Page 59 of Book People

SEBASTIAN

I sit in my living room with the letters from Sebastian Blackwood the First scattered on my coffee table. I’m trying to make sense of them. They’re not dated, which is an issue, but it’s possible to work out a vague sort of timeline based on the content.

It’s very obvious that Kate –Miss Jones –was right about H passing them to C through books he lent her, with the notes hidden in the pages. And then C replying with her own note when she gave the book back.

What’s also obvious is that they’re love notes and that C was unavailable. However, it’s not clear who the man controlling her life was. A husband? Father? Someone else? He’s only referred to as ‘he’ in the notes.

I study them. Kate –Miss Jones –was also correct when she said there were some missing. That does seem to be thecase. There are notes that indicate they spent the night together, but afterwards they seem to peter out. One or two of the notes reference a reply that isn’t in the stack my great-grandfather left behind, so either some really are missing or the notes stopped.

I pick up the one that I think might be the last one. It’s from H, my great-grandfather.

You looked so pale today. There were shadows under your eyes. Are you well, darling C? Are you not sleeping? PerhapsAsh Wednesdaywill help. Not that it is boring! Far from it. There is some wonderful imagery in Eliot’s poetry that I think you will enjoy. I prefer it toThe Waste Land.

H

P.S. The shadow under your right eye looks more like a bruise, now that I think of it. What happened?

I stare at it, frowning. It’s clear he was worried about C, and now I’m wondering the same thing. What happened? There’s no answering note in the pile and none of the other notes seem to indicate anything was wrong.

A glass of scotch sits beside the notes on the table and I pick it up and take a sip, relishing the burn as it slides down. I’m parsimonious with my drinking because of Dad, and even though I probably shouldn’t be drinking anything at all, I enjoy testing myself on the odd occasion.

The way I’m going to test myself tomorrow when I take Kate –Miss Fucking Jones –to see Mrs Bennet.

I allowed us both a couple of days of space and, though I was surprised when she came charging into the bookshop today todeliver the news about Lisa Underwood, I was pleased with my response.

I was cool, calm. Lucy Coulter from Coulter’s First Real Estate didn’t know that inside me a Neanderthal was roaring to close the space between me andMiss Fucking Jones. Take her in my arms. Have her on the floor.

But, no, I continued to sell her the latest Martin Amis with nary a blink.

Only when she’d gone, when there was no one but me and Miss Jones, wearing a long, white, oversized linen shirt and leggings, her hair braided down her back, standing there, did I blink.

Of course, what I wanted was to rip that shirt apart and get my mouth on her skin, my hands on her breasts, and—

Well. I didn’t. Instead, I calmly agreed to help her find out more about her family, which means I passed that first test just fine.

Enough to know that tomorrow I’ll also be fine.

I take another sip of my scotch, shoving the memories of what happened between me and Miss Jones completely out of my head. It’s over, just as we both agreed it would be, and there is no need for me to think about it again.

The most important thing is now we can progress with the festival, since Lisa Underwood has confirmed.

I gaze at the love notes on the coffee table. Lisa obviously liked the idea of them, plus the mystery element must have appealed too. Actually, if I’m honest, the mystery element appeals to me as well.

I want to know who C was. I want to know why she and H didn’t end up together. This is my history and it’smygreat-grandfather, Sebastian. The one whom I relate to the most out of all the men in my family. He was the one who first opened Blackwood Books, way back in the thirties. Unfortunately, Idon’t know all that much about him, because my grandfather died when I was eighteen and I didn’t even think to ask him about his father. I wasn’t interested in our history back then. The only thing I was interested in was the bookshop.

The Blackwood men, though, are all flawed. They all have their obsessions, their addictions, and they all left behind them a legacy of heartbreak.

I don’t want to end up like them. My legacy will be Blackwood Books, and hopefully it’ll be going a long time, even in these difficult times. Because the one thing about books is that they never let you down. They never argue back. They offer solace and comfort, and knowledge and beauty. They offer an escape, even if it is only for a couple of hours.

They’re not as fickle as people, and if maybe some of them are flawed, too, you can put those ones down and pick up another. There’s always a new book and a new discovery within its pages.

Of all the Blackwoods, it feels as if my great-grandfather was the only one who felt that way about books. Until, it seems, he fell in love and wrecked himself in the process.

I was wrong about that, by the way. Regarding me.

Kate –Miss Jones –hasn’t wrecked me. I’m back at work and everything’s the same as it was, and, really, I don’t know why I was worried.

Her face flashes in my head, the way it lit up this morning as she told me about Lisa Underwood, her grey eyes full of that special sparkle. I smiled too, and for a moment we understood each other perfectly.

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