This Book Made Me Think of You(58)

Thirty-Seven




Arriving at Grand Central Station feels like arriving in the center of the world. As Tilly drags her suitcase behind her, she cranes her neck to look up at the turquoise ceiling painted in gold constellations. The concourse is heaving, and she weaves her way through until she emerges onto the humid street outside, noisy with traffic and pulsing with a sense of limitless energy. Skyscrapers tower around her, windows glinting in the sunshine. The tip of the Empire State Building pokes out from behind another skyscraper and a wide smile spreads across Tilly’s face.

“Right, Matilda Nightingale,” she says under her breath, “let’s make some memories.”



* * *



—

“Is this your first time in New York?” inquires the staff member behind the reception desk of the Library Hotel. The lobby is cool and peaceful, the wood-clad walls lined with books.

“No, I’ve been a few times before. Although it’s my first time on my own.”

The woman smiles warmly, typing Tilly’s details into the computer.

“And are you here for business or pleasure?”

“Oh, definitely pleasure.”

After leaving her things in her room on the eighth floor, Tilly heads out of the hotel into the bustle of Midtown, hit by a blast of heat and noise from taxis and buses rumbling down East Forty-First Street and Madison Avenue. She heads in the direction of the imposing white building visible at the end of the street, a giddy excitement taking hold as she approaches. Some people might choose to tour film sets in Hollywood, but climbing the steps of the New York Public Library is Tilly’s movie moment.

The building’s facade is impressive, but as she steps inside she lets out a breath. The entire place is marble—floor, staircase, and the carved ceiling that is held up by elegant columns. After the humid heat of the street outside, it is cool and calm. She takes a photo, knowing immediately who would appreciate this place as much as her. She pulls up the Book Lane Instagram account and sends the photo as a direct message.

Guess where I am? (This is Tilly, by the way)

The reply pings in just seconds later.

Wow. Have you been to the Rose Reading Room yet? I’ve always wanted to go. How were things with your in-laws? (This is Alfie, by the way.)

I’m heading there now, she types in reply. I can’t get over this place. I can’t believe it’s full of BOOKS! And it actually went really well, thanks.

I’m so pleased. Well done for navigating all of that. Now go enjoy the books!

There are plenty of people about, but it still feels peaceful as Tilly climbs the stairs, her sandals tapping on the marble steps.

When she reaches the Rose Reading Room, she inhales deeply, looking out at the rows of tables topped with little lamps, the walls lined with bookcases and the arched windows streaming with light. She lifts her head to the ceiling where clouds in shades of pink and gray swirl in a painted blue sky.

At first I thought it was like a palace here but it’s actually a cathedral, she types as she shares another photo. A cathedral for books.

My kind of cathedral. Please keep sending photos. It’s nice to picture you there. I’m doing accounts today and could use the distraction.

Ulgh, accounts. Sending you strength

Thanks, I think I need it.



* * *



—

Alfie stares at his computer screen. The bookshop is closed for the evening, and outside he can see people walking in the sunshine, perhaps heading to the pub or the park. But he sits at his desk, a calculator to one side and a fresh mug of coffee and a letter on the other. The letter arrived this morning. Since then he’s had to work hard to control his emotions, not wanting to worry Blue or Prudence.

Georgette purrs at his feet, and he scoops her up, grateful for the warmth of her as he picks the letter up again and reads it.

Dear Business Owner,

We are writing to inform you that your recent request for a business loan has been denied. If there’s anything further we can do to assist, please do get in touch.

Warmest wishes,

Cressida Tompkins

Manager, Hardings Bank, Camden



He folds the letter and slips it into a desk drawer, one containing several similar letters that he has received over the past few months.

The thing that frustrates him the most is that it’s not as though the shop is dead. Today was a busy day, tourists stopping in on their way to Primrose Hill and London Zoo and regulars stocking up on books for their holidays. But that doesn’t mean the shop isn’t dying.

Running a bookshop has never been easy, but this year it has felt as though Alfie is swimming against a current that keeps getting stronger. However hard he works, he is being pushed back against a force he can’t outswim. And it’s getting harder and harder to keep trying.

“What are we going to do, Georgie?” he says, lifting the cat and searching her gray eyes. Her expression is incredibly knowing, but if she does have the answers, she’s not sharing them.

He touches the photo frame that sits on his desk next to the large leather-bound book in the corner. If anyone were to look through the bookshop window, they would spot him at the back, shoulders rounded, eyes misted, talking softly to no one that anybody could see.

“I’m so sorry, Dad.”