Page 5

Try to sell Mum’s old antiquarian books? (Not on your nelly. Well, maybe.)

Think about adding a small new stationery section. (There’s nothing scary about notebooks, right?)

Branch out with our range of books …? (Why does change feel so hard?)

Chapter 3

Noémi’s playlist drifted to ‘White Christmas’ as she glanced out of the window at the snow falling softly, watching as Daniel and Felix walked homewards, their arms linked. They’d put on a brave face for her tonight, but this shop had become their stability too. All the more reason to fight for this place. But whatever they did, it would need to feel authentic – or what would she be left with? Somehow, she had to get this right.

Her thoughts wandered absently to the Dickensian-costumed man from earlier, with his confident walk and that cheeky, dark-eyed wink. Though she was in no way going to add spying on intriguing guys to her to-do list.

She paced to the Christmas tree, breathing in its earthy pine scent, made sweeter by the real apples she’d tied on with ribbon. Her fingers trailed along the spiked tickle of the branches, stopping to greet ornaments like old friends. She wasn’t into a plenty pack of baubles, when you could hand-pick each one, collecting them over the years to remember places visited and other lives lived. Because she had liked to venture further than her patchwork armchair in the window.

But that had been then, and this was now. Much like love, she was sworn off the hazards of real-life adventuring. Right here in this beautiful bookshop was where she felt safe.

With one last look around the shop – which she hoped was at least sort of as good as her darling mum would have dressed it – she flicked off the switch for the fairy lights. If nothing else, they would go down looking respectably Christmassy. Though she prayed it didn’t come to that, because this place was her everything. And they didn’t need to make huge changes. Did they?

Petit à petit, l’oiseau fait son nid, she almost heard her mum’s voice say. Little by little, the bird builds its nest. Although they didn’t have much time before their losses would be scarily outweighing their incomings, and their little birds would be plucked, roasted, and served up next to the Christmas sprouts.

Noémi climbed the stairs to her flat above the shop, her limbs feeling heavy. Though as she opened the door, she knew exactly how to lift her spirits while she settled for the evening with a cheese and cranberry sauce toastie. Fantasy Man.

Her home above the shop was another part of her sanctuary. She’d grown up inside these precious walls, each layer of paint and beloved piece of furniture meaning something. Though when her mum had moved, she’d added a few houseplants and colourful throws after one rude ex-boyfriend described the look as weird French granny-chic.

As for the prospect of more guys coming up here, she hadn’t had a boyfriend since some time before The Fall. Not that she’d ever had a successful long-term relationship before that. Daniel speculated that she was drawn to men who reminded her of characters from novels – and that never ended well.

No, men were better off staying in books. Or in writing of another form.

Noémi paused outside the bedroom that used to be her mother’s before she’d moved into the care home four years previously. Though Élisabeth was only in her seventies, she had dementia, and they’d made the heart-wrenching decision that it would be safer for her to have more specialized care. Noémi desperately wanted her mum to be properly looked after. And cherished. During her lucid moments, her mum seemed genuinely at peace at Happy Hedges. Though the eye-watering cost of such care was another reason that Noémi couldn’t keep ignoring the bookshop’s financial crisis.

Noémi tried to stop her chin from wobbling. If she went inside the room, she knew it would still smell of her mum – bookish, with a spritz of floral Givenchy L’Interdit. It spoke of elegance and hugs made of love. She couldn’t lose this.

Since Élisabeth had left, the room had amassed a few extras. Noémi’s discarded cookie-baking equipment, which had a sneaky way of toppling over and making clanging sounds whenever she went in there. She would get around to selling or donating it. Though what were anyone else’s rusty old dreams really worth? And a hefty wooden sign that still leant against the wall. Another dream under a dust sheet. It had been whimsical – perhaps even foolish. And she’d promptly let go of it when Asher had fallen, because who was she to chase silly big dreams when other people’s lives had imploded? Darling Asher. He’d been Daniel’s late husband, lost to a tragic clifftop accident two Christmases ago. More unequivocal proof that love was cruel and life was much safer right here – if only she could cling onto it.

She exhaled a long, shuddery breath and kept moving.

When she’d grabbed a cup of Christmas tea – ordered from her favourite French tea company, with accents of candied fruit and sweet brioche – as well as the slightly burnt toastie that didn’t do it justice, she moved to her bedroom.

Her huge, cosy bed had enough decorative cushions to set up her own bedding emporium, and the walls were lined with nearly as many bookshelves and twinkly lights as her shop. This was home. Would it still be hers next Christmas? She couldn’t bear the thought that it might not be. She moved aside the towering stack of books on her bedside table, from the latest Milly Johnson to her favourite festive Sophie Kinsella. The familiar names she couldn’t be without.

Books safely moved, she placed down her tray and then powered up her tablet screen. She didn’t love being online, but it had its uses. And without it, she wouldn’t have found Fantasy Man. She looked at the clock. Nearly 8 p.m. He was usually logged on from about now. They both were. And of all the possible people, she only spoke to him.

The chatroom app where they’d met was called Never the Twain – based on the saying ‘Never the twain shall meet.’ The point was that you could chat to or perhaps even flirt with someone – on the understanding you didn’t divulge any details about your identity or current life, nor ask to meet. For her, it was perfect. All of the fun and flirtation with none of the real-life worries.

Of course, Daniel warned it was creepy, and that Fantasy Man might be a ninety-year-old serial killer. She felt strongly that he wasn’t. If nothing else, it would be difficult to bump people off and dispose of their bodies if you were in your tenth decade. Noémi preferred to think of it more like that adorable pen-pal relationship in her favourite film, You’ve Got Mail. Except she was never going to meet her Tom Hanks – nor bicker with him over a copy of Pride and Prejudice while her mochaccino got cold. Life was undisputably simpler that way.

Noémi’s heart soared as she clicked onto the app and saw that Fantasy Man’s profile was active. He was there.

Noémi – or ‘Book Girl’ as she not so inventively called herself on the chatroom app – and Fantasy Man chatted most evenings. Due to the chatroom rules, there were no photos, and they hadn’t asked what the other looked like – though in her head he was handsome and mysterious. And she knew he was intelligent and bookish, with a love of poetry. He sometimes quoted lines. And they both grew up loving Swallows and Amazons – a series of novels about childish escapades and picnics and boats – which surely meant they had similar souls.

In fact, they had lots in common. They’d both once been fans of Sesame Street, with extra credit to The Bookworms, who were often forgotten in favour of Elmo or the other popular ones. And his favourite children’s book had been The Snowman – full of snow and imaginary friendships coming to life. Fantasy Man was a good person. And he was a lot of fun too.

Fantasy Man:

Book Girl, how was your day? Have you got a pot of that strange Christmas tea this evening? (Please tell me it doesn’t contain sprouts.)

Why did just seeing his profile name make her insides bounce with joy? They’d been talking to each other online for about a year, yet reading his words never got old. When they’d first met, he’d been in a chatroom for people local to their county – Noémi having been too shy to enter any of the bigger groups. They’d quickly broken off into a private chat for two, which is where they’d stayed. Soon after that he’d moved away, so he’d told her, though she didn’t know where to. She liked it that way.

Book Girl: