She holds open the front door in the vestibule insuch a way that it forces me to step through the shop door rather than the door to the house.
‘Surprise!’ everybody yells, pulling party poppers and raising glasses of champagne.
‘What the—?’ I stop myself swearing, stunned by how many people are in the shop, every face someone I know or love. Joe, having moved up from Birmingham to work for us, is behind the counter wearing a party hat, pretending to type on Mum’s old word processor. Behind him, an old blackboard, chalk-full of upcoming events including one with Marleen, sits on the wall.
‘You said you wanted a Carly Finds Herself party for your birthday . . .’ Jude smiles, and I hit her playfully on the arm before giving her a bear hug. ‘It doesn’t get more found than your bookshop launch party.’
‘Who did all this?’ I ask.
‘Who do you think?’ Jude says, and she points to Flynn, appearing through the throng of people from the back of the shop, looking devastatingly handsome in a pair of jeans and simple grey sweatshirt.
‘I should have known,’ I smile, unsurprised that he’s managed to arrange a party on top of everything else we’ve been doing to have the shop open for the summer. I bring my hands to his stubbled face and kiss him to great cheers of delight.
‘Happy birthday,’ he grins, his eyes sparkling. He takes me by the hand and steers me away from Jude and Adam, through the freshly painted front of the shop where new shelves full of the latest titles sit on beautifully varnished floorboards – Daisy having worked her design magic.
‘Happy birthday, Carly,’ say various friends and customers. Grant, fresh off the train, blows a noise-maker in my direction.
Flynn guides me through to the back of the shop, past the daybed we’ve added, and on to where the French windows have been cleared of shelves, lovingly restored, and are now sitting open, drawing us through to the spiral staircase that descends into the garden below.
‘What is all this?’ I ask, when I see tables laden with food, drink and gifts.
‘Just a few of the things you love,’ he answers casually, gesturing to a table full of patisserie and croque monsieurs and where Daisy is pouring hot chocolate with spoonfuls of Chantilly cream.
‘It’s too much,’ I say, thrilled to bits. All the fineries of Paris can’t compete with this.
‘Nothing is too much for you,’ he says.
From the corner of my eye, I see Daisy winking exaggeratedly and mouthing,I told you he was hot!
He takes me to the table laid out with gifts, where a huge bottle of expensive-looking champagne sits waiting to be opened. ‘From Chris Rose,’ Flynn explains. ‘A sort of apology, I think. He’s offered to kick off our book talk series.’
‘Wow, that’s cool,’ I say, knowing just how lucrative a visit from Christopher Rose might be.
‘And Ginny sends her love. She wanted to be here in person, but she’s working remotely, currently from Bora Bora.’
‘Mum will be happy to hear she’s managed to makeher dream a reality too,’ I say, thinking that three months ago I might have been a smidge envious, but knowing now with certainty that I’m right where I belong.
He turns me in the direction of Bill’s old potting shed, now free of ivy and freshly painted.
‘What’s going on?’ I ask, as Flynn puts his hands over my eyes and guides me over.
‘Open your eyes,’ he says when we’re inside the shed, which smells invitingly of fresh paint, old books and candles.
Flynn takes away his hands to reveal the shed lined with second-hand books, an old table and chairs set in the centre on an antique rug. On the shelves are pieces of Bill’s pottery, and small samples of Elsa’s tapestries, and artworks by Grandma and Grandad, and Mum.
‘Elsa thought it should be used as a library and event space, give it a new source of life,’ he says, and I well up again.
‘It’s perfect,’ I say, imagining workshops, author talks, book clubs, maybe even a therapy space for Elsa.
‘And look,’ he says, drawing me over to the back wall.
There in the centre of the middle shelf isThe Hunchback of Notre-Damewith all of the tokens – the postcard, the ticket, the bookmark – jutting out of the pages.
‘Your mum thought we should have it, as a memento of us meeting thirty years after she and Dad met.’
‘It proved to be quite the catalyst,’ I say, touching its worn cover, glad that Mum and Dad are back on track because of it.
My phone rings, pulling me out of my musing. ‘It’s Mum.’
