How to Find Love in a Bookshop Page 10

  6

  “It’s a can of worms, Em,” Andrea told her. “You’d better come to my office. But don’t panic. We can sort it. That’s what I’m here for.”

  Emilia felt her heart sink. She felt grateful she had Andrea. She couldn’t have asked for a better friend, even though they were so different. Andrea called her every day to see how she was. And she brought her thoughtful presents: last week she’d given her a Moroccan rose–scented candle, expensive and potent.

  “Just lie on the bed and breathe it in,” Andrea instructed. “It will make you feel better at once.”

  Strangely, it had. The scent was so soothing; it had wrapped itself around her and made her feel comforted.

  Emilia walked from the shop to Andrea’s office in a slick modern block built from glass and reclaimed brick, and was ushered into a room with sleek Scandinavian furniture, a Mac, and a space-age coffee machine. There wasn’t a scrap of paper in sight.

  Andrea swept in, with her figure-hugging navy blue dress and designer spectacles that ensured she missed nothing. Emilia immediately felt as if she should have dressed more formally. She was in jeans and Converse and one of Julius’s old lamb’s-wool jumpers—she found it comforting to wear them, but she realized they were neither flattering nor very businesslike.

  But for the time being, they made her feel safe.

  Then Andrea hugged her, and Emilia felt her strength. They got straight down to business, though: Andrea brooked no nonsense, took no prisoners, and pulled no punches. She sat behind her desk and brought up Nightingale Books on a huge computer screen.

  “It’s taken me quite a while to trawl through everything and make sense of it,” she said. “I’m not going to pretend. It looks as if the shop’s been in financial trouble for quite a while. I’m so sorry. I know that’s not the sort of news you need at the moment, but I really felt you should be put in the picture as soon as possible.”

  She handed Emilia a neatly bound sheaf of papers.

  “Here are the balance sheets for the past two years. Balance not being the operative word. There’s been far more going out than coming in.” She gave a rueful smile. “Unless your dad was operating in cash and we don’t know about it.”

  “Dad might have been useless with money but he was honest.”

  “I know. I was joking. But look—he hadn’t even been drawing much of a salary for himself for the past few years—he was only ever worried about paying his staff. If he’d been paying himself properly there’d be an even greater loss.”

  Emilia didn’t need a huge understanding of numbers to see that none of this was good news.

  “If he hadn’t owned the building outright he’d have been in even bigger trouble. He would never have been able to afford the rent or the mortgage repayments.”

  “Why didn’t he say anything?”

  Andrea sighed. “Maybe he wasn’t bothered. It’s not all about profit for some people. I think the bookshop was a way of life for him, and as long as it was ticking over he was happy. It’s a shame, because with a bit of professional help, he could have made it much more efficient without changing the way he did things too much.” She clicked through a few more pages of depressing numbers. “He made a lot of classic mistakes, and missed a lot of tricks.”

  Emilia sighed. “You know what he was like. Dad always did things his own way.” She looked down at the floor. “He was always sending me money. I didn’t realize he couldn’t afford it. I would never have taken it off him . . .” She couldn’t cry in Andrea’s office. But the tears leaked out.

  “Sorry.” She looked up and to her surprise Andrea was crying, too. Well, just a bit misty-eyed.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, too,” Andrea said. “How unprofessional of me. But I was really fond of your dad. I used to pretend he was mine when we were kids, you know. He was just so . . . there. Unlike mine.” Andrea’s father was a flaky figure who appeared once in a blue moon, usually when he had run out of money and had come to beg off her mother.

  She pulled open a drawer and brought out a box of tissues. “These are for bankruptcy proceedings. Even grown men cry at those.”

  Emilia took a tissue and looked alarmed. “Are you saying I’m heading for bankruptcy?”

  “No. It’s not that drastic—yet. But it will take a great deal of hard work to turn it round and make it profitable. If that’s what you want.”

  Emilia nodded. “Of course it is.”

  “But don’t forget you’re sitting on a valuable piece of real estate. The building was bought in your name, which is one good thing, so there would be no capital gains. And he made you a director of the company as soon as you were eighteen, so that makes things easier, too, once we get probate. You’re free to do whatever you want.” Andrea paused. “You could sell that building straightaway and be very well off. And save yourself a lot of trouble.”

  “I’ve already had an offer. From Ian Mendip.” Emilia hadn’t mentioned his visit to Andrea, because she’d had a sneaking feeling Andrea might think it was a good idea.

  Andrea looked awkward. “Ah.” She cleared her throat. “I’ve got to admit to a slight conflict of interest here. I do Ian’s accounts. I should tell you that before we go any further.”

  Emilia had forgotten how everything in Peasebrook connected up in the end. Suddenly she felt unsettled and slightly paranoid.

  “Did he tell you he’d made me an offer?”

  “No. But I’m not at all surprised. I know he’s got the glove factory, and I was going to suggest you asked him what he would offer you. But he’s ahead of me.” She breathed a sigh. “I’d have thought he’d wait a bit. It’s a bit predatory even for Ian.”

  Emilia shrugged. “He wanted me to know the offer was there. For all he knows I might want to sell up. He’d talked to Dad about it a few times, but Dad wasn’t interested.”

  “It was one of the lovely things about your dad, that he wasn’t interested in money. Not like Ian, who’s obsessed with it.” Andrea laughed, then looked a bit shamefaced. “Sorry. I shouldn’t talk about my other clients like that. It’s very indiscreet. And don’t worry. I’m not going to influence you either way. I just want to help you stand back and look at the options. Without being sentimental or emotional.”

  Emilia leafed through the balance sheets Andrea had given her. She felt her heart sink. She didn’t feel equipped to make an informed decision. She understood enough to know the figures weren’t good but not how to come up with a solution.

  “I don’t understand why it’s in such trouble. I mean, he’s got masses of customers. The shop’s always full of people.”

  “Yes. Because it’s a lovely place to come in for a chat and a browse and wander around. But those customers don’t always buy. And when they do, it’s not much. And I know for a fact he was always giving people a discount, because he used to offer it to me. I told him off about it more than once.” Andrea sat back in her chair with a sigh. “Nightingale Books was a wonderful, warm place to be. Julius made people feel welcome and want to stay in there for hours. But he’d make them cups of coffee and talk to them for hours and they’d wander out without buying anything. Then they’d go up the road and spend twenty quid on lamb chops or cheese. He was very easy to take advantage of.”

  “I know,” sighed Emilia. Her lovely father, who was as kind and easygoing as a man could be.

  Andrea drummed her French-polished fingernails on the tabletop.

  “But there’s nothing I hate more than seeing a potentially good business go down the drain. I’m very happy to give you my advice. But it’s no good just listening. You have to be proactive.”

  “Well, I’m very happy to take your advice,” said Emilia. “And I want you to be honest with me. Tell me what you really think.”

  Andrea sat back in her chair. “Okay,” she said. “Here’s the thing. I know Peasebrook and how it works. My guess is, at the
moment, it’s really only locals and old customers who go in the shop. People who’d built up a relationship with Julius. And they are still valuable. Of course they are. What you need to do is widen your net. Make it an attractive destination for tourists, weekenders, and people who live farther out. Diversify. Find different revenue streams. Monetize!”

  Emilia could already feel rising panic at this unfamiliar vocabulary. She forced herself to carry on listening. Andrea was smart.

  “You should open on a Sunday for a start. There are lots of people who come to Peasebrook for a weekend break from London. Or who drive here for Sunday lunch. There’s nothing much else for them to do but spend money. So you need to find a way to pull them in. The shop is slightly out of the way, being at the end of the high street, so if you’re from out of town and you don’t know it’s there, you might miss it. You need to make it a little more eye-catching. And do some marketing and advertising. Get a decent website and start a database—send your customers a newsletter. Put on events and launches and—”

  Emilia put her hands over her ears. She couldn’t take it all in.

  “But all this costs money,” she wailed. “Money I don’t have!” Emilia’s head was spinning with all the possibilities.

  “The obvious thing would be to take out a loan. You’ve got plenty of equity in the building. You could borrow quite a bit using it as collateral.”

  Emilia chewed the side of her thumbnail while she thought.

  “I can’t think straight.”

  “I’ll help you as much as I can,” said Andrea. “There’s nothing I would love more than to see Nightingale Books turn a healthy profit. But we’ve got to be realistic. You need to do a watertight business plan before you start borrowing.”

  “I wouldn’t know where to start! I’ve never done a spreadsheet in my life.”

  “Well, that’s what I’m here for. I love spreadsheets.” Andrea grinned at her. “But it won’t be easy. It’s a question of whether you want to live, breathe, sleep, and eat books for the foreseeable future.”

  “It’s how I was brought up.”

  “Yes, but you won’t be able to float around plucking novels from the shelf and curling up in a corner.” Andrea laughed. “Every time I went in, your father had his nose in a book, away with the fairies. That’s not going to work. You’re running a business. And that means being businesslike.”

  Emilia nodded. “I understand,” she said. “But I need to get the memorial service out of the way first. I feel as if I can’t move on until that’s happened.”

  “Of course,” said Andrea. “There’s no rush. The shop will tick over as it is for a few weeks while you draw up a battle plan. And in the meantime, if you’ve got any questions, just pick up the phone.”

  —

  Later, Emilia sat in the familiarity of her kitchen.

  On a shelf were rows of glass jars, with stickers on, their contents carefully stated in Julius’s copperplate handwriting: basmati rice, red lentils, brown sugar, penne. Below them were smaller jars containing his spices: bright yellows and brick reds and burnt oranges. Julius had loved cooking, rustling up a huge curry or soup or stew and then freezing it in small portions so he could pull whatever he fancied out in the evening and heat it through. Next to the food was his collection of cookery books: Elizabeth David, Rose Elliot, Madhur Jaffrey, all battered and stained with splashes. Wooden chopping blocks, woks, knives, ladles.

  She could imagine him in his blue-and-white apron, standing at the cooker, a glass of red wine in one hand, chucking in ingredients and chatting.

  Never had a room felt so empty.

  She had a yellow pad in front of her on the table. She picked up a pen and began to make a list of ideas.

  Staff rota

  Open Sunday (extra staff?)

  Website—Dave (She was pretty sure Dave would be able to help.)

  Redecorate

  Relaunch. Party? Publicity?

  It all looked a bit vague and nebulous and unprofessional. The problem was Nightingale Books had been the way it was for so long she couldn’t imagine it any other way. She completely understood Andrea’s concerns, and that it couldn’t carry on the way it was. But did she have the wherewithal to turn it around?

  She tried to empty her mind and focus, but it was impossible, because what she really wanted was for everything to still be the same, for her father to be here, and for her to be able to drop in whenever she liked; have coffee with him, a meal with him, just a chat with him.

  She sighed. It was only half past six—she couldn’t go to bed yet. Could she? She felt as if she could go to sleep now and not wake up until tomorrow.

  She was about to succumb—she could have a long bath first—when she heard the doorbell. She was tempted to ignore it, but she couldn’t. It might be important.

  She ran downstairs and opened the door, breathing in the sharp coolness of autumn. On the step was a man in an overcoat, his hands in his pockets, indistinct in the lamplight, his back to her. She frowned for a minute, not sure who it was.

  “Hello?”

  “Emilia . . .” The man turned and stepped forward. She recognized the gruff, husky voice. And the unmistakable scent of Tom Ford Tobacco Vanille.

  “Marlowe!”

  “I’ve been away. I’ve only just heard. Emilia, I am so, so sorry.”

  Marlowe was holding on to her tightly. She could feel his distress. He stood back, eventually, and she could see he was on the verge of tears.

  “I was in Bratislava. Locked up in a studio recording with the state orchestra. A movie soundtrack . . .” Marlowe was a composer in high demand. “I went to see your dad before I left. I knew he was ill but . . .” He shook his head. “I had no idea he was so ill . . .”

  “Come on in,” said Emilia.

  “Are you sure? I don’t want to intrude—”

  “You’re not intruding at all. I could do with some company.”

  Marlowe followed her up the stairs into the kitchen. As he looked around the room, he gave a huge sigh. Emilia understood—the room didn’t look or feel right without Julius in it.

  “It’s horrible without him,” she said. “Wine?”

  Marlowe pulled a bottle out of his coat pocket. “I’ve come armed,” he told her.

  “Sit.” She nodded toward the kitchen table and went to find a corkscrew and glasses. Marlowe took off his coat and put it on the back of his chair. Underneath he wore black skinny jeans, a gray cable-knit sweater, and a pair of oxblood Chelsea boots. When he took off his hat, his wild black curls sprang free. He had dark brown eyes that turned down when he smiled, a sensual mouth, and a nose that was rumored to have been broken during a fight over a girl on the steps of the Albert Hall—or so Julius had once told her. He had spoken of Marlowe often and fondly.

  Marlowe sat down tentatively, still visibly shocked by the fact that his friend wasn’t in his familiar chair.

  “I can’t count the number of times I’ve sat here with him,” he said.

  “I know,” said Emilia, pouring them each a generous glug of wine.

  Marlowe lifted his glass. “To your amazing dad,” he said. “The quartet won’t be the same without him. We used to sit here for hours, deciding what to play.”

  —

  Julius had been a founder member of the Peasebrook Quartet, along with the formidable Felicity Manners, who had retired from the quartet a couple of years ago when her arthritis became too bad for her to play the more intricate pieces. Marlowe, who had been second violinist, had taken over as first, and together with Julius did a wonderful job of choosing and arranging pieces that pleased both the hoi polloi and the music snobs (of which there were quite a few in Peasebrook).

  Although Marlowe was nearer to Emilia’s age, he and Julius had been as thick as thieves. They’d watched every episode of Breaking Bad together, fueled by te
quila and tacos, and compiled an annual New Year’s Eve quiz for the Peasebrook Arms, with fiendishly difficult questions.

  “Who will you find to take his place? You must have loads of bookings.” The quartet was affiliated with Peasebrook Manor and played open-air concerts in the gardens every summer, as well as being available for weddings in the chapel. They did a popular Christmas carol service, too.

  “Yes. Not least Alice Basildon’s wedding at Peasebrook Manor. We’ll have to ask Felicity back pro tem, though it will limit what we can play. Petra’s still on viola, of course. Delphine can take over on cello, though it’s not her first instrument and so she won’t be a patch on Julius. But don’t tell her I said so or she’ll have my balls for earrings.”

  Emilia laughed. Marlowe joined in, his dark eyes crinkling at the edges.

  Delphine was the French mistress at a nearby prep school, and Emilia was fairly sure Marlowe and Delphine were an item. Julius had hinted at it, expressing the merest flicker of disapproval, which surprised Emilia. Her father was rarely judgmental, but he found Delphine terrifying.

  “She stands too close. And I never know what she’s thinking,” he’d complained to Emilia once.

  “She’s very attractive,” Emilia had pointed out. She’d met Delphine briefly on several occasions, but knew instinctively they would never be close friends. Delphine was a fashion plate, always perfectly made up, inscrutable, with a hint of dominatrix that Emilia, in her scruffy eternal-student clothing, knew she could never pull off in a million years.

  Julius shook his head. “She’s scary. And she doesn’t eat. I’m not sure what Marlowe sees in her.”

  Emilia could see exactly. Delphine was the stuff of male fantasy.

  “She’s very demanding,” added Julius. “Maybe Marlowe will get fed up with her in the end.”