Page 2 of The Vanishing Bookstore
1
LONDON, PRESENT DAY
A cool breeze blew down the narrow, cobblestoned alley, making the fallen leaves dance themselves into a frenzy. The fading autumn sun reflected its burning orange glow in the shop windows before it faded from view. The chimes above the freshly painted, sugared-almond-pink shop door tinkled as the breeze rushed through the gap along with a handful of leaves.
Dora was leaning on the counter, her head resting in the palm of her hand. She had been contemplating what was missing from her life while staring blankly at the page of the latest issue ofRock and Roll Bridemagazine when the tall man walked into her shop. She looked up at him. He smelled the way a walk through the woods did, tinged with underlying tones of lemon, mint and grapefruit. Dora straightened, pushing the trimmed fresh lilies on the workbench in front of her to one side, along with the magazine. She paused and inhaled deeply, nodding in appreciation of just how good this stranger who had walked into Vintage Rose, her tiny flower shop, smelled. He watched her and she noted the look of mild confusion apparent in his eyes, so dark they reminded her of two pools of melted chocolate. Somewhere deep inside her soul she recognised those eyes, but she did not recognise the rest of his face. He was tanned andcleanshaven with slightly mussed brown hair that was a touch too long for the collar of the heavy white cotton shirt he was wearing.
She smiled at him. ‘Can I help you?’
‘I hope so, I’m looking for the owner of the shop.’
‘Why?’
Dora wasn’t usually so blunt, but she hadn’t had the best of months and she had barely made her rent.
‘Sorry, I mean, that’s me. How can I help you?’ She righted herself. His cheeks tinged with the tiniest of pink circles that were barely visible underneath his weathered tan. Dora had an excellent nose for all kinds of scents along with an uncanny ability to read people, and she regretted her bluntness – there was something sad and a little mysterious in the man’s eyes. She often read people without even trying, which her best friend, Katie Ryan, found infuriating, but that was who she was, and there wasn’t a thing she could do about it.
‘I was told to come here and speak to her about some funeral flowers.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry for your loss.’ That was what she had noticed, she thought. His grief.
Dora held out her hand, and the smallest jolt of electricity ran up the full length of her arm as their fingertips brushed against each other. She let go, lifting her fingers to tuck a stray strand of black hair that had escaped from her messy bun behind her ear.
‘I’m sorry about that, I’m Dora English. I can absolutely help you with anything you need.’
He looked around then nodded. ‘Good, that’s good. Thank you, Dora, I’m George Corwin. My girlfriend died rather suddenly, and I need some flowers for her funeral. A friend of mine told me I should come here and see you, so here I am.’ His voice caught a little as he spoke.
‘You poor thing, I’m sorry to hear that, George. Why don’t you take a seat and I’ll show you the book of floral tributes I’ve made in the past. That’s normally what people get for funerals.’
She looked around at the cluttered, cramped shop and rushed towards the small bistro chair that she’d rescued from the builders’ skip behind the alley a few months ago. It was now her display stand for the bucket of pastel-coloured roses that were very popular at the moment. As she lifted the bucket down, she caught her fingers on a sharp thorn and it tore at the soft skin of her fingertips, a thin red line appearing instantly.
‘Ouch.’
She almost dropped the bucket onto George’s toes. There wasn’t much room to manoeuvre, and she had to balance placing it on the floor with sucking her finger. George watched her with an amused look on his face and despite his sad situation she could see a glint of humour in his eye. She couldn’t decide whether she liked him or not, he looked devilishly dashing in his three-piece, navy tweed suit and he smelled divine, but she knew better than anyone that looking and smelling good didn’t count for anything once a person’s true personality shone through.
‘Please sit.’ The words were barked at him, like an order, but he didn’t flinch and obliged by doing exactly as she’d asked. Turning away from him, she went to the antique haberdashery drawers she’d found at the market one Sunday. She had bartered the seller down to a price she could afford when she knew she couldn’t leave them behind. They served as both her workspace and storage. Pulling out a drawer, she removed a black display book and passed it to him. He took it from her, smiling, and she turned away, not wanting to stand and watch over him, instead she returned to the large bouquet of flowers she had almost finished for her favourite customer’s birthday. As she snipped at the long stems, arranging the lilies, roses, eucalyptus and freesias, she ignored the flapping of the pages turning fast andwhispered, ‘Blue de Chanel’ – obviously a little louder than she’d realised because he looked up from the page he was staring at and turned his stare to her.
‘I beg your pardon?’
Now it was Dora’s turn to blush. ‘Oh, nothing, I was thinking out loud. Your aftershave is very familiar.’
‘My girlfriend bought it for me.’ He stopped talking, as his eyes cast downwards to the page in the book. She assumed this was so he could hide his tears. Dora decided that he was probably okay, he was sad and grieving so there was nothing to worry about.
‘She bought you the aftershave. How sweet that whenever you wear it, you’ll think of her and that way she’s always near to you in your memories. How lovely is that, I think scented memories are the most precious of all – they are stored forever and you will never lose them.’
He stood up and handed her the book. ‘Those aren’t quite what I had in mind.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. They’re the most popular funeral arrangements that I make but I can do a one-off custom order if you like? Is there anything she really loved?’
Shrugging, he fixed his gaze on the tiny pair of crescent moon diamond earrings she was wearing, a gift from her Aunt Lenny on her last birthday.
‘Expensive jewellery, designer handbags, champagne, shoes, that kind of thing.’
The smallest of sighs escaped Dora’s lips. ‘What about a handbag-shaped wreath or a champagne bottle?’ She smiled at him, realising just how crass and awful those suggestions were and felt her insides cringe.
‘She’s dead, I don’t think her parents would appreciate me having a huge, flowery tribute in the shape of a champagne bottle on her coffin. They might think I have something tocelebrate. Before you know it, I’ll be under investigation for murder.’
Dora knew it was going to happen, she tried her very best to stop it, but it erupted quite violently and the laughter that came from inside her belly echoed around the shop. She was equally mortified and stuck in a fit of highly inappropriate giggles. George was staring at her in horror, and she wished the floor would open and swallow her. Managing to compose herself, she whispered, ‘I’m so sorry, please forgive me.’
