Chapter One
The next afternoon, the café was quiet following the post-school rush, so Erin treated herself to another couple of pages of The Women, only brought back into the real world by the sound of a gentle cough.
When she looked up, Susan was standing near the door, her lips pinched, hands clasped in front of her.
‘Sorry, I was miles away,’ said Erin smiling and turning down the corner of her page before placing the book on the pitted pewter tabletop.
Susan shook her head. ‘I don’t know how you can do that.’ She nodded to the book. ‘It’s sacrilege.’
Erin laughed. That wasn’t the only thing she and Susan disagreed on.
The older woman found Erin’s habit of reading the last page of a novel first ludicrous and she was never afraid to say so.
Not that that stopped her coming along to the weekly book group, the premise of which was that, if the last page was satisfying, then the rest of the book must be worth reading.
‘Really? You never mentioned it.’ She grinned as Susan raised her eyes to the high ceiling.
‘Why are you standing over there? You look like a vampire waiting to be asked in.’
‘Charming,’ said Susan, taking a tentative step into the room, bringing the scent of roses and something sweeter with her.
Susan was always the best smelling person in any room.
She didn’t have a signature scent, but seemed to find an array of perfumes which suited her perfectly.
‘You and Tybalt looked so peaceful, I didn’t want to disturb you. ’
Erin lifted the cat from where he was nestled in her lap and stood.
He mewled crossly as she placed him gently on the floor.
She made her way to the kitchen, speaking over her shoulder, ‘I was in a field hospital in the middle of a war zone. I probably should have looked more traumatised than peaceful. Reading is weird, isn’t it, the way you can just dip in and out of thousands of other lives? ’
‘Weird and wonderful,’ said Susan.
‘I’ll drink to that,’ said Erin. She lifted a cup with an intricate blue and silver pattern around the rim. ‘Earl grey?’
‘Please,’ said Susan, finally committing to her entrance and joining Erin as she pressed the hot water button on the machine and boiling water hissed into the cup.
Susan leaned on the door frame, running a hand over her neat silver bob to smooth any hair that dared to step out of line.
None had. They probably weren’t brave enough.
Erin put the cup on its matching saucer and handed it to Susan, breathing in the floral-scented steam. ‘That’s on the house.’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake. That’s no way to run a business,’ said Susan. ‘You’re as bad as your mother.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment,’ said Erin.
And it was. She ignored the small voice inside Erin’s head telling her she wasn’t worthy of the praise.
Her mother, Mary, had been an extraordinary woman, full of colour and zest for life.
Erin was pale and dull in comparison. Susan dropped three pound coins onto the counter next to the till with a loud exhale. ‘Thank you.’
‘When the others get here, don’t start with the free drinks nonsense.
You’re running a business, not a charity.
It’s kind enough to host us week after week, without handing out freebies on top.
’ Susan had been a regular of the café before she became a cherished friend.
Her brusque manner had terrified Erin when she was in her early twenties, working in the café alongside her mother while she decided what to do with her life after her English degree.
But that was decades ago, and she’d long-since learned that underneath her strident exterior, Susan was a caring, thoughtful soul.
Susan looked over at Kiddies Corner where Jenga blocks were scattered amongst giant Lego. ‘I take it you’ve had a baby group in today?’
‘They come most days,’ said Erin, thinking she probably should have tidied up the toys before book group.
In truth, she’d stopped seeing the mess in the corner.
Babies and toddlers should be messy, and she didn’t want their parents to feel like they had to put everything back in the box in the corner before they left.
She was sure they had enough clearing up to do at home.
‘I think word’s got around that I don’t freak out at a bit of mashed banana.
I get a few different groups coming in during the week. ’
Susan raised an eyebrow. ‘As long as the parents are eating and drinking. Make sure they’re not just using this as a crèche.’
‘Yes, miss.’ Erin saluted, despite the fact she would do nothing of the sort. She would have loved somewhere like this when Jack was small. The frazzled parents could take as long as they liked over their well-deserved latte. ‘You’re as bad as Jack for telling me off.’
Susan’s lined cheeks rounded in a smile. ‘When’s he back? Bet you can’t wait, can you?’
A little surge of excitement lifted Erin’s shoulders. ‘I’m picking him up tomorrow. Can’t believe he’ll be home for good. Where have the last three years gone?’
‘And what’s he planning—’ Susan turned at the sound of the door opening.
‘Joe, hello,’ said Erin, grinning over at the man in the doorway.
He might be thinner now, with wisps of grey hair where he’d once had a thick black mop, but to Erin, Joe O’Connor would always be a strong, reliable man.
He’d been her parents’ best friend and neighbour, and was now the closest thing to family Erin had, other than her son.
‘How are you both?’ Joe still spoke with a soft Donegal accent, despite having moved to South London with his late wife, Nuala, almost fifty years ago.
‘Good, thanks. You?’ Erin was glad to escape the conversation about Jack’s future plans. As far as she knew, he didn’t have any, and the uncertainty of that made acid swill in her stomach.
‘Can’t complain.’ Joe came in and lowered himself into an armchair with a groaning breath. ‘Well, I could, but who’d listen?’ Tybalt jumped onto Joe’s lap, purring audibly as the old man ran a hand over his marbled grey fur.
‘I would.’ Erin kissed the top of Joe’s head, breathing in the familiar scent of the gel he used to flatten the remaining strands of hair to his head.
She worried about Joe. He seemed to have aged decades since Nuala died five years ago.
The memories of her parents and Nuala and Joe sitting here, talking and laughing, drinking strong coffee as an Ella Fitzgerald record played quietly on the record player in the corner, were still vivid in her mind.
She could see her father’s white-blonde head, his hair inherited from his Danish forefathers, thrown back as he guffawed at something Joe said; she could see her mother buzzing back and forth to the kitchen for drinks and slabs of Victoria sponge.
Now Joe was the only one of the group still living, and Erin knew he was lonely. It was too sad.
The door opened again and Mercy trundled in, pulling her shopping trolley behind her. ‘Good evening, my bookish friends.’
‘Hello, hello. What’s in the bag?’ Erin already had her suspicions. Mercy was a recently retired librarian, and had brought along many of the books that sat on The Bookmark’s shelves. They all benefitted when West Greenwich Library cleared out its old stock.
‘Just a few books Jakub at the library gave to me. He always lets me have first dibs before anything goes off to charity or, heaven help us, recycling.’ She made the sign of the cross over her ample chest.
‘I really should pay him for those.’ Erin pushed away the thought of her latest profit and loss spreadsheet.
It was hard enough to buy the staples without offering money for books that weren’t necessary, but it never seemed right to take them for free.
Books were valuable to her, and she suspected the library needed funds almost as much as she did.
‘Nonsense,’ said Susan. ‘It’s a transfer from one free reading venue to another. You’re not profiting. You’re just rehousing them.’
Erin glanced at the shelves behind her. Her mother had instigated the take a book, bring a book policy, pinning up the laminated instructions for customers to borrow whatever they fancied, then either return it, or bring another to replace it.
As Mercy piled the contents of her trolley on the table for them to pick through, two more members of the book group, Riley and Hafsa, sauntered in.
Erin glanced up from the dusty copy of A Tale of Two Cities she was holding in her hands and started at Riley’s new hairstyle, or, more accurately, the lack of it.
Her scalp was entirely bare. ‘Blimey,’ she said, trying to keep the shock from her face. ‘That’s a strong look.’
Riley ran her hand over her head and gave a lopsided smile.
‘I know. Chegs got a bit carried away with the clippers.’ Chegs was Riley’s boyfriend, and in Erin’s opinion, he got carried away a lot more often than he should.
Not that she’d shared that view. Unlike Susan, she had a strict policy of only offering her opinions when she was asked for them.
At twenty-four, Riley was the youngest member of the book group.
Partly because she worked for Erin at The Bookmark, and partly because she was a sweet and slightly lost soul, Erin couldn’t help but feel motherly towards her.
‘You look like that Irish singer, you know the one, died not long ago, God rest her soul,’ said Joe.
‘Gave the Pope what for. What was her name?’ He scrunched up his face and rubbed his fingers together, his skin making a papery sound.
Tybalt raised his head and knocked it against Joe’s hand, only settling back down when Joe resumed stroking along his spine.
‘Sinéad O’Connor,’ said Hafsa, sitting elegantly and rearranging her long cream skirt so it fell in graceful folds.
Erin envied Hafsa’s style. She’d presumed Hafsa always wore expensive clothes, but when she asked if she ever wore something off the peg, Hafsa laughed.
She said her GP’s salary didn’t stretch to anything other than off the peg, not when she had three kids to support.
‘This is from New Look,’ she’d said, stroking the forest-green satin shirt, ‘and this is Primark.’ Erin stared at the pleated skirt in disbelief, until Hafsa twisted it around and showed her the label at the back as proof.
It was the way she wore them that made her clothes appear like they were designed just for her.
That, coupled with the fact she never minded when one of the group took her aside to show her a skin rash, or an inflamed set of tonsils, made her a popular member of the gang.
‘Do you like it?’ asked Erin, scrutinising Riley’s face. Her huge blue-green eyes, slightly protruding ears, and perfectly round head reminded Erin of the bush babies she and her ex, Andrew, saw on the trip to Australia they’d taken back when she thought her story had a predictable ending.
Riley’s shoulders lifted then fell. ‘Not much I can do about it, is there? I asked him for a number four, but he thought this would look better.’
Erin’s jaw tensed. She wanted to tell her that he had no right to decide what she did with her body. She’d never liked Chegs. She found him entitled and arrogant, and unworthy of the adoration her gentle, creative friend lavished on him.
‘I’d smack him in the mouth,’ said Susan. ‘I mean, you look wonderful. You always look wonderful, but your hairstyle, your choice.’
Erin could have kissed her. She trod a difficult line as Riley’s employer as well as her friend, so she was delighted that Susan spoke her mind.
She shouldn’t have been surprised. Susan always called a spade a shovel.
Riley gave another resigned shrug, took her place on the same armchair she always did, and sifted through the books as Susan raised an eyebrow at Erin.
Erin shrugged in reply. Riley hadn’t asked for her thoughts, so she would continue to keep them to herself.
‘Right then. Let’s get started,’ said Erin, when they all had steaming cups in front of them.
‘I’m looking forward to hearing what you all thought of Death at the Sign of the Rook.
’ She was a massive Kate Atkinson fan herself, and loved the latest adventure of flawed ex-detective, Jackson Brodie.
‘Come on then, who thought it lived up to the last page?’