Chapter Four
A light breeze ruffled Grace’s hair as she walked along Ashfield Lane.
It was mild for the end of March and the early evening sun hung low in the sky, its light playing hide-and-seek behind the trees which lined Rush Pond.
A coot bobbed under the water, then reappeared, white crown bright against its black feathers.
Two Canadian geese stalked along the path next to the road, puffed-out chests looking pompous and a little bit threatening.
Frank always laughed at Grace when she shied away from the enormous creatures, but it was all right for him; he was over six feet tall and built like a rugby player.
Grace was tiny in comparison, short and slight, her head only just in line with her husband’s shoulder.
She thought of him as she approached the bench at the end of the pond.
The last time the two of them sat there, a huge rat scurried past their shoes and into the rushes.
Even Frank had jumped then. Grace smiled at the memory of him lifting his feet and yelping.
They’d laughed together, then walked back home to The Lodge, her tucked safely under his arm.
Memories rolled like much-loved films in her head, and she soon emerged from below the canopy of trees at the end of Kemnal Road.
Books En Parade was in sight. The frontage reopened the well of sadness she’d felt at the loss of Simpson’s Antiques – which had once stood there – a place she’d thought of as her second home.
The years she’d spent working there had been some of the most content of her life.
With Rosie at university then forging her own life, and Frank working in London all week, Grace loved sourcing furniture for customers, and sometimes selling the odd piece to a passer-by.
She smiled when she thought of the old place.
It had a similar peaceful air to her home and she was often surprised when the bell above the door jangled, disturbing her from an auction brochure or internet search.
It was her ideal job, quiet, fairly solitary, but interesting and hugely rewarding when she found exactly the right piece for a grateful collector.
Her heart lifted when she remembered how it felt to live a life with purpose and passion.
She wondered if she’d appreciated it enough back then.
She would have, if she’d known what was to come.
When Mr Simpson retired, he offered to sell the building and the business to Grace.
She and Frank agonized over it, but in the end decided against taking it on.
Had it been ten years before, she’d have jumped at the opportunity, but Frank and his partners had been approached by a company who wanted to buy their business, and since early retirement was on the cards for him, it didn’t make sense for her to take on a venture of her own.
When the sale of his architectural practice didn’t go through, and Frank still worked in the city all week, leaving her with more time than she bargained for, she’d regretted the decision.
She started to dabble in antique dealing from home for a few select clients, and that kept her busy enough.
And the resentment lessened when the bookshop which came along in due course became one of Frank’s favourite places in the world.
But Grace still hadn’t set foot inside the building since, and now that was about to change.
Her palms felt slippery. She wiped them on the oversized white shirt she’d carefully chosen for this evening.
Now she was standing across the road from the Georgian terrace of shops, restaurants and bars which formed one side of Royal Parade, and her heart thumped against her ribs.
She stared at the shop window at the end, next to the old red phone box and post box.
It should have been filled with carriage clocks on Queen Anne sideboards and pretty tables with barley twist legs.
Instead, it was emblazoned with a semicircular window sticker with Books, wonderful books in a comic sans script which seemed shouty and faintly ridiculous to Grace.
Weren’t books an academic pursuit? The sign was obviously designed to appear fun and …
She searched for the word … whacky. Her heart keened for decidedly non-whacky dark wood cabinets with traceable provenance and lacquered veneer.
Beyond the window sticker, shelves of brightly coloured books were displayed. The sage green sign above the lintel said Books En Parade in a cream, curled font where Simpson’s Antiques was supposed to be.
The traffic lights at the end of the parade changed, a red double-decker trundled past and the road cleared.
Grace took a deep breath and crossed. Steeling herself, she pushed open the door of the bookshop, startling at the sound of the bell above the door jangling.
The sound sent the years tumbling backwards.
She glanced up to see the pewter bell mechanism she recognized from when she worked there still hanging above the door.
The familiarity of the noise made the blood vanish from her head and she grasped for the door handle to steady herself, making the doorbell chime discordantly. Every pair of eyes in the room turned in her direction.
‘You all right?’ A woman with jet-black shaggy hair and a fringe so long it covered her eyes approached her.
‘Yes, sorry.’ Grace let go of the handle and the bell gave a tinkle.
‘It’s a long time since …’ She trailed off.
She couldn’t think of the right way to explain how she felt.
‘I’m fine, thank you.’ She glanced around the space, seeing bright yellow walls, an orange and green seating area where there used to be wardrobes that smelled of mothballs.
That wasn’t right. This room was meant to be a calm combination of muted browns and creams, instead lights shone down from the top of shelves, illuminating the books.
The combination of sofa, chairs and beanbags in the seating area at the back looked more like a trendy café or bar than …
than a beloved and much-missed antiques shop.
‘You here for book club?’ The woman pushed her bottom lip out and blew, making her fringe lift to reveal the bluest eyes Grace had ever seen.
‘Erm, yes.’
‘Cool, it’s good to see a new face. I’m Crush,’ said the woman, holding out her hand to shake.
‘Crush?’ said Grace, accepting the firm handshake, a question in her voice because she was sure she must’ve misheard.
‘That’s right. This is my shop. At the start of book club everyone puts a quid in the bowl on the desk to cover utilities.’ She turned to the smattering of people sitting at the far end of the shop. ‘Although if we keep losing members, we might end up reading by candlelight.’
Grace nodded and scrabbled in her purse for a pound coin. So, this was the woman who had replaced Mr Simpson as the owner of the building. Her old boss, with his beige cardigans and scuffed brogues, could not be more different to this black-clad, wolf-eyed woman.
‘I’m Grace. Nice to meet you.’ Grace tried to assemble her features into a neutral expression, in place of the myriad of emotions she was feeling, one of which was surprise.
She’d expected the owner of Books En Parade to look a little more …
Harry Potter. Instead she was a forty-something woman in a black vest whose arms were a veritable gallery of tattoos.
She recalled what Rosie said about an open mind and resolved to do better.
Frank must’ve mentioned her, but Grace couldn’t recall him saying anything about how this woman appeared.
But that was Frank all over. He was more likely to mention something kind a person had said or done, than whether they were covered in body art.
Things like appearances didn’t really register with Frank.
Grace had planned to tell the people she met tonight that she was Frank’s wife, but now she realized that her lack of knowledge about anyone here would look odd.
Because it was odd. She had let Frank down by closing down their early conversations about his new hobby because of her own irrational issues, and that made her internally shudder with shame.
‘Likewise.’ Crush turned and gestured to the small group of people sitting on a plump orange sofa and various chairs, some of whom were smiling over at them. ‘As you can see, it’s a fairly casual affair. We start at seven-thirty, so choose your spot and get comfy.’ She grinned. ‘Whatcha reading?’
Sweat gathered in Grace’s armpits. ‘I thought you might tell me?’
Crush laughed. ‘Nah, mate. It’s not that type of book club. The bloke that started it—’
‘Frank.’ His name came out of Grace’s mouth before she could stop it.
‘You’ve heard of him.’ Crush said. ‘Course you have. He was a legend. Anyway, he set up this book club, and he made it a bit different to most of the others.’
‘Different?’ Grace dug her nails into her palms, trying to keep her voice steady.
She should have known all this without the help of a stranger.
What would Frank be thinking if he could see her now, quaking in the space she once loved?
Still, the smell of books and coffee didn’t seem right.
Where was the tang of furniture polish and lavender drawer liners?
She wanted a time machine so she could revert this room to its former state and bring Frank back to life.
She longed for the sound of the pewter bell above the door to ring, and to turn to see him stride into Simpson’s Antiques and suggest they have dinner at Due Amici up the road as a treat.
‘Yeah. Our Frank decided people reading the same book and discussing it wasn’t the way he wanted to do this.’ Crush’s eyes misted and Grace was astonished to see true affection there.
‘I don’t get it.’ Surely there was nothing more to a book club than people coming together to discuss something they’d chosen to read, even if some of them got more pleasure from the book than others. That was what happened in book clubs as far as she was aware.
‘I mean, everyone’s different, aren’t they? Frank knew that, and he knew different people like different kinds of books. And not everyone wants to talk. Introverts deserve book clubs too, right? Some people just want company while they read, you get me?’
Despite these peculiarly regular requests for affirmation, Grace still wasn’t sure what she meant, and it must’ve shown on her face because Crush continued.
‘Say you like graphic novels, yeah, or romantasy? You might not find a book club where everyone has the same taste as you, especially locally. And that’s not cool, is it?
Here, everyone reads what the hell they like, that’s the vibe.
Anything goes. Frank knew some people don’t feel comfortable chatting to strangers, or they might’ve had a bad day, and would prefer somewhere to go where they could have a bit of company in a chill environment, you know?
There’s no pressure to perform here. You can just be. ’
Hearing what Frank thought from a woman Grace had never met before added to her disorientation.
She cast her eyes around, trying to fix onto something familiar to ground herself, but other than the bell mechanism above the door, the room was unrecognizable from the one she’d spent years in.
‘But … how do you discuss the books if everyone’s reading something different? ’
‘We have a chat for a while, catch up on everyone’s week, then we settle down and read. After, we can talk about the book we’ve brought with us, or you can just head home. It’s totally up to you.’
‘You read. Here?’ The quiet in the rest of the room was unnerving. Grace could hear her own pulse in her ears.
‘We do,’ said Crush. ‘This is Frank’s Silent Book Club.’