Page 57 of The Bookshop By the Loch

Two potted fir trees sat in fat ceramic tubs either side of the residential home entrance. A long hallway, carpeted in royal blue, snaked down, with heavy ornate wood-panelled doors feeding off from it left and right. I guessed that that must be where the residents’ rooms were.

Some of the doors were ajar, revealing crisply made-up beds, dressers and small television sets. To the left, was a reception desk, where the three of us signed in.

The hallway was bright and inviting, with pale gold-painted walls and bold black and white photographs of Bracken Way as it was years ago.

A vase of vanilla lilies cast their heady perfume from where they sat on a nearby coffee table. There was the faint clatter of tea cups and the squeak of a trolley.

I could smell freshly baked scones and tangy strawberry jam and made a comment to Maeve about the delicious smells!

She glanced down at her watch. “Ah yes. They’ll be clearing away afternoon tea. My mum’s room is up here on the right.”

We smiled back at a couple of elderly residents, before reaching Maeve’s mother’s room.

The door was closed. On it, was a white China plaque, decorated with apricot roses and her name, Celeste Matthews, was painted across it in italic script.

Maeve rapped on the door. “Mum, it’s me. Are you decent? I’ve Lexie and Tobias with me, like I told you earlier.”

“I’ve never been decent in eighty years,” came the indignant reply. “Come in, my darling.”

Maeve rolled her eyes at both of us, before she clicked open the door and stepped in. We followed suit.

And as with Tobias’s car, Celeste’s accommodation was another surprise I was about to receive today.

Instead of what I’d imagined of a floral bedspread, delicate ornaments and traces of Lily of the Valley, Celeste’s room was the total antithesis of that.

Ahead of us, was a white and gold dressing table, on top of which sat a square mirror, studded with lightbulbs all the way round it, like something a Hollywood starlet would admire her reflection in. Draped over the top of the mirror, was a selection of floaty chiffon scarves.

Her wardrobe door was open adjacent to that, giving a tantalising glimpse of sparkly dresses, court shoes and spiky kitten heels resting in open shoe boxes at the bottom.

Several odd sleeves of what looked like embroidered jackets poked out.

In the centre of the room was the bed, topped with pastel scatter cushions and sitting there a few feet away in a wheelchair, wearing a coral dress and matching cardigan, was Celeste. Her hair was a crisp cloud of white, like a halo, framing her enquiring face.

She possessed dark eyes like her daughter. Riven lines gathered around her mouth, but her cheekbones were still high and proud and her forehead was surprisingly smooth.

Maeve bustled over to her mother, delivered a fond kiss on her cheek, before introducing us again.

Celeste observed Tobias as he closed her room door behind him and the three of us pulled up chairs which were already in situ and which one of the carers must have fetched, in preparation for our arrival.

Celeste reached out one elegant hand to her daughter and gave it an affectionate squeeze. “So, I take it my lovely daughter has told you both that I’m going to croak soon?”

“Mum! For pity’s sake.”

Celeste let out a raspy laugh at Maeve’s appalled expression. “Well, it’s true, so why beat about the bush?” She sat back against her cushions, her hooded gaze appraising us in turn. “So, this is the young man who’s going to paint my portrait, is that correct?”

“Yes, madam. I am.”

Celeste pulled a mock horrified face. “Please stop with the formalities. I know I’m a great deal older than you but I don’t need reminding of it. Please call me Celeste.” Her gaze shone. “Having my portrait painted by such a handsome fiend is going to be no hardship.” She sighed. “If only I were fifty years younger, I’d be chasing after you.”

Tobias grinned. “If you were fifty years younger, I wouldn’t be running away.”

Celeste winked at him playfully. “Handsome and charming. A lethal combination, wouldn’t you say, young lady?”

I realised Celeste was addressing me. Colour crept up my neck.

Beside Celeste, Maeve was shaking her head in exasperation at her mother. “Eighty going on twenty, or at least she thinks she is.”

Celeste gave me a warm smile. “And you must be Lexie, the young lady who’s going to take a look at my car crash of a novel.”