Chapter 3
They met in a bookshop …
It is a rainy day in August and while the rest of London might have been disappointed with the turn in the weather, Tilly doesn’t mind.
Because it is the perfect weather for spending an entire day in a bookshop, which is exactly how she intends to spend her Saturday.
She heads for ‘the big Foyles’ at Charing Cross with a plan to start on the ground floor and meticulously work her way up to the fifth.
Stepping out of the rain, she lets out a contented sigh as she looks up at the words spelt out in greeting: Welcome, book lover, you are among friends.
Tilly has always thought of bookshops as a gathering place: all those books lined up neatly on the shelves like potential friends she just hasn’t met yet.
She is browsing the fiction section on the ground floor, her head tilted in the ‘book browsing pose’ that will give her a stiff neck by the end of the day, when she collides with something solid.
‘Oh! Sorry!’ she says, meeting the face of a blond-haired man around her age, wearing a grey hoody, a pair of shorts and damp trainers. His eyes are smiling and a piercing shade of blue.
‘Hi there,’ he replies in a deep American accent. When he smiles his teeth are white and straight, except his front left tooth which has the very slightest chip.
‘I should have been looking where I was going,’ she replies, realizing she is still close enough to smell the woody scent of his cologne mixed with dampness from the rain.
‘I always get a bit blinkered when I’m looking at books.
’ She steps swiftly backwards, feeling her cheeks flush like they always do when she is nervous.
‘Would you recommend that one?’
He points at the book tucked under Tilly’s arm – the first of many she plans to ‘rehome’.
‘Oh yes, I love Fredrik Backman. Have you read any of his other books?’
The man glances at Tilly’s copy of Britt-Marie Was Here and shakes his head. ‘I don’t think I have.’
‘Well, you should definitely start with A Man Called Ove, then.’ She checks the shelves. ‘Although they don’t seem to have it here. It’s probably upstairs on the bigger fiction floor.’
‘It’s a bit of a maze in here, isn’t it?’ he says, his voice containing a laugh as he looks around him.
It is one of the things Tilly loves the most about the shop. Because what better place to get lost than amongst shelves of stories? She glances around, trying to find a staff member to help, but they are all busy with customers.
‘I could show you, if you like?’
His face relaxes into a wide, infectious smile. ‘That would be great, thanks! I’m Joe, by the way.’ He thrusts out his hand and she stifles a laugh as she shakes it, young enough to still think of shaking hands as playing at being a grown-up. His grip is warm and firm.
‘I’m Matilda. Although most people call me Tilly.’
‘Matilda. Like the film?’
That should be an alarm bell but she is too busy looking at his forearms to notice.
They climb the stairs side by side, Tilly walking and Joe practically bouncing.
‘So are you on holiday,’ she asks, ‘or …’
‘I live here,’ he replies and Tilly realizes with a jolt how disappointed she would have been if he’d revealed he was a tourist. ‘I moved here for work. It’s a great city.
I love how green it is. And all the old buildings …
I can’t get over how old everything is! You Brits have no idea. Are you from London?’
‘I live here but I’m not from here. I grew up in Wales.’
‘I thought I heard something in your voice. It’s lovely.’
His eyes sparkle as he fixes them on her in a way that makes her cheeks turn an even deeper shade of red.
‘Well, I say Wales, but the border with England runs through my hometown. I grew up in Hay-on-Wye.’
‘I’ve heard about that place. Isn’t every shop there a bookshop?’
‘Not every shop. But yes, there are a lot of bookshops.’
‘Do your family run one, then? No wonder you know your way around a bookshop.’
‘No, my parents are both teachers. But they do love books. My sister is called Harper after Harper Lee. And then there’s me … I guess it was inevitable that I was going to love books too.’
‘What’s your favourite book? Or is that like asking a parent to choose their favourite child?’
He flashes her a grin and Tilly finds herself grinning back at him.
‘A bit. My favourite book changes all the time depending on the latest thing I’ve loved. But I think if I had to choose my favourite favourite I’d say Madeline by Ludwig Bemelmans. I was obsessed with it when I was little.’
‘What did you love about it?’
Despite all the books in her bedroom growing up, Madeline was the one she always came back to, wanting to read it again and again. If she closes her eyes she can see its distinctive cover as though recalling the face of a beloved relative.
‘I think it helped that the main character, Madeline Fogg, had red hair like me. She was the only girl in her class who did, just like I always was. But aside from that we were completely different. She lived in a boarding school in Paris and I have still never been to Paris, despite having dreamt about it ever since reading those books. And Madeline was so feisty and brave.’
‘You don’t think you’re like that?’
Tilly laughs out loud, but the expectant expression on his face makes her remember that she’s only just met him. He doesn’t know that her idea of brave is trying a book in a new genre or opting for a different brand of tea on her weekly shop.
‘No, not exactly. And I definitely can’t ice-skate as well as Madeline could.’
They have reached the fiction floor by now and, not knowing what else to say, Tilly reaches for a copy of A Man Called Ove and hands it to him.
Their fingers brush as he takes it, her skin tingling at the touch.
She is relieved when he examines the cover as it gives her time to smooth down her hair which is frizzy from the rain.
‘If you enjoy it, I’d recommend reading The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry by Rachel Joyce, or Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout. If you haven’t read them already, that is.’
‘You really do know your books.’
‘Well, I do work in publishing. Although in non-fiction right now. I edit celeb memoirs.’ She says it with a roll of her eyes that belies the five interviews, grammar test and the weeks she spent preparing the presentation that secured her the job.
‘It’s just temporary, to get my foot on the ladder.
What I really want to do is edit novels. ’
‘I bet you’d be great at that.’
She lets out a laugh. ‘How do you know that? You’ve only just met me!’
‘And you’ve already given me a ton of recommendations. You’re clearly passionate about books. If I were ever going to write a book, that’s the kind of editor I’d want. A real bookworm like you.’
Their eyes meet and Tilly feels her face flushing. He doesn’t look away.
‘Did you know that the Italian translation for bookworm is topo di biblioteca,’ Tilly blurts, wishing that she could get her mouth to close before the first thing in her head comes out.
But it is too late for that. ‘I read it in a book about idioms from around the world,’ she explains.
‘It means “library mouse”. I’ve always thought I’d rather be a mouse than a worm. ’
‘Library mouse,’ he repeats, his nose wrinkling in pleasure. ‘I like that.’ He looks at her for a beat longer, then says, ‘I really want to ask for your number. But there’s something you need to know about me first.’
She glances at his left hand. No ring. But maybe he is married but doesn’t wear one. Or perhaps he is into some really niche kink that is so specific he feels he has to divulge it before even going on a date.
‘So, here’s the thing. I don’t read. I only came in here because it was raining. I haven’t read a book since high school and, even then, only because I had to. I can understand if someone like you isn’t at all interested in someone like me. But I’d really like to see you again.’
At first it feels like an even more shocking revelation than a foot fetish would have been.
How can anyone not read? What do they do with their evenings?
All of her (not many) previous boyfriends have been readers.
Her most recent ex was a writer too, who liked to read her his terrible poems as a form of foreplay.
Maybe it is time for a change.
‘I’d really like to see you again too.’
The brown paper falls away to reveal a book that Tilly knows well. There’s a note too and her heart aches as she recognizes Joe’s familiar handwriting – the letters large and wide-spaced – and begins to read.
Dear Tilly,
Happy Birthday! By now you’ll know about my gift for you. A book a month for a whole year. Great idea, huh? I was pretty pleased with it anyway.
I wish I could be making you pancakes and wishing you Happy Birthday in person, but I hope this will count as the next best thing.
I know you stopped reading when I got my diagnosis.
You told me you just couldn’t concentrate on reading any more, and I got it, but it still made me really sad.
For as long as I’ve known you (and long before that) you’ve been a reader.
It’s who you are. You need books, my library mouse.
And I suspect you need them now more than ever.
I remember asking you once why you loved reading so much and you said that books can change lives. I am determined that these will change yours.
I’ve started with a book that always makes me think of you. How could your first book not be this one? I hope that reading the book that is your namesake might remind you of how and why you became a reader. And that Roald Dahl’s Matilda might make mine smile again.
I love you.
Joe x
The illustrated cover showing a little girl surrounded by books is so familiar and she runs a hand over it, trying to imagine opening it and beginning to read.
But as she does, she thinks about all the times she has tried reading since Joe’s diagnosis, the words jumbling and her attention never making it beyond a few sentences.
Since Joe’s death she’s lost the ability to escape into a book.
The stories she used to love all seem so … pointless now.
‘Oh, Joe,’ she says out loud, her eyes flicking to the blue ceramic urn that rests on one of the bookshelves.
It’s a deep shade of indigo, dappled with flecks of a paler blue that reminded Tilly of Joe’s eyes when she chose it.
The silence is so full of his absence that for a moment she almost expects to hear his voice.
The room seems to grow darker, grief shrouding her like a cloak.
She waits for a beat longer and then folds the letter and tucks it carefully back into the book.
‘I love you for this idea. In the past, a year of books would have been my dream gift. But it’s just not who I am any more.’
She places her copy of Matilda firmly back on the coffee table where it will remain for weeks, unread.