Page 10 of Book People

Most certainly not Sebastian Blackwood.

The mini-festival I planned in a frenzy the day I found out about his was petty, I know, and he’s probably right: I probably can’t plan a festival in a few weeks. But I’ll be damned if I don’t try.

I’ve already got a little social calendar of things I do with the shop. The romance book club. Tarot night. Yoga mornings. Role-playing weekends. Board-game Fridays. The bi-monthly Jack Reacher discussions.

The events were initially meant to attract more customers and get the word out there about Portable Magic, and they’ve proved very popular. It’s really going to come in handy now, because I can tell people to tell their people and those people to tell theirs about my mini-festival.

It may not compare with Sebastian’s in terms of attracting out-of-towners, but I bet we’ll have more fun. And judging from my Cosplay Day attendance, there are plenty who’d like to come.

Also.Myevents will be free.

I let out a breath and go over to the sofa, sit down and switch on myTV, channel-surfing for some distraction.

The flat wasn’t furnished when I arrived, and, since I didn’t have the money for brand-new stuff, I had to get second-hand. Yet while most of the furniture is old and run-down, it’s still perfectly serviceable.

I like the shabby-chic vibe. I’ve covered the old moth-eaten velvet sofa and the worn leather armchair by the window with a couple of pretty throws. A scarf thrown over the ugly shade of the lamp on a side table beside the sofa makes it shed a more muted and softer pink light. A couple of rag rugs I found in Mrs Bennet’s craft shop beside the post office cover up the worst of the spots on the cream carpet.

It’s cheerful and pretty, and I love being here.

Right now, though, staring at my cheerful, pretty room and scrolling through the nothing that’s onTV, I’m aware that grief is lurking in the corners of the room. It’s followed me from London and it’s waiting in the shadows, and I don’t want it. Not tonight. Not after Sebastian Blackwood made me feel so restless and off balance.

I need to get out, go and be somewhere else, be with people.

A village can be insular if you’re a newcomer, and while people here are friendly enough, it’s also clear that I’m an outsider. It doesn’t matter that my mother was from here; I haven’t lived here and thus I’m not a local.

I’d always planned to do a bit of digging into my family’s history, find out why my mother never spoke of home and never wanted me to either. Learn about my roots.

I’ve heard a lot of talk about Rose Jones and what a difficult woman she was, but I haven’t bothered to discover why and how, and exactly what kind of difficult she was. Maybe I’m afraid to.

I can’t let fear stop me, though. Fear bled all the colour from my life back in London, and I swore I wasn’t going to let it rule me again. So, yes, I should stop putting off investigating my family history, and I should look at what kind of business Blackwood Books is too, see if it really is the historical icon Sebastian told me it was.

Of course, to do that, I need to find people to talk to and the quickest way to find them is to head to the heart of any village: the pub.

I like wearing pretty things and I feel a bit plain in my current T-shirt and jeans. So I change into one of my favourite dresses, which is white and lacy and flowy. I wrap a wide belt around my hips and leave my hair free. I like to think the vibe is very Stevie Nicks. Either that or like I should have a garland on my head in preparation for leaping over a Beltane fire in the middle of Stonehenge.

Jasper preferred a more polished, corporate look, and he told me so often enough. But since I left London, the one thing I’mnotdoing is polished or corporate.

Grabbing my coat and my keys, I go downstairs and step out into the evening twilight.

The Wychtree Arms is smack in the middle of the village, where all the roads meet in a small, cobbled square. It’s your classic historic British pub, with low beams, a smoke-stained ceiling, a giant fireplace and a big oak bar. There are little nooks and crannies everywhere for people to sit in, and apparently in the summer it heaves with tourists.

Tonight, though, in that weird space between the end of spring and the beginning of summer, when the weather can’tdecide if it’s hot or cold so chooses to be rainy and damp instead, there are only locals in here.

Gerry, who owns the butcher’s shop and who’s been fighting the construction of a giant Tesco on the outskirts of town, is locked in deep conversation with Molly and Lindsey, who own the bakery.

Claire, who works at the post office, is having dinner and a drink with her husband, John, an accountant.

Leonard and his cronies from Len’s Quality Construction are being loud with their pints in a corner.

I spot Aisling, who has just taken over the café and is trying to introduce ‘plant-based delicacies’ to unimpressed villagers who only want a giant scone and some clotted cream, and maybe a sausage roll, with their tea. She’s the one friend I’ve managed to make here and she’s lovely. But she’s married and has a small toddler, and she too is having a quiet drink with her husband, Ben, so I don’t bother them. If it’s date night and they have a babysitter, they won’t want me barging into their quiet time.

I take another survey of the pub, and that’s when I see him in the snug next to the fireplace. Sebastian Blackwood, grimly reading a book.

He does everything grimly, I think, as I stare, which is a shame, especially when it comes to reading. No one should ever read a book grimly. Yet grim is the only word that springs to mind when I look at him, the carved lines of his face set, his black brows drawn down, his mouth in a line.

He’s wearing a dark-blue casual shirt and his usual black trousers, and he gives the impression of splendid isolation, his looks making him appear even more so somehow. Yet, as if defying that isolation and all that grimness, there are his absurd little hipster glasses perched on the end of his very fine nose: a tiny flaw, a sign of his humanity.

It’s endearing, which is an odd thing to think about a man so cold and rigid.

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