Chapter 2
The bookshop stands in the middle of the parade of enticing boutiques, delis and cafés that feels more like a village high street than a neighbourhood within walking distance of the busy streets of Camden and the iconic buildings of central London.
There’s a bicycle chained up outside the dark red shopfront, the words ‘Book Lane’ written in bold white letters.
As Tilly steps inside she is immediately met by the familiar onslaught of bookshop sensations.
The smell of the paper, the respectful hush, the stacks of books with titles that would once have called out to her.
The shop is small but packed with books, unsteady-looking piles crammed between the top of the bookshelves and the ceiling.
There’s a ladder propped up near the back and tiny paper cranes hang from the ceiling, their bodies printed with the pages from old books.
Tilly does her best to block it all out as she walks straight to the counter.
A man wearing an oversized cable-knit jumper and navy chinos leans over a box of books, eyebrows furrowed and thick dark hair sticking up wildly. He pauses to push a pair of tortoiseshell glasses up his nose, and as he does he looks up at Tilly for the first time, warm brown eyes meeting hers.
‘Hi, sorry, I didn’t see you there,’ he says as he straightens, his mouth set in a neutral expression and framed by scruffy facial hair that sits halfway between stubble and a beard. ‘I’m just getting the shop back in order after the holidays. Can I help you?’
There’s a somewhat overweight tabby asleep on the counter and the man reaches out to run a hand through its fur, the cat letting out a deep purr.
Both of them look so at home in here that it makes Tilly shuffle awkwardly on the spot.
She used to feel the same way in bookshops but now it feels as if she’s wandered into a shop that sells fishing equipment or scuba gear.
‘I’m not sure. I’m Matilda Nightingale. Are you Alfie Lane? I just received a phone call …’
‘Oh, right. Of course. Yes, that was me. Thanks for coming in.’ Tilly recognizes the gravelly voice from the phone but she’d imagined someone older when she spoke to him.
Although it’s hard to guess his exact age.
While his eyes are bright there is a deep crease between his eyebrows and a few more at the corners of his eyes.
If she had to guess his profession from his outfit alone she would have said someone who restores old manuscripts or works in the archives of a museum.
He looks like he might own both a typewriter and the knowledge to keep it running smoothly.
‘As I said on the phone, it must be a mix-up. Joe can’t possibly have ordered a book.’
The bookshop manager runs a hand along his jaw, his fingers scraping against coarse hair.
‘I’ll be honest, it was one of my more unusual order requests,’ he says, nudging his glasses up his nose again with his thumb.
‘And we’ve had some pretty weird orders.
Like the nice old ladies who came in looking for books about Satan, or the middle-aged male barrister who pre-orders every Colleen Hoover.
’ He clears his throat and adjusts his face as if grabbing hold of his train of thought like the tail of a kite.
‘Your husband came into the bookshop about a year ago –’
‘A year ago?’ Tilly interrupts, her heart catching on memories like splinters.
‘Yes. He came in and explained his situation and placed this order. He said that if he hadn’t come in before the following Christmas I was to know what that meant and should call you on the second of January. I kept hoping he would come in. I’m so sorry for your loss.’
Tilly nods, accepting the words like someone mindlessly taking a leaflet for something they have no interest in but are too polite or simply too exhausted to refuse.
‘Not that those words mean much, do they?’ the bookseller adds, fixing her with a steady gaze. ‘But it’s hard to come up with an alternative, isn’t it? I make my living out of words and I still haven’t come up with anything better.’
Tilly falters, surprised to hear someone express the thing she has thought so often over recent months. ‘That’s true …’
‘I should also say happy birthday,’ the bookseller adds, making Tilly wince slightly.
Before she can say anything in reply he turns to search for something on a nearby shelf, returning with a parcel wrapped neatly in brown paper and tied with a white ribbon.
‘This is the book I called you about. Joe wanted you to have this today. And there will be another book next month. It’s his gift to you. A year of books.’
Tilly’s heart squeezes. She has spent the day determinedly trying to forget the date.
When the postman rang the doorbell and handed over a parcel from her parents, she tried not to think of the huge bouquet of flowers Joe had sent to her office on her birthday the first year they were dating, and every year after that.
She knew that there would be no flowers this year but now here she is, staring at a parcel from Joe containing a book of all things, feeling as if her world has just been shaken like a snow globe.
As she is about to reach for the parcel it hits her that there isn’t just one parcel for her to collect.
‘Can I have the other books now too?’
Alfie Lane’s face twists. ‘I’m afraid I can’t do that.’
‘What do you mean? I’m here now, and you said Joe placed an order for twelve books. I don’t see why I can’t just collect them all now.’
Because despite the cosy atmosphere in the shop and the soft purr of the cat asleep on the counter, Tilly doesn’t see herself coming back here any time soon.
‘Joe wanted it to be one book per month,’ responds the bookshop manager. ‘That was the gift.’
‘Are you serious? So, I have to wait a whole month to find out what the second book will be? And twelve months to receive them all? Even though you know what they are and could easily just give them to me right now?’
‘That was what I agreed with Mr Carter.’
‘But Joe is dead! He’s not here any more!’
The cat startles, leaping off the counter and darting to hide in a half-empty box of books. The bookseller glances in the cat’s direction then back at Tilly. His expression is soft but when he speaks his words are surprisingly firm.
‘I’m really sorry. But I made a promise.’
‘Right. Fine, then. Thanks for your help.’
Tilly snatches the book from his hand, grabbing it so forcefully that he flinches.
But she doesn’t care. If he’s not going to help then she at least needs to get home right now so she can open the parcel.
Without saying anything else she spins around and storms out of the bookshop, letting the door blow closed behind her.
As Tilly pushes open the front door she immediately trips over a pair of Joe’s running shoes.
She nudges them to one side then hangs her coat on the peg alongside Joe’s favourite grey hoody, dull and threadbare now.
She recognizes her mother-in-law’s handwriting on what must be a birthday card, but leaves it on the mat to deal with later, and climbs the stairs up to the open-plan living space in the tiny mews cottage.
The matchbox size of the flat was the compromise for them living in a neighbourhood they both loved, and it overspills messily with their joint belongings: Joe’s workout gear piled in a corner, a desk littered with his paperwork, her half-finished craft projects on any spare surface and, in shelves spanning the entire height and length of one wall, her books.
The rest of the flat might be messy but these shelves are meticulously organized, their spines lined up neatly and small printed labels signposting sections for different genres.
Except for the past year her books have been gathering dust.
Tilly places the brown paper parcel on the coffee table and stares at it.
Six months have passed but it is still hard to accept that Joe is really gone.
Every day she wakes up expecting to feel his presence in their bed.
Sometimes, she likes to turn the shower on in the bathroom and sit in the living room for a while, pretending that he’s just in the room next door taking a shower and will be in soon.
The rest of the world keeps telling her it is time to move on.
The funeral flowers have long since withered and been thrown out, the calls from people checking in have become less frequent, and work is busier than ever.
But Tilly is still here in a flat that was once her sanctuary, surrounded by her dead husband’s things, with no idea what she is supposed to do with herself now.
Opening this parcel will scratch at the wound she keeps being told will heal, over time.
Maybe it would be better to put it in a drawer and try to forget about it.
No book can bring Joe back. But even as she thinks it, she knows that while she might struggle to deal with whatever is inside the parcel, she does not have the strength to resist opening it.
She unties the ribbon and tears open the paper.