Chapter Thirty-Seven
TWO YEARS LATER
“Oh my God, this is a such a bad idea. I feel sick. In fact, I think I’m about to puke.”
“Zoe, calm down, you’re going to be fine.” Bianca stood in front of me, her hands on my shoulders as I hyperventilated in the middle of Cecil Court. “Just take a deep breath in and then exhale through your nose.”
I tried breathing, which worked for about ten seconds until I glanced over Bianca’s shoulder and saw the shop window, at which point I started freaking out again.
“Here, let me try.” Mrs. Atallah pushed Bianca out of the way and stepped in front of me. “Habibti, get a grip! This is a party, not a firing squad, so stop with this nonsense and get your butt inside.”
She was so loud that a well-dressed lady walking along the road swerved dramatically to avoid us.
Bianca laughed. “Have you ever thought about going into motivational speaking, Mrs. Atallah?”
I laughed, too, and as I did, I caught sight of the window again.
Cupid Books had opened twelve months ago on the old site of Baskerville Books.
I’d gone in the very first day, clutching Maggie’s copy of Pride and Prejudice, desperately hoping I’d be able to read her and Nick back within the walls of their own building.
It hadn’t worked, nor the next time I tried.
It was only on my third visit that I actually stopped to look around the new shop.
Much was the same: It still had the gorgeous oak shelves and the cozy armchairs, although now the tables were crammed with romance novels rather than dick lit, and an enthusiastic woman wearing yellow-rimmed glasses was standing behind the counter, asking me if I needed any help.
It turned out her name was Jing, and she and her girlfriend had invested every penny they had in renting the old Baskerville Books premises and opening a specialist romance bookstore.
I had wanted to hate her—after all, she was running what should have been Nick and Maggie’s shop—but Jing was so lovely that we soon became firm friends.
And today, on the one-year anniversary of Cupid Books opening, she was hosting a book launch. For me.
“Doesn’t it look gorgeous?” Bianca said, turning around to admire the window. “I’m so proud of you, Zo.”
“Thank you,” I said, leaning my head on her shoulder.
Neither of us moved, and I took another deep breath, allowing this moment to sink in.
I thought back to that New Year’s Eve when I’d sat in front of my laptop and begun to type.
Just like in Netherfield, I’d found that once I started writing, I couldn’t stop.
My story was all there in the diary—thanks to Darcy, I’d gotten into the practice of documenting my thoughts and feelings each day—and so it had taken me little more than three months to write a first draft.
Once I’d edited it, I sent it out to a long list of agents, and although I received many rejections, I had one offer of representation from an incredible powerhouse of a woman named Emma.
Together, we edited the manuscript before she sent it out to publishers.
It wasn’t a straightforward journey, with lots more rejection and heartache along the way, but eventually I signed a two-book deal with a publisher.
And here I was now, standing in front of a window full of copies of my debut novel, about to celebrate its publication with everyone I loved. Or nearly everyone I loved.
“I can’t believe it’s really happening,” I said, and B squeezed me.
“I can. Even back in those dark days after Crispin, when you swore you were never going to write again, I knew you’d get here eventually. You just had to believe in yourself.”
“Nick said something similar once.” Even now, two years later, it still hurt to say that name, although these days the pain was duller, its edges worn down by time. I turned to look at B. “What if everyone thinks the story is ridiculous?”
She grinned. “It is kind of ridiculous, Zo! But that’s OK; life’s far too serious, so we all need a bit of fun in our lives now and then. Besides, there’s always going to be some people who hate any book, so there’s no point worrying about them.”
“I know this book isn’t for everyone, and I don’t care about getting bad reviews or how many copies it sells,” I said.
“I just really hope that the people who it is for—the people who don’t think they’re good enough or worthy of their own happy-ever-after—will find it and enjoy it.
Because if just one person reads this book and decides not to give up on the thing or person they love, I’ll be delighted. ”
“I’m sure they will find it. And even if they don’t, you still did an amazing thing, Zoe. You wrote a book, the thing you’ve always dreamed of doing. That’s incredible.”
“As the great RuPaul once said, success isn’t about money or fame,” Mrs. Atallah said, pushing Bianca and I apart to stand between us. “Success is about how you feel about yourself. And whatever happens, tonight you should feel unbelievably fucking good about yourself.”
I looked at the shop window again, my book covers sparkling in the early-evening sunlight. “You’re right, Mrs. Atallah; and I do.”
“Excellent! Now, enough of this soppy nonsense: Let’s get inside before all the cupcakes go.”
* * *
Before long, the bookshop was crammed with people drinking warm white wine and chatting loudly.
Some of them I didn’t recognize, publishing types my team had invited, but there were lots of wonderful familiar faces too.
The Cake Expectations gang were there in force, Enzo wearing an “I ?? Spicy Romance” T-shirt in my honor, and Gerald, the owner, proudly telling everyone that I got the inspiration for the novel from his café.
Bianca’s family had all turned up, and Mrs. Atallah had invited Bilal, who looked deeply out of place in his suit and tie.
There were new friends of mine too: the members of the writing group I’d joined last year, and a number of friends from the boot camp I’d started attending in Tufnell Park, thanks to whom I no longer nearly died every time I ran.
I tried to chat with everyone, receiving hugs and congratulations, but the whole thing was a total whirlwind.
At half seven, Emma came to find me. “It’s time for the speeches. You ready?”
I nodded, following her to where Jing had erected a tiny stage in front of the window.
The room fell hushed as Jing started to speak, introducing me and the book, and I kept my eyes fixed on her because I knew that if I looked out at the crowd, my heart might explode with happiness.
After she’d finished, Emma stepped forward and said a few lovely words about me, too, and I felt an immense rush of gratitude for this remarkable woman who had quite literally changed my life.
Finally, it was my turn to speak. I swallowed, aware of everyone’s eyes on me.
“Thank you all for coming,” I said, my voice croaky with emotion. “I’m not very good at public speaking, and if I start saying thank you to people, then I’ll probably burst into tears. So instead, I’m going to read the opening chapter of the book. I hope that’s OK.”
There was a mumble of ascent from the guests, and I heard Enzo shout, “Go, Zoe!”
I smiled and took a deep breath, opening the book I was holding and turning to page one.
“If you’ve ever visited London’s West End, you may well have walked past Baskerville Books. It’s situated in Cecil Court, a narrow thoroughfare between the bustling theaters and restaurants of Charing Cross Road and St. Martin’s Lane, just a stone’s throw from Trafalgar Square.”
My mouth felt horribly dry and I faltered, but when I glanced up, I saw B and Mrs. Atallah smiling at me, so I cleared my throat and carried on.
I read the line about dick lit books, which elicited a cheer from Bianca, and then I read about the rain shower and my see-through dress and falling through the front door.
I’d spoken these words out loud hundreds of times since I first wrote them, always focusing on how much I needed Nick and Maggie here so I could be happy again.
But this time, as I read the chapter to my friends and loved ones, I instead allowed my memory to float back to that first day I stumbled into Baskerville Books.
I remembered the ring of the bell above the door and the polished floor underfoot, the wooden shelves and the smell of paper and vanilla, which was still the same today.
I saw Nick in his blue shirt, and I drank him in: the way his pupils dilated when he first saw me, and how he mussed his hair when he got annoyed.
And even though it was only in my head, I felt such a rush of love for this wonderful, grumpy, handsome man, that however much it might hurt, I knew I would never regret falling into his bookshop and asking for an Emily Henry book.
I’d never regret anything that happened, because if it wasn’t for Nick, then I’d never have met Mr. Darcy, and might never have started writing again or opened up my life to new friends and experiences that brought me such happiness.
And although I finally accepted that the book magic was gone and I would never see Nick or Maggie again, I knew I was going to be all right.
I was surrounded by people I loved, I’d fulfilled my dream of writing a book, and I was already planning the next one.
As Mrs. Atallah said, I deserved to feel really fucking good about myself.
“And so, dear reader, I thrust the copy of Pride and Prejudice into my bag, I turned, and I ran.”
I stopped reading, my eyes still on the page, and then I heard the room erupt into applause.
I knew this was a forgiving crowd—everyone here was always going to pretend they loved it, even if it was terrible—but I still allowed myself to bask in their congratulations.
I glanced up and saw Bianca jumping up and down as she clapped, Enzo wolf-whistling, and Mrs. Atallah surreptitiously drying her eyes.
I grinned at them all, willing myself to take in every face and commit this amazing, joyful moment to memory.
My eyes reached the far side of the room and stopped.
A man was standing up behind the counter, dusting down his blue shirt. He had messy blond hair and a chiseled jawline, and as he turned to look at me, I saw his face break into a smile.
Nick.