Chapter 17
‘The window, Alfie!’ Tilly says as she pushes open the door to Book Lane.
Alfie looks down from the ladder where he is perched, shelving a stack of books. He wobbles slightly, nearly dropping the stack under his arm, then rights himself and adjusts his glasses.
The sun streams through the glass and shines on the covers of the books propped there, each and every one featuring cats.
As well as the books there are a few soft toys – Mog and the Cat in the Hat – plus a figurine of Jiji from Kiki’s Delivery Service.
Right in the centre of the window is a straw basket where Georgette luxuriates in the spotlight.
‘It looks amazing. You included all the ones we talked about.’
‘Well, I have to thank you for the inspiration,’ Alfie replies.
He’s in another knitted jumper, this time a deep maroon.
His hair is as wild as ever, sticking up in all directions, and he runs a hand over his jawline, his fingers brushing against his beard.
‘The display has proven very popular. It seems there really is a crossover between book lovers and cat lovers.’
‘See! We were right!’
They smile at each other like two nerdy children who have each just discovered another fan of their favourite book series.
‘I’m after some books,’ Tilly announces, to break the silence. ‘As of one hour ago, I am now unemployed and in need of reading material to keep me occupied.’
‘Oh no!’ He fixes her with his deep brown eyes, his expression soft with what looks like genuine concern. ‘I’m really sorry to hear that.’
‘Don’t be. It was my choice. I haven’t felt this … free in ages.’
‘Well, in that case, congratulations. And as for books to keep you occupied, how about we resolve that immediately?’
He climbs down from the ladder. ‘What did you make of Beach Read? And thanks for the postcard.’
She already spotted it when she came in, pinned to the shop noticeboard. A smile spreads across her face.
‘I loved it. Everything you said about it was spot on. I was hooked. It really helped me switch off.’
‘If you enjoyed it you should read Emily Henry’s other books. And you might like these too …’
In what seems to Tilly like remarkable speed he flits around the shop, pulling down titles here and there, until he has a small stack of books in his arms, their spines a colourful rainbow of pink.
‘Oh wow. You really do know your romance novels,’ she says with a small laugh.
‘Men can read romance novels too, you know,’ he replies a little gruffly, his jaw tensing and his brown eyes flashing at her.
‘Of course. I didn’t mean –’
‘Especially when they need to keep up on recommendations for their customers,’ he says, the tips of his ears turning pink.
She pulls her gaze away from his to leaf through the pile of books.
‘Oh! Georgette!’ she exclaims as she picks up a copy of Venetia by Georgette Heyer. ‘It all makes sense now. You named your cat after Georgette Heyer.’
His cheeks turn the same shade of pink as his ears. ‘Well, I told you before she’s not really my cat …’
Although she remembers him also saying he bought not-his-cat the fancy kind of cat food. And she has never seen a cat look quite as at home as Georgette does this morning in the basket in the middle of the cat-themed window.
‘I’ll take all of them,’ she says, sliding the books across the counter.
Alfie’s eyebrows raise and he rubs his jaw. ‘I didn’t mean you had to buy all of them, they were just some suggestions.’
‘Hey, aren’t you running a business here?’ she teases.
But his face immediately drops. ‘Don’t forget your April book too,’ he says somewhat stiffly, passing her the brown paper parcel along with her bag of books.
As Tilly reaches out for the packages, Alfie’s fingers nudge against hers and her breath catches, her eyes meeting his.
She had almost forgotten. The book had been at the front of her mind when she headed to the shop, but then she’d seen the window full of cat books and somehow it had been pushed to the back. She pulls her hand away quickly, running it over the brown paper.
‘Any guesses what it might be this month?’ he asks.
‘No idea.’ She thinks back to the satisfaction of leaving the office for the last time, stepping out into a golden morning with no plans and no agenda, just the future stretching out in front of her like a blank page.
‘But something out of my comfort zone might be good. I think I feel ready for a reading adventure.’
When she arrives home later and unwraps her parcel a slim volume falls out, the cover showing a black-and-white photograph of a man sat outside a café on a street that could only be Paris.
‘A Moveable Feast … Ernest Hemingway,’ she says in the direction of Joe’s urn, the light making the blue ceramic shine. ‘Isn’t that about Hemingway’s time living in Paris?’ She has heard of the book but never read it.
As she flicks through the pages, a letter from Joe falls on to her lap.
A lump rises in her throat as she reads.
She just about manages to hold it together but as she slips the letter back inside the pages of the book an idea forms in her mind.
A wild kind of idea that she never would have let grow in the past – not with work to consider, and a million other self-imposed things holding her back from dreaming big.
But what does she have to lose now? Why not be the kind of person to make a decision inspired by something as simple as a book?
‘You know what, Joe?’ she says out loud to the empty room. ‘Maybe I can do even better than just reading about Paris …’