An Unexpected Kind of Love (When Snow Falls) Page 5

  “These are beautiful.” She gently touches a peony, then leans in to sniff, her dark ponytail hanging over her shoulder as she does. Today, she’s in a blue dress slightly darker than the cornflowers. She turns to me, hands on her hips, and gives me a broad grin. “Now you gotta spill everything.”

  My glower is intimidatingly ferocious, I’m sure of it.

  “They’re not from Eli, are they?”

  I give her a wry look before doing my best to go back to looking fierce. Which, unfortunately for me, is about as convincing as being a vicious golden retriever. I’m also the furthest thing from an actor that there could possibly be, and I wear everything on my face, whether I like it or not. “I’m not answering that.”

  I don’t know if it’s a good thing or a bad thing that she thinks they would be from Eli rather than someone new. I mean, I’m nothing if not predictable in my newfound curmudgeon lifestyle. But still.

  “Well, someone obviously likes you. A lot. God, how romantic. I wish someone would send me flowers like that.” Gemma sighs dreamily, gazing at the arrangement.

  “I’m fairly certain there’s some books in urgent need of stocking—”

  And then comes the second unwelcome interruption of the morning. A woman wearing a baseball cap enters, accompanied by a man who carries a camera and measuring tape. They both wear black lanyards with some sort of identification hanging down. There’s a determined air about them.

  Of course my scowl returns instantly and whatever this is, I don’t like it already. They don’t pause to look at any books. Rather, they’re making sweeping looks, sizing up the shop in a way I don’t care for.

  “Hi,” says Gemma brightly, straightening from another sniff of the arrangement. “How can I help?”

  “We’re here to start work,” says the woman, checking her clipboard. Already, the man starts taking measurements of the doorframe. “Sorry we’re late. We were held up on set. Hope you don’t mind.”

  Gemma smiles. “Not at all. Aubrey would be happy to help you out.”

  And then she disappears into the depths of the shop.

  I miss the flower courier already. Whatever this is, it already promises to be highly irritating. “You people already bought all of my green books. I’m fresh out.”

  The woman chuckles. “I’m Alice Rutherford. Sorry to miss you the other day.” She extends a hand.

  I grit my teeth. The location scout. Right. “I didn’t agree to anything.”

  She blinks, going back to her form and showing me. “There’s a signed consent form to use Barnes Books as a location. It’s perfect. Absolutely charming. We’ll need to make a few changes for filming, of course, and compensate you for the inconvenience—”

  “What signed consent form?”

  “This consent form? The one you signed?” She shows me a piece of paper that looks worse for wear and taps on a signature.

  “I’ve signed nothing. I’m the owner.”

  “Aubrey Barnes?”

  “That’s me. I didn’t agree to this.”

  “It looks like you have. This was delivered to me this morning.”

  We both consider the form in awkward silence. It’s the crumpled paper from my study. It’s been smoothed out, but the creases are still there. And that scrawl could only be Gemma’s signature. The first and only legible letter is a G.

  A headache creeps around my skull, pressing like a vise. I rub my eyes wearily. The signature’s still there when I look again. “It’s a mistake. That’s not my signature.” I fish my wallet out of my pocket, pulling out my ID. I drop it onto the clipboard and point to the signature. “Look. Does that look the same? I’m the owner. No one else signs for me.”

  She makes an unhappy sound. “I’m willing to have you sign a fresh contract—”

  “I didn’t agree to this in the first place!”

  “Mr. Barnes, we’re offering a generous fee. We’ve all fallen in love with the charm of this bookshop. The corporate shops don’t have the same feel. It’s so perfectly old-fashioned in here.”

  She likes my shop? Against my better judgment, curiosity is winning. I struggle. “What…are you filming?”

  Alice Rutherford’s face lights up, like she had been waiting hopefully for this moment for a long time, and I’ve finally done her the courtesy of asking. “A rom-com.”

  “Oh God. Couldn’t it be a thriller or space film or something?”

  “It’s very clearly and unmistakably a romantic comedy. Please, consider our offer. I’ll give you twenty-four hours to read over the contract. If you don’t mind, could we take some photographs and measurements today?”

  “I don’t like romantic comedies,” I blurt, my face warm. Talk about triggering. The flowers must be some sort of setup, then. To secure the location. That must be it. It makes more sense than Blake Sinclair actually liking me—or my blowjob—enough to send flowers.

  Mortified, I wilt.

  “We’ll compensate you. How does five thousand a day sound? It’s more than fair.” She hands me an unsigned contract. “It’ll be brilliant publicity for you,” she assures me. “Please think about it. Give me your answer tomorrow morning.”

  “Fine,” I say grudgingly. That is a lot of money.

  If only I could disappear upstairs and delete Monday morning. And Saturday, for the record. Obviously no good comes from chance encounters with film stars, no matter how C-list.

  My phone chimes then.

  “Excuse me.” I turn and head into the kitchen, grateful for the excuse to get away from everything.

  I turn on the kettle for tea, gripping the edge of the counter for a moment while I force myself to take a deep breath. Then, I take a look at my phone.

  It’s Lily.

  Back home again in the Big Smoke after my Grand Tour. Drinks tonight? Lxx

  I text back immediately.

  Are you free now? Crisis. Axx

  In short order, we assemble at our usual, a pub that could legitimately be described as charming, about a ten-minute walk from the shop. Mercifully, it’s in the opposite direction of the filming nonsense. Despite the melt of the afternoon, the pub is pleasingly dark and cave-like. Unlike the Victorian building and its traditional decor, the pub itself has very modern air-con that packs a wallop. It’s one of those places that fancies itself as a gastropub, meaning a decent food menu and a tendency toward craft beer—and, unfortunately, the occasional unironic hipster. The location’s ideal for us, and the pints are well priced, so here we are.

  I sag with relief to be away from all of it. No film trailers, no flowers, no books. No Blake Sinclair and no Gemma.

  And there already in a corner perched on a barstool with a drink is Lily, all chic elegance in her cream summer dress with black geometric designs, platform sandals, long blond hair, and cobalt-blue glasses. We met three years ago when she came into Barnes Books looking for art books to help her with background research for an exhibition and very quickly became friends.

  I go over immediately, pre-pint, to give her a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

  “God, it’s good to see you.” I sag into the hug for a moment longer than usual. She wears a soft floral perfume.

  “You’re worrying me. Is it your mum?” Lily frowns, squeezing my arm.

  Trust Lily for some much-needed perspective.

  “No, thank God.” I give her a wry smile. “It’s not Mum.”

  ‘“Is she okay with the heat?”

  “She’s fine. Everyone’s fine,” I say.

  “You said there’s a crisis.”

  “Well, there is. Maybe it’s a middling sort of crisis, but I will need alcohol to face it. Very unhealthy, I know. But you also know I’m maladapted to life by now.”

  She waves me off, sipping her cocktail. “Go on, you misanthrope.”

  Despite everything, I laugh.
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  Before long, I return to Lily with two packets of crisps in my hand and a pint of ale in the other. I sit down with a sigh of relief. “I figure I could at least order appetizers. For your trouble.”

  Lily grins. “Trust you to provide. I’m starting to think this is a made-up crisis.”

  I shrug a shoulder, words caught in my throat. Even with Lily, it’s taking me a little while to work up the courage to put the last few days into words. “How was Europe?”

  She waves a hand airily. “Oh, you know. The usual ruins and crush of humanity. Old world charm. Bedlam in the airports.”

  Smiling, I already feel cheered for her company. “I’ve lost track of you lately. I knew about the conference in Rome…”

  “Mm, Rome.” She bobs her head. “Then Prague, Spain, and home again today. I just went to my flat long enough to make sure it was still standing and to drop my bags before texting you.”

  “Sorry. You must be exhausted. I should have let you rest…”

  Lily shakes her head. “When was the last time you texted me with a crisis? Work can wait. I’ve been on the road for ages. The rest will still be there later.”

  “How was the art?”

  “Lovely.”

  “How were the artists?”

  “Even lovelier. Shame the ones I met were either married or straight or seventy-five years old.” Lily gives me a rueful smile, stirring the ice in her glass with one of those eco-friendly metal straws.

  “Lil, even seniors need love.”

  “Not that sort of love. Not from me at twenty-five from someone old enough to be one of my grandparents.”

  “So, no luck, then.”

  “Not entirely. There was a woman in Spain…” She grins broadly. “She made the work week in Andalusia all the better. Good thing I have another exhibition-planning trip in few weeks’ time.” She raps the dark-stained oak bar with her knuckles. “Now you have to quit stalling and tell me about the crisis. Or no more intel about my Spanish lover. You’re cut off.”

  Groaning, I rub my face with my hands. “It’s going to sound terribly daft. Which is fair, because it is terribly daft.”

  She perks up, leaning in. “It’s not about Eli, is it?”

  “It’s not about Eli,” I acknowledge while opening up the packet of crisps for us to snack on. “Yay personal growth?”

  “Start at the beginning,” she prompts, intrigue across her face.

  Frowning, I try to think back to the beginning and realize only three days have passed, but it feels like an eternity that’s aged me. “I guess it was Saturday. Just passed.”

  “Right.” Lily waits patiently.

  “First clue something was off was that the shop was very busy.”

  “That’s brilliant, Aubrey.” She hears my worries about the shop on a regular basis.

  “Really not. Lately, some wanker keeps misfiling books throughout the shop and I was busy sorting that mess. Then, someone bought a stack of books—as props.” I can’t help a shudder. “After that, another customer insisted on a cash refund on a poetry book because the author was an arse on social media.” I sigh with the memory of it all. And, admittedly, the memory of Blake’s very blue eyes intent on mine as he handed over the poetry book, full of enviable easy confidence. And then I think of his social media, and the shirtless photo of him on display like a peacock on Instagram. And that grin that’s probably been the ruin of a thousand men, with me his latest victim. Shameless. Flushing, I gulp down a mouthful of ale.

  Lily leans in as she studies me. “And?”

  “What?”

  “We haven’t got to the crisis part yet. I know disrespecting books gets under your skin but even you wouldn’t go so far to call it a crisis.”

  I bite into a crisp. The crunch is very satisfying. “Mm, maybe. You’ve got a higher opinion of my limits than I do.”

  “Cute. Go on.”

  I study the crisps, then fidget with my beer mat. “You asked for this.” I groan. “Right, so. I ran into the poetry wanker again on Saturday. Nearly collided outside the café by the bookshop.” I spill everything: the filming chaos, the request to use Barnes Books as a location. “And—and, well, long story short…I go to their set to tell them to stuff it with their film location and instead run into this poetry wanker again in what turns out to be his film trailer, because apparently he’s some sort of actor…”

  “Who?” she demands, eyes lighting up with unreserved glee.

  I glance around. We’ve our own corner of the pub in the quiet of the day. No one’s nearby. A couple of people sit at the bar. We have the section at the back to ourselves. I lower my voice to a conspiratorial whisper, not that I’m booming at the best of times.

  “Blake Sinclair, actually. And then… I can’t explain it.”

  “Try,” Lily encourages.

  “Well…then I gave him a blow job.” I cough in a last-ditch desperate effort to save face, because obviously my mouth can’t be trusted with either words or proximity to Blake Sinclair. “As one does.”

  My face is on fire as Lily stares, abruptly lowering her drink with a thump and a dangerous slosh.

  There’s a long silence.

  At last, she lets out a long whistle.

  “Say something. Anything.” I beg before I hide my face in my hands. “It sounds like a pack of lies, doesn’t it?”

  “If it was anyone else, I’d say they were full of shit, but it’s you.”

  Flustered, I might die now, literally die, of embarrassment in the cool pub. That would be good because it would put an end to this story. A sinking feeling strikes. I’ve overshared. “That’s not what you meant, is it?”

  “Not…exactly.” Lily continues to stare, brown eyes wide. “Shit. Blake Sinclair’s hot. And…not gay, I thought? I’ve only seen a couple of photos of him online, but he’s usually with a woman?”

  “I haven’t the faintest clue who he is, to be honest. Apparently, he’s not famous like Timothée Chalamet or Hugh Grant, who are probably the only two actors that I know of.”

  “Blake Sinclair’s up and coming in Hollywood. Don’t you ever pay attention to films? Or tabloids?”

  “No. I run a bookshop, remember? I’m a film-free zone.”

  “I walked into that one.”

  “It gets worse, don’t worry.”

  “Oh?” Lily gives me a wary look. “How does it get worse?”

  “I, er, ran away. After we… I bolted. I’ve obviously lost it, Lil. Shit like this doesn’t happen to me. I mean…” Shrugging helplessly, I don’t even know what I’m trying to articulate. “Then—then a bouquet of flowers arrived for me, immediately followed by the arrival of an uninvited film crew ready to start ripping my shop apart, because Gemma signed the filming consent form without permission. You texted right about the time I was ready to run screaming murder down the street. You know that saying about mad dogs and Englishmen in the midday sun and all of that. Oh God, what is even happening with my life anymore?” I moan into my hands. “Hide me in your museum. Somewhere in the back. With the old, dusty things.”

  “I need a moment to process all of this. I’m getting the next round,” Lily declares, neatly sliding off her stool and going up to the bar.

  Meanwhile, I try to rally, compulsively eating crisps.

  What if Blake Sinclair actually sent those flowers? Not as a trick. What if he actually meant what he said in the card?

  Impossible.

  Things like that don’t happen to me. I mean, I don’t sleep with actors, strange or familiar ones. Not that I know of any familiar ones. Perhaps this is all a prolonged state of heat exhaustion, which is definitely a risk this week in London. Maybe I should seek refuge in a cooling center. Or Antarctica.

  When Lily returns, I’ve attempted to talk myself down from the ledge, with mixed results. She places a fresh pint in
front of me and sets down her cocktail before resuming her seat. She contemplates me, bemused. “I’ve ordered some food, because I have serious doubts you’ve eaten anything all day with the way you’ve gone after those crisps.”

  Blinking, I look down at the flayed foil packets, where I was trying to pick up the crumbs. “Sorry for the brain dump and overshare. And thanks for listening. And sorry again.”

  “There’s nothing to apologize for. Though, for the record, I would believe you at this point if there had been a murder in the shop. Are they filming one?”

  “No. It’s a romantic comedy, they say. And there’s to be no filming in my shop. The finale is that the location scout’s given me twenty-four hours to reconsider their offer.”

  “Offer?” Lily looks at me, curious. She tucks a long lock behind her ear, red earrings dangling.

  I sigh. “They think the shop is perfectly charming and they want to offer five thousand pounds per day for the location.”

  Her eyebrows shoot up. “How many days?”

  “Haven’t the faintest idea. It’s impossible. And—if there’s filming, that means I’d have to see him again. Blake Sinclair.” My mouth goes dry at the thought. As if there’s another him we’re talking about right now.

  If the man sent me flowers today, does that mean he’s thinking of me? Me. A nobody. Just one of eight million people living a perfectly ordinary life in London as perfectly ordinary Aubrey Barnes.

  Except for last Saturday, where I quite literally lost the plot.

  “Say yes,” says Lily immediately.

  “What?”

  “You heard me.” She tilts her head. “Say yes to the filming offer. Purely from a business sense, even one day is more than you take in a week.”

  I make an unhappy sound and gulp more ale.

  “And then you can also find out more about Blake Sinclair. Wouldn’t that be a good thing?”

  “Oh no. He’s an illusion and I’m just me. We haven’t the faintest clue about each other. What on earth would he see in me?”

  “Even a no-strings fling would be brilliant, don’t you think?” Lily considers me, tapping her finger against her lips. “But do you want to know what I think?”