Chapter 9
Alfie spots Matilda Nightingale from the shop counter, her hands cupped around her pale face, her nose pressed up against the shop window.
She sees him watching her and smiles, the smile doing something to Alfie’s stomach that he puts down to the ready meal he ate last night which may or may not have been past its expiry date.
From her spot curled up in an empty cardboard box on the floor Georgette lifts her head and, Alfie could swear, gives him a wry look.
He unlocks the door and there she is, wearing her usual rainbow scarf and tweed coat. And are those croissants hanging from her ears?
‘Am I too early?’ she says a little breathlessly, checking a green leather watch on her wrist. ‘I was hoping to pick up my next book on the way to work. But if you’re not open yet I can come back later or tomorrow …’
‘Don’t worry, I was just opening up,’ he lies.
She follows him inside and he heads immediately for the collection shelf. When he turns around she is stood by the non-fiction section, pulling a book out from the shelf and moving it to a more prominent position, cover facing out.
‘Sorry,’ she says, leaping back, the tips of her ears turning pink.
He presses his lips tightly together, pushing back a smile. ‘A big fan, are you?’ he says, an eyebrow rising as he takes in the book she has rearranged.
The cover shows the smiling image of pop star Aimee Rain.
Her memoir has just come out in paperback.
As he placed the order he imagined his father cringing and it made him wonder, as he so often does, what he would make of the shop.
But Alfie has personally never been a fan of snobbishness when it comes to books.
His job is to stock the books that people want to buy – or at least as many of them as will fit into the modest space.
‘Sorry, it’s an editor’s bad habit,’ Matilda Nightingale replies, adding, ‘I worked on the book with her. That’s my niche – celebrity memoirs.’
‘Ah, so you work in publishing. And that’s quite a niche. You must have some stories.’
‘A couple. I bet you do too. Nightmare authors. Difficult customers … like me.’ She raises an eyebrow.
He doesn’t take the bait, instead says, ‘What’s she like, then, Aimee Rain?’
‘Actually, one of the good ones.’
‘Would you even tell me if she wasn’t?’
‘Of course. But then I’d have to kill you,’ she dead-pans. ‘Or at least get you to sign an NDA.’
Georgette has poked her head out of the cardboard box and in a less than graceful move she half jumps half flops out on to the floor, where she winds herself between Matilda’s legs, purring extravagantly.
Matilda bends to stroke her and Georgette reclines, exposing her soft belly and leaning her head back on the floor like a Grecian goddess.
‘I have to apologize, she’s a terrible flirt.’
But Matilda is already scratching Georgette’s ample belly, and Alfie watches as both Matilda and the cat seem to relax. The tense line of Matilda’s jaw softens, her lips parting slightly.
‘That’s OK, I love cats. My husband always wanted a dog …’ Her jaw tightens again and he can see her throat move as she swallows, blinking quickly. ‘Your Georgette is a lovely cat.’
‘She’s not really my cat. She’s technically a stray but she keeps coming back because I feed her the fancy kind of food. She’s going to bankrupt me.’
‘I think all bookshops should have cats,’ Matilda says, Georgette’s eyes now softly closed as she luxuriates in being stroked. ‘They just seem to go together.’
‘That’s because cats and book lovers are quite similar when it comes down to it.’
‘What do you mean?’ Matilda’s nose wrinkles slightly as she says it, a bridge of freckles forming that makes it suddenly hard to remember what he was going to say.
‘They both like spending time indoors or lounging in sunny spots,’ he says, counting each point off on his fingers. ‘Fond of snacks. Enjoy quiet time in their own company …’
‘Are you still describing cats or me?’ she says with a soft laugh.
‘Plus,’ adds Alfie, ‘I can just imagine Georgette reading a book among the stacks when my back is turned. You’d never catch a dog reading a novel.’
She looks up suddenly and gives him a strange look that makes him want one of the shelves to topple down and bury him in books.
But to his surprise she nods. ‘I think you’re right.
And there are so many books that feature cats …
’ She frowns again, a tiny crease forming between her eyebrows.
‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s … The Master and Margarita.
Oh, Carbonel. I loved that one as a child. ’
‘Me too.’ He considers for a moment, then adds, ‘The Travelling Cat Chronicles and The Goodbye Cat.’
‘His Dark Materials,’ she volleys, ‘if we’re counting wild cats in the category.’
‘I think I’ll allow it. The Cheshire Cat in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.’
They spar back and forth, bouncing from Doris Lessing’s memoir On Cats, to Sosuke Natsukawa’s The Cat Who Saved Books, to Kafka on the Shore and several Terry Pratchett novels.
A wide smile spreads across Tilly’s face as she plays her final trump card. ‘And the greatest cat book ever written, The Cat in the Hat.’
‘Well, obviously. A literary masterpiece. I can’t argue with that.’
‘Maybe you should do a cat-themed window display sometime.’
‘Maybe I should. I bet Georgette would love that.’
‘Oh, I nearly forgot,’ she says, reaching into the satchel slung over her shoulder.
She pulls out a Tupperware containing what looks like an extremely squashed slice of cake.
‘I’ve been doing way too much baking thanks to Delia.
There’s no way I can eat it all by myself.
I hope you like coffee and walnut. I swear it tastes better than it looks.
The shop always smells a bit like coffee so I thought … ’
She trails off, her hand still outstretched.
Alfie has occasionally been given gifts before from customers.
Biscuits from their regulars to help them through the manic Christmas season, and a bottle of champagne from a happy author as a thank you for hosting their book launch.
But he has never been given a home-made slice of his favourite cake.
Alfie coughs slightly. ‘That’s very kind, thank you.’
‘Maybe don’t thank me until you’ve actually tasted it.’
As he takes the box their fingertips brush but he pulls his hand back quickly, placing the cake on the counter and reaching for Matilda’s parcel.
‘Your March book.’
To his surprise she lifts it up and begins immediately tugging at the pink ribbon.
She looks up, her grey-green eyes flashing up to meet his.
‘Do you mind? I just don’t think I can wait until later.
I’ve been trying to guess what he might have chosen but I have no idea.
If last month’s was on cooking maybe this will be about DIY. ’
‘Go for it.’
As she tears at the paper he turns away, busying himself with scrolling through some online orders on the shop’s computer.
‘Oh,’ she says, and Alfie can’t help but look up. She turns the book over in her hand, the cover bright and colourful.
‘Beach Read by Emily Henry,’ she reads out loud. ‘I’ve heard of Emily Henry but never read any of her books. It’s a romance … It looks … interesting.’
He can hear the hesitation in her voice and he can’t help himself from blurting out, ‘It’s more than interesting. It’s the perfect romantic comedy. Fantastic characters, spot-on dialogue, the way she understands and subverts familiar tropes …’
He is aware of her staring at him, and for the second time that morning he wishes for a very small and isolated natural disaster. Just bury him in books.
‘I’m not sure how I feel about reading a romance, to be honest,’ she says. ‘I don’t exactly believe in happily-ever-afters any more.’
Alfie knows the feeling.
‘But isn’t that one of the great things about fiction?’ he says. ‘It’s an escape. Somewhere to go when you don’t want to be where you are.’
She is still looking at him strangely and he coughs, brushing his hair back from his face. ‘Just give it a try. It might change your mind. Um, is there a letter too?’
She opens the book and out falls an envelope which she slices open with her left hand. Her eyes dart across the page, her eyebrows rising and her eyes sparkling.
‘Oh my god.’ She lifts a hand to her mouth. ‘I can’t believe it.’