Page 100 of The Secret Christmas Bookshop
Another figure joined her reflection, and it took her a moment to realize who it was.
‘Sophie,’ May said, their eyes meeting in the glass. ‘How are you?’
Sophie couldn’t put everything she was feeling into words, so she shrugged.
‘I am so, so sorry,’ May rushed out. ‘I never meant for things to turn out like this. I wish I’d pressed pause at the festival, before the storm hit and you found out the way you did.’
Sophie turned, wanting to face her properly, and saw that some of May’s eternal optimism had faded. She had dark smudges under her eyes, and her usually glossy brown hair was tied up in a messy bun, strands escaping in every direction.
‘Why did you do it?’ It was the one thing Sophie couldn’t get her head around. Before November, they had been little more than casual acquaintances.
‘Can we go somewhere? It’s so cold today.’
They sat at a window table in the hotel lounge, the sound of the band muffled through the glass, so they could still hear each other over the festive tunes. Sophie loved this view, the hotel on a slight hill so she could see Mistingham Green and the village hall, the lights on the oak tree twinkling,showing that they, at least, had survived the storm. Perpendicular Street ran down to the sea, with Hartley Country Apparel on the right and then, further down, Batter Days and her flat, the blue of the sea visible in the gaps between buildings.She loved this view.
‘The green doesn’t look completely destroyed,’ she said, while they waited for their miniature Christmas puddings, neither of them able to avoid the novelty item on the menu, the sticky sweetness and brandy cream it promised.
‘A few of us patched it up yesterday afternoon,’ May said. ‘We put some sand down, a bit of gravel in places, once Harry and I had moved the books out of the annex. The tent grotto didn’t survive, but everything else is fine.’
‘Right.’ Sophie swallowed. ‘The festival went ahead yesterday?’ She hadn’t turned up, hadn’t wanted to face anyone. What did it matter anyway, when she wouldn’t be here after tomorrow?
‘It was really well attended,’ May told her. ‘I think because people felt cheated out of it on storm night. Tonight’s the last night,’ she added, a hopeful note in her voice – although of course Sophie knew that.
‘Why did you send me the book?’ she asked. ‘Leave it for me, I mean?’
‘I love Harry.’ May unfolded her napkin, then looked up. ‘As a friend. He’s my best friend. He’s always been there for me, and he had an awful time those last few years in London, doing a job he hated, trying to save the estate from afar, then his dad getting ill. He came back here and threw himself into repairing the manor, but it was in such a bad way and he only ever seemed happy when he was working on those books – rebinding the damaged ones; giving themnew covers. It’s meticulous work, it requires so much concentration – you know that, of course.’ She shook her head. ‘It was as if he was carrying on his dad’s legacy.’
‘They’re really beautiful,’ Sophie said truthfully.
May nodded. ‘I know. But he didn’t want todoanything with them. He just wanted to keep them in that hidden room, hoarding them away, and books – books aremagical.Even when they’ve been read a hundred times and the cover is falling off, or they’ve got stained pages, or they’ve got an ill-advised, ugly cover from the Seventies.’
‘Some modern covers are ugly too,’ Sophie said.
‘Oh, I know.’ May rolled her eyes. ‘Some aresougly. Anyway. I didn’t think he should spend all that time and effort on them, only for them to sit there, forgotten. He’d told me how he’d been sent that book by his dad –North and South,the old copy that Bernie had once upon a time given to his mum – and how it changed everything. It had made him realize he needed to come home. So I thought – why couldn’t I do the same? Why couldn’t I give someone this beautiful, special book, and see what happened?’ She was animated, her eyes bright, and Sophie could see that she believed wholeheartedly in the magic of books, the power of what she’d done, even if it hadn’t worked out how she’d expected.
‘Why did you pick me?’ She sat back when Jazz brought their tray over, with a pot of tea and two of the mini Christmas puddings.
‘Fiona says you’re leaving,’ Jazz said without preamble, her eyes hard, like shiny black buttons.
Sophie picked up her fork. ‘It’s time to move on. You know what it’s like.’
But Jazz was already shaking her head. ‘Fromhere? From Fiona and Ermin and Dex? From that shop, just waiting for you to fill it with all your fancy notebooks? What about Harry? You can’t let her do this.’ She stared imploringly at May.
‘It’s not my decision,’ May said. ‘I probably have the least sway of anyone right now.’
‘I am here, you know,’ Sophie said with a laugh.
‘Not for long though,’ Jazz replied. ‘So why you do you give a shit if we talk about you?’
‘Jazz—’
‘No,’ Jazz cut in. ‘Don’t you realize what you’ve got here?Whoyou’ve got? I thought you did – I thought we talked about this and you had decided you were staying.’ She swallowed. ‘I didn’t expect to find anything but a dry place to sleep and some chips before I got booted out and had to move on again, to the next place I didn’t belong. But nobody here has made me feel like I don’t belong. You’re totally nuts.’ She spun on her heel and disappeared into the kitchen, and Sophie saw Mary, standing next to the door with her arms folded, doing absolutely nothing to reprimand her staff member for the outburst.
‘Why me?’ she asked May again, trying not to show how flustered Jazz had made her.
‘Because you seemed so nice, even though we’d only talked a few times. I knew a bit about your background from Fiona, and then …’ She laughed. ‘It was so obvious Harry liked you. He kept bringing you up in conversation, but he was so hopeless whenever he saw you. I think he felt self-conscious, so he blundered, then he was angry with himself and that made him angry with everyone and …’She sighed. ‘He’d just finished bindingJane Eyre, and it was stunning. He put it on the shelf, alongside the others, and I thought … I thought it was special. The story, of course, but also the care he’d put into every aspect of it. The foil details, the bookmark, the logo on the spine. I thought if I left it for you, and wrote a puzzle of a note, you’d go looking.’
‘Ididgo looking.’
