This Book Made Me Think of You(91)

Mr. Theo Manning—likes natural history and nonfiction. Does not like novels. Favorite book: The Salt Path, Raynor Winn

Miss Cleo Martin—likes books with strong female leads and magic. Favorite book: Amari and the Night Brothers, B. B. Alston



Alongside the notes are contact details and lists of books they have bought.

“It’s a record of all the Book Lane customers,” Tilly says.

Blue peers closer, running a finger along the page. “Some of this looks like Alfie’s writing, but a lot of this must have been written by his father.”

“I imagine it’s how he managed to keep things running so smoothly when he took over,” says Prudence. “It’s like the bookshop bible.”

Tilly flicks through a few more pages, skimming over the painstakingly recorded notes about hundreds of customers with completely unique reading tastes. How many of these customers’ lives have been altered by the books they bought here? She turns quickly toward the middle of the book until she finds N.

Matilda Nightingale



There is a list of all the books Joe ordered for her as well as everything she has bought herself this year.

As well as the books, there are a few notes. Likes cats and Yorkshire tea, crafting and running (sometimes). Does not like camping. Favorite food: pasta.

A smile creeps across her face. Flicking further through the book, she notices something slipping out at the back and pulls out a handful of photographs.

“Oh wow. Blue, Prudence, look at these.”

There is the photograph that Alfie showed Tilly on his phone of his father standing in the middle of the bookshop holding a stack of books. But there are more too. There’s one that must be Book Lane’s first day, a red ribbon tied across the door and Alfie’s father beaming at the camera, tightly holding the hand of a tiny woman who could only be Alfie’s mother. And there’s one that makes Tilly’s heart tighten: Alfie’s father holding the shop ladder at the bottom, two children standing on the rungs, laughing at the camera. A young girl with pigtails, and there, on the rung above, with a gap-toothed smile and hair that is just as messy as Tilly is used to seeing it now, is Alfie. He is wearing a sweater that is a little too short for him, a dinosaur on the front. His face is lit up with an open, joyful smile, his eyes squeezed half-shut. Looking at the photo, she aches for the little boy laughing at the camera, confident with his dad’s hands firmly on the bottom of the ladder, steadying him.

“Oh, Alfie!” says Blue. “He was so cute!”

Tilly swallows hard.

“So, what are we going to do then?”

“What do you mean?” Prudence asks, looking up from the photos. Blue is staring at her, too, her expression questioning.

“I mean,” Tilly says more firmly this time, “what are we going to do about the bookshop? Because it can’t end like this, can it?”

After everything the bookshop has given her, she isn’t going to give up without a fight. And after everything Alfie has done for her…well, maybe this is something she can do for him.





Fifty-Six




Alfie hasn’t left his flat in two weeks, apart from letting in food deliveries. He is sitting on the sofa eating a tub of triple chocolate ice cream and watching Jurassic Park in his pajamas when the doorbell rings.

“Let us up!” comes his sister’s voice on the intercom. “We’re here to stage an intervention!”

Alfie reluctantly presses the buzzer to release the door lock, sweeping the worst of the mess into the bin and pausing the film, the screen freezing on the scene of the velociraptors in the kitchen.

“This bit always used to terrify me,” says Tash once she’s hugged Alfie in greeting and thrown herself down on the sofa, reaching for the ice cream.

“Hi, sweetheart,” says his mum, giving him a hug that makes Alfie’s eyes grow blurry. After logging out of social media, avoiding phone calls, and answering messages with only the briefest of replies, he feels overwhelmed having his family here in person.

“Can I get you anything? Tea, coffee? Leftover noodles?” he asks with a forced laugh.

“Sit,” says his mum, taking the opposite end of the sofa to Tash and patting the empty space between them. Alfie hesitates before sinking down into the cushions. It’s amazing how exhausting doing nothing can be. He hasn’t been on his bike in ages or walked further than the length of his apartment, and yet his limbs feel heavy.

“Sorry for just turning up like this. But we’ve been worried about you.”

“I’m fine.”

Tash lets out a snort. “Alf. It’s eleven in the morning and you’re most of the way through a tub of H?agen-Dazs. And I love you, but those pajamas have a smell.”

He shuffles uncomfortably on the sofa. He didn’t mean for anyone to see him like this. That was the whole point of the not-leaving-the-house thing. There’s been something of a relief to letting himself lean into his sadness after months of trying to hold things together. But now he doesn’t have to do any of that. Giving up has felt surprisingly freeing. But beneath it all is a deep sadness that he can’t shake. And the sense of having been so stupid, for having thought, just for a moment, that things might end differently.

“I’m sorry. I know I’ve been rubbish at keeping in touch these past few weeks. I’ve just needed some time.”