The Secret Christmas Bookshop (The Secret Bookshop #1)

Chapter Thirty

I t was two days until Christmas, and Sophie was packing frantically, while the blue sky and sparkling sea mocked her from outside the window. They mocked everything that had happened the night before: the storm, her discovery, Harry’s explanation. It was as if none of it had happened, as if she had invented it all.

She grabbed her few treasured paperbacks off the bookshelf and put them in the box waiting at her feet – she always held on to a few flat-pack boxes – and her fingers grazed the cover of Jane Eyre . The tiny Christmas tree she’d bought when everything had been a lot more hopeful – with its battery-powered lights and its shiny red baubles – wavered slightly but didn’t fall from the shelf.

Sophie put the other books in the box, including the special edition of Beach Read by Emily Henry that had, up until a couple of months ago, been the most beautiful book she owned, and took Jane Eyre off the shelf.

She trailed her finger over the logo on the spine – Harry Anderly, not a little house after all – and imagined him working away in that hidden room, performing the same actions she did at her own workstation. Clifton barked from the sofa. He didn’t understand what was happening, why she was so upset. He didn’t realize he was going to have to find new pathways to get used to in a new place, that he wasn’t going to see Darkness, Terror or Felix again.

Sophie sat heavily on the sofa and opened Jane Eyre . She had nearly finished her reread, was almost at the point where Jane would find out the truth about Rochester and make her way back to him, confident that the love she’d never stopped feeling for him meant that they could start again. And yet, there were other, earlier parts of the book she couldn’t help returning to: That a greater fool than Jane Eyre had never breathed the breath of life, that a more fantastic idiot had never surfeited herself on sweet lies and swallowed poison as if it were nectar.

The doorbell rang, and Sophie’s immediate reaction was to put the book under the cushion. But there was no point, now. There was no mystery any more; no need for discretion. The bell rang again, and Sophie hurried down the stairs and opened the door.

‘The day before Christmas Eve is prime present-selling time.’ Fiona walked past Sophie and up the stairs without waiting for an invite. ‘You should know that.’

‘If that’s the case,’ Sophie said, following her up to her flat, ‘why are you here and not there?’

Fiona’s smile was sad. ‘Because I have Ermin. He and Poppet are at the shop anyway. The storm damaged the front door and the carpet is soaked.’

Sophie winced. ‘Is it fixable?’

‘Completely,’ Fiona said. ‘Most things are, if you put some effort in.’ Her gaze fell to the box on the floor. ‘Stand your ground and repair whatever is broken. Running away is rarely the best option.’

‘What if the problem is me, and the only way I can fix it is by leaving?’

‘Darling,’ Fiona said, surprising her with the endearment, ‘if you keep having to leave, then how can you possibly know it’s what you need? Isn’t it possible, probable even , that it isn’t the solution? That it’s time to try something different?’

Sophie didn’t know what to say to that, so she picked up Jane Eyre . ‘I know who it was. I’m sorry I accused you.’

Fiona just nodded.

‘Don’t you want to know who left it for me?’

‘I went to Mistingham Manor before I came here,’ Fiona said calmly. ‘I thought you’d have stayed there overnight, especially with the storm still raging.’

Sophie stared at the carpet. ‘I found his Secret Book Lair.’

Fiona sat on the sofa and lifted Clifton gently into her lap. ‘You know that there have been rumours about the Anderly family for as long as I can remember,’ she said. ‘There were rumours that Bernie was losing control of his finances, struggling to keep the manor and bookshop afloat, especially when Harriet got ill and he had to care for her too. Then he was a widower, and there were rumours that Harry and his sister Daisy were going off the rails, being entitled and badly behaved without anyone giving them proper guidance. The manor has always had a ghost – the bookshop too. And yet, everyone loved The Book Ends. It was a safe space in this village, and Bernie was the sweetest man – to his customers, at least. Then he got sick, and it was time to level all those rumours, those accusations, at the absent children. Daisy got off lightly, because Harry was the oldest. And when he got back … well, we didn’t hold off, did we?’

‘Why are you telling me this?’ It was painful, thinking about everything he’d been through; how much of it he’d kept to himself so as not to taint his father’s reputation in the village.

‘You’ve been the exception,’ Fiona said, ‘until now. You’ve seen him for who he really is, I think. But you’re telling me he’s got a Secret Book Lair?’

‘He built an annex to store all the books that were left in his dad’s bookshop after it shut down. He’s been rebinding them.’ She gestured to Jane Eyre .

‘I know all that now.’

‘He told you?’

‘May answered the door when I went to the manor.’ Fiona was watching her closely. ‘She feels awful. She had no idea that, when you’d discovered where the book came from, you’d be angry with Harry.’

‘He’s known for ten days, and he didn’t tell me.’

‘From what May said, you hadn’t really spoken to him about the book – not in great detail. He didn’t realize how much it mattered to you: how invested you were in it.’

‘I was though,’ Sophie said. ‘It’s … changed things.’

‘All Harry knew was that one of his books had ended up in your bag, and then he confronted May, and she told him what she’d done. And perhaps, Sophie, the reason you didn’t talk it through with Harry, that it became less of a pressing issue in his presence, was because he mattered more than a mysterious gift someone had given you.’

Sophie went into the kitchen and started pulling crockery out of the cupboard. ‘He didn’t tell me he’s been rebinding books – we have basically the same workspace. And May was trying to force us together. They both lied to me.’

‘May gave you a gift and did a bit of matchmaking, but hardly in a harmful way. Harry has a hobby he feels self-conscious about and, from what you’ve told me, has been nothing but a gentleman.’

‘It’s all got so complicated.’

‘Has it? Or have you realized that you care about these people, that you’re invested in the relationships, and it’s scary because now you have something to lose?’

Sophie looked at Fiona. Clifton had his head nestled under her chin, no problem with showing his affection. ‘I care about you . You and Ermin and Jazz. Of course I’ll miss you when I go, but it’s easier for everyone.’

‘I saw Harry too,’ Fiona said. ‘This morning, at the manor. He was moving books from the annex into his study. He looked like he was in a lot of pain.’

Sophie huffed out a breath. ‘He needs to get his shoulder checked by a doctor. Something fell on him at the festival, when the storm hit.’

Fiona nodded. ‘It wasn’t just physical pain.’

Sophie piled her crockery on the counter. ‘We’ve only known each other a couple of months, and we’re already arguing.’

Fiona laughed. ‘Sophie, all couples argue. It’s healthy, because it means you’re not holding any resentment or irritation inside. May told me Harry cares about you a great deal, that he thought you were abandoning your Cornwall plans. Jazz said you’d decided to stay here.’

‘Well, now I’m not. I’m driving down tomorrow.’

‘Do you have somewhere to go?’

‘There’s this hotel,’ Sophie told her. ‘It’s right on the cliffs, overlooking the sea.’ It was the only one she’d found that had a room at such short notice, and it was only because – the receptionist had told her – they’d had a cancellation. Two nights there wasn’t cheap, and she wasn’t holding out much hope that she could find a rental that quickly; she didn’t think letting agents would be eager to help her between Christmas and New Year. It was a terrible plan, but at least it was familiar, the muscle memory of packing, of choosing the route, had been soothing when she’d felt so off-kilter since last night.

‘Sophie,’ Fiona said, much more gently. ‘Why can’t you just talk to Harry? Talk to them both? Tell them why you’re upset, and let them explain. Give them a chance – give Mistingham a chance. Ermin and I don’t want you to go, and I’d bet the shop on us not being the only ones.’

‘It’s become such a tangle,’ Sophie said. ‘It’s too messy to sort through. If I leave now, I get a fresh slate.’

Fiona nodded. ‘Your life has been a procession of new front doors, beds and people, and you’ve struggled to find somewhere you think of as home. And I know that – when you have been comfortable – you’ve been let down.’

‘What do you mean?’ Sophie couldn’t stay still, so she put the kettle on, took two mugs out of the cluster on the counter and put teabags in them.

‘Mrs Fairweather, who gave you the notebook that started everything off, retired and couldn’t keep you.’

‘That’s just the nature of foster families.’

‘But you wanted her to choose you.’

Sophie got the milk out of the fridge. ‘She couldn’t do that. I knew that.’

‘And then Trent – who you loved, who you trusted – discarded you when you couldn’t live up to his standards.’

‘I couldn’t commit to him as much as he wanted me to, but he didn’t discard me.’

‘No?’ Fiona said quietly. ‘You’ve told me snippets here and there, and I know you better than you think. And Jazz hasn’t been shy about telling me what she’s been through, what it’s like to be on your own: how isolating it can be, how you cling onto any affection that comes your way, but can’t always trust it. You think May and Harry have broken your trust, and that’s the worst thing they could have done.’

Sophie squished the teabags against the sides of the mugs, then added milk and brought them over to the sofa. ‘Here you go.’

‘Thank you.’ Fiona took a sip. ‘Just take some time to think about it. I know your independence is important, but has what’s happened really put that in jeopardy? Think what you’ll lose by moving on.’

Sophie had done nothing but think about it since the night before, but every time she’d gone through it, the thing she’d come back to – her default position – was that it was better to start again. The first chapter of a new story; that crisp, white page in a notebook, with nothing hanging over her or weighing her down. Just her and Clifton and the green-blue of the Atlantic ahead of her.

She looked out at the deep, shimmering navy of the North Sea beyond her window. She thought of the runs she’d taken along the cliff path, the unbeatable views, and how, even in the summer when it was bursting with tourists, she could find pockets of quiet beauty and calm in Mistingham. She would never forget the evening she’d come across Harry fixing his fence, or that he’d been doing it for a tiny goat in a paisley jumper. Her heart squeezed.

‘Think about never seeing us again,’ Fiona said softly, ‘because I doubt that once you leave you’ll be paying us a visit.’

‘We can call each other.’

‘Of course. But what about Dexter – and Lucy, who calls you Aunty Sophie? What about the old sweet shop, the opportunity to have a proper place to run your business from? Will you go back to selling at fairs and markets, days in the cold, hauling everything out of your car boot, having to work in cafés and bars again?’

‘I did that for years until you let me have your concession stand.’

‘And here you could have a permanent shop, a proper studio to make new stock, build up your reputation and your customer base, increase your profits. People would know where you were, and they’d come back to you again and again.’

It was a tantalizing thought. It offered her more stability, less anxiety: the chance to live a life without the restlessness that had become a part of her. Could she leave that behind, instead of Mistingham?

‘You wouldn’t see Darkness or Terror again. You’d miss out on Felix’s jumpers.’

‘And his escapades,’ Sophie added.

She expected her friend to jump on her agreement, to push her point home, but instead the silence stretched between them, and the panic welled up inside her. This was what she did, she reminded herself. This was how she kept everything safe, didn’t get her heart stomped on again, like it had been with Mrs Fairweather, with Trent.

‘Think of never seeing Harry again,’ Fiona said into the quiet. ‘Think how much he means to you, and then imagine him disappearing from your life, without a backward glance.’

Sophie swallowed and rubbed at her throat, which felt thick with the urge to sob or scream. But he hadn’t told her about the book, even when he knew May had sent it: he had kept her secret, instead of revealing the truth to Sophie. How could she trust him after that?

Fiona put her mug on the coffee table and lowered Clifton gently to the floor. ‘Think about what it would do to you, if he was suddenly gone – after everything you’ve shared, all the ways you’ve let yourself care for him. Because that’s what you’re doing to him by leaving.’ She walked to the door. ‘Come by whenever you want to pack up your notebooks. We’re open late today.’

Fiona stepped through the door of Sophie’s flat, then closed it quietly behind her, leaving her alone with too many thoughts, and a plan that – far from being the simple escape she had always intended – was looking more and more complicated by the minute.