This Book Made Me Think of You(34)

“Oh no, that’s terrible,” says Prudence from the children’s section, where she is reorganizing the picture books after a toddler decided to pull every single one from the shelves. Prudence suggested moving the children’s books to a higher shelf, but Alfie thinks that rather defeats the point. His youngest customers might make a mess, but he wants them to grow up thinking of books as things that can be touched and played with and enjoyed.

“It makes you wonder, doesn’t it—which local place will be next?”

Alfie reaches for the brown paper to wrap the customer’s book, focusing on getting the corners neat.

“It has been a little quiet in here recently…” says Blue.

“But people have been ordering plenty online. And I’ve got lots of author events lined up for the summer. The shop is going to be packed.”

He wonders if they can tell that he’s saying it as much to reassure himself as them. It’s getting harder to put on a brave face, especially since receiving the letter in March informing him that their annual electricity bill is going up, just like every other utility bill…

“But do young people actually read books anymore?” says the customer. At that exact moment, the door opens and a girl around fourteen dressed in short dungarees bounds in, followed by her mother. The girl heads straight for the YA section, carefully reading Alfie’s handwritten reviews attached to the shelf.

“Mum, can I have these ones?” says the girl, handing her mother a small stack of books and giving Alfie a rush of satisfaction. But the girl’s mother takes out her phone and snaps photos of each cover before handing them back and saying in a clipped voice, “We can get these much cheaper online.”

Once they’re gone Prudence lets out a groan.

“See,” says the customer.

“The bloody cheek!” cries Blue. “That woman was wearing Louboutins for christ’s sake.”

“That almost never happens,” Alfie lies, swallowing hard.

The truth is when he’d seen the Closing sign in the window of Fred’s Café, it had shaken him too. He remembers his father taking him there when he was young. The café is part of Primrose Hill, just like the red telephone box at the end of the street and the pastel-colored houses. Just like Book Lane.

His hand hovers over the rolls of ribbon he keeps behind the desk. He chooses a bright yellow, wondering if this customer’s relative will appreciate it or whether it’s a waste of time. And money. But the bookshop has always wrapped their orders in ribbon for as long as he can remember. It’s just one of the small things he has never wanted to let go of, determined to keep the shop as it has always been.

He concentrates on tying a careful bow. If he can tie the perfect bow, then perhaps he can block out the feeling of fear that rises in his chest like an encroaching tide line threatening to pull him off his feet.

Catching Alfie’s expression, Blue gives his arm a reassuring squeeze. Her smile tells him everything’s going to be OK, and he does his best to try to believe her, even though a voice in his head tells him it might be too late for that.



* * *



—

Tilly pauses outside the shop, looking back in through the glass. The customer Alfie had been helping is still talking. Blue has a hand on Alfie’s arm and is looking at him with such tenderness that Tilly wonders how she hadn’t noticed before that they are a couple. Their intimacy with one another is suddenly obvious. It’s an easy kind of affection, the kind she used to have with Joe. She turns quickly away from the window, her heart clenching. She needs to get home. She has a book to open.





Twenty-Three




The park beneath Primrose Hill is busy with people, dog walkers throwing sticks and couples strolling beneath the trees heavy with blossoms. It’s one of the first warm days of spring, and there is an ice cream van parked optimistically on the road, getting decent business judging by the sight of people walking past clutching Mr. Whippy cones, some still in knitwear but others bare-legged.

Tilly pauses at the bottom of the hill to tighten the laces on her running trainers.

“Right, Joe,” she says under her breath as she straightens, fixing her eyes on the steep path ahead of her. “I suppose I better do this.”

She makes it less than halfway up the hill before having to stop, veering off the path and throwing herself onto the grass. Her chest rises and falls rapidly and she flops backward, staring up at the sky.

“Jesus, did I really used to enjoy this?”



* * *



—

What I Talk About When I Talk About Running by Haruki Murakami sits reproachfully on the coffee table, Tilly’s trainers kicked off underneath.

“I’m not sure I ever want to put them back on again,” she says, giving them a shove. “I didn’t make it to the top of the hill, but I did get a blister.”

“But you and Joe used to love running,” Harper replies as she pours tea from Tilly’s favorite Alice in Wonderland–themed teapot.

“I don’t think anyone ever loves running, they just love how they feel after they’ve been running. And I don’t even love that right now…”

“I bet this guy loves running,” Harper says, gesturing toward the book. “You don’t write a whole book about running unless you love running. And you don’t give a book to someone about running unless you love running too. Joe loved running.”