from the village, Delilah from the pub flanked by a selection of her regulars, some of whom looked like they’d need her strong coffee. Various visitors who didn’t look familiar. Even Reverend Godbee, Carrie Hot Spoons and some of the crafters, that woman who ran Posh Fish ’n’ Chips. Noémi hadn’t realized half of these people were bookish, but here they were, looking thrilled about it too. They must have heard about her Christmas cake, or her new inviting displays of books and stationery. Noémi was positively beaming and couldn’t help but run to the door and swing it open, the bell above her head tinkling merrily.

She was going to save her bookshop, for herself, her mother, her wonderful staff …

It was only then that she heard Shay’s buoyant ‘Top o’ the morning’ in that exaggerated version of an Irish accent.