As she tramped down the hill towards the village, it struck Roxanne that this was happening too often, this finding herself out in the rain, improperly dressed, as if she had missed one of the fundamental lessons of being a grown-up (i.e., the one entitled Always Take a Coat). But the night of Sean’s party hadn’t been anything like this. London rain rarely was; in fact, she couldn’t remember a downpour this heavy, this wetting, in years. Within seconds she was drenched, with no hope of shelter and no alternative but to hurry back to Della’s with Stanley trotting along beside her, rather sulkily, it seemed to Roxanne.
‘I’m in for a right old lecture,’ she told him gravely, ‘for not wearing the red wellies.’ She looked down at him. Her first day here and already she was talking to a terrier. Actually, that didn’t seem so bad. At home, in the absence of pets, she had sometimes found herself chatting to that stolen cactus.
‘Oh dear, looks like you’ve been caught out!’ a voice called out to her. Roxanne glanced round to see a figure almost entirely shrouded in a padded moss green jacket, their face hidden deep inside the funnel of an enormous hood, stomping out of the woodland towards her. An ancient chocolate Labrador lumbered along at their side.
‘Yes, I sort of misjudged it a bit,’ Roxanne replied, something of an understatement as her hair was plastered to her head and rivulets were running down her cheeks. It was even raining into her eyes, requiring an awful lot of dabbing with her wet cardigan sleeve, as if she were crying.
‘I heard you were coming, Roxanne. Lovely to see you back here.’
Pushing her hair from her face, Roxanne realised it was Irene Bagshott, a hardy woman who was still referred to around Burley Bridge as ‘the postmistress’. Normally Roxanne would be happy to stop and chat, but right now, with her freezing, sock-less feet slithering in her silver leather ballet flats, she was just desperate to hurry back to Della’s. ‘Thanks,’ she murmured. ‘It’s lovely to be here.’
‘Not right now, though, eh?’ Irene boomed. ‘Imagine, coming out in this weather without a coat! What were you thinking?’
Roxanne forced a joyless smile as they started to make their way back down the path together. ‘Yes, I know. Aren’t I an idiot? They shouldn’t let me out!’
Irene guffawed. ‘Not used to our weather, are you?’ she added, as if Roxanne were more accustomed to Caribbean climes. ‘You’ve been down south too long, going to all your parties …’
Roxanne laughed tightly as Sean’s party flashed into her mind. Bad dancing, drunkenness and belly-bloating rice: what a success that had been.
‘Very exciting about the bookshop, isn’t it?’ Irene went on. ‘The expansion plans, I mean. Della was ever so brave buying that clapped-out old place next door.’
‘Yes, and she’s already done amazing things with the shop. It’s looking fantastic.’
Irene wiped a droplet of rain from the tip of her own nose. ‘You’ll be working with her, I’d imagine? Getting the paintbrushes out and mucking in? Rolling up your sleeves?’
Roxanne prickled, wondering if that might be a sneaky reference to the fact that she had hardly been on hand when Kitty, their mother, was sick with cancer. ‘If I’m allowed to,’ she replied, keeping her tone light. ‘I’m not sure Della trusts me, to be honest.’
She nodded. ‘I suppose it’s her baby and she’s very proud of it.’
‘Yes, quite rightly so.’
Irene was staring pointedly at Roxanne’s bare, muddied legs. ‘You’ll remember to wear trousers next time?’
‘I’ll try my best, Irene,’ Roxanne replied with forced jollity.
As they trudged on, Roxanne started to wonder if she had craved a life in London not due to a love of fashion after all – but because everywhere was properly paved and didn’t become impossibly slippy at the first drop of rain. Funny how she was capable of pulling together a fashion shoot with a budget of thousands, booking the photographer, models, hair, make-up and being involved in every aspect from finding the perfect location to the choosing of earrings (readers of her magazine didn’t realise it, but every shoot required hundreds of decisions to be made). Yet here she was, in the midst of a colossal fashion malfunction, drenched right through to her underwear.
Perhaps it had been a rash move to come here; an overreaction to Tina’s appointment. Now she feared she had landed in totally the wrong habitat.
Irene was studying Roxanne’s sodden ballet flats as they made their way down the marshy path. ‘Can’t see them recovering, Roxanne,’ she remarked.
‘Oh, I’m sure a quick wipe down and they’ll be fine.’ And if they’re not, I’ll no doubt appear in the Heathfield Gazette: Fashion director’s inappropriately chosen silver leather pumps RUINED!
At the foot of the hill, as they parted company, Roxanne tried to figure out how to sneak up to Della’s flat with minimal interaction with anyone else. The best-case scenario was that Della would be still fully occupied in the shop, even though it would have closed. That way, Roxanne could nip in through the side door and hurtle upstairs without being spotted. She knew Della never locked the door to her flat when she was in the shop. She’d heard it so many times around here – the ‘We never lock our front door!’ thing – and it never failed to amaze her that such a level of trust still existed. Roxanne did lock her door. Of course she did, she lived in Islington – and when things went awry, London’s noble fire brigade smashed it down.
This was ridiculous, she decided as the bookshop came into view. There was something about being back in her childhood village which seemed to propel her back to being a teenager. Here she was, at forty-seven, trying to figure out how she might ‘sneak in’! It was as if she was sixteen again and wobbling home to Rosemary Cottage after a few illicit Pernod-and-blacks and Marlboro Lights at her friend Gabby’s down the road.
She glanced in through the bookshop window, hoping the rain might have somehow rendered her invisible. Della was sitting cross-legged on the multicoloured rug in the middle of the bright and inviting shop, with books piled up all around her. Absorbed in sorting out stock, she looked the picture of contentment. Plus, she was dry. If Della had ventured out in the rain she would, of course, have been appropriately attired, being a fully-functioning woman who had raised a daughter to adulthood, breezed through a divorce, launched and made a success of a seemingly barking-mad business, found herself a lovely and attentive partner who would never sneer at her musical tastes and was, Roxanne decided now, the most together person she knew.
Roxanne was aware that she should move on and stop staring, and that it was actually quite weird to gawp at your sister as if she were an exhibit in a gallery entitled ‘A Study in Being a Proper Grown-up’. But despite the rain dribbling down her face, Roxanne couldn’t tear herself away.
Would she ever be a bona fide adult like this, with a well-stocked fridge and nothing untoward lurking at the bottom of her handbag? Not according to her brother: ‘What kind of person buys a flat because they fall in love with the wardrobe in it?’ Jeff had crowed when Roxanne told him, fizzling with excitement, about putting in an offer on the Islington place. Perhaps that was why she was really here – to learn the fine art of being truly mature so she would never again fill her flat with disgusting fumes or lock herself out.
Slowly, as Roxanne stood there staring through the bookshop window, an idea began to form. She could see now precisely why she needed to be here. Not for the opportunity to wear an ugly anorak, but to make fundamental changes to how she lived her life. She would reinvent herself here, using Della as her mentor. After all, most people would have crumbled after being left by their spouse – yet her sister had flourished. What better example could she find of a woman who had turned her life around?
Never mind Roxanne’s professional life in London and all the so-called successes that had brought her. None of that really mattered if she couldn’t live a proper grown-up life. What was so great about garnering awards and acclaim, and having a diary packed with events to attend, if you went home at night too exhausted to do anything more taxing than make a sandwich, and delved into your bread bin to find one hard crust, fuzzed with mould?
‘Rox!’
Roxanne flinched.
Della was scrambling up from the rug and hurrying towards her, still clutching a copy of The Joy of Fondue as she threw open the shop door. ‘My God. Look at the state of you …’
‘I’m fine!’ Roxanne forced a tight smile as she gripped Stanley’s lead.
‘How can you say that? Oh, you poor thing – what did I say about the weather? Come in …’
In her motherly fashion, Della bundled Roxanne into the warmth of the bookshop. While Roxanne stood there, dripping and shivering, her sister ran off to fetch a towel from the minuscule bathroom at the back. She tried not to dwell upon the fact that it was her, and not Stanley, who was getting a rub down: as if she were the drenched pet.
‘Here, dry your hair,’ Della commanded. Roxanne took the towel and obediently dabbed at her head. ‘Look at your shoes!’ They both stared down.
‘Oh, they don’t matter,’ Roxanne insisted. ‘They were just cheap.’
‘How much?’
£149 if I remember rightly … ‘About twenty quid,’ she fibbed with a shrug.
‘Take them off, let me see if they’re rescuable.’
Obediently, Roxanne peeled them off and handed them to Della, who peered at the labels inside. ‘These are LK Bennett! They weren’t cheap …’
‘They’re old though. Years old.’
‘Oh, come on …’
‘… And they were in the sale …’
‘Rox, you wore LK Bennett shoes to walk Stanley up the hill?’
The two sisters stared at each other. Roxanne was all too aware that, to Della, LK Bennett was an eye-wateringly expensive brand that had probably never before been sighted in Burley Bridge. And to Roxanne, it was … well, she might as well be honest. It was just ordinary.
She was conscious of Della’s unwavering stare as she bent to unclip Stanley’s sodden lead. As she stood up, she knew that now was the time to take the first step towards her new incarnation as a bona fide adult. This being treated like a child; it would have to stop. She had been patronised enough lately: first by Marsha at work – ‘It’s so quaint, so old-school to have a funny little scrapbook of ideas!’ – and now her own sister was telling her off as if she had run through a puddle in her best party shoes.
‘Dell, please don’t speak to me like that,’ she said quietly.
Della frowned. ‘Like what? What d’you mean?’
‘I mean, about my choice of footwear. Okay, maybe they weren’t ideal for a dog walk. But I am an adult, and I’m capable of dressing myself and dealing with the consequences. I mean, even if I decided to take Stanley out in an Agent Provocateur corset dress and six-inch Jimmy Choos, then that would entirely be my decision.’ She took her limp, wet shoes from Della and jammed them back onto her feet.
‘Er, of course,’ Della said in a hollow voice. ‘It might not be the wisest choice, but it would be completely up to you.’
Water was still dripping from Roxanne’s hair onto her cheeks. She gave herself another blot with the towel. ‘What I mean is, I know I might not seem terribly sensible sometimes. But I do have a decent job, and I’ve earned my own living since I was eighteen years old without having to ask for a penny from anyone – not from Mum and Dad or a husband or anyone else.’ She paused and swallowed.
‘Yes, I know that,’ Della said faintly.
‘So please just remember that I’ve managed to run my life, on my own, without too many disasters along the way.’ Roxanne cleared her throat, trying to ignore the fact that even her bra was soaking wet.
‘Oh, Rox. I’m so sorry.’ Della reached out to touch her arm, but Roxanne shrank back.
‘There’s something else,’ she muttered, meeting her sister’s steady gaze.
Della frowned. ‘What?’
‘I get the feeling I’m just getting under your feet by being here …’
‘Of course you’re not! What makes you think that?’
‘Well, you don’t want me to help out in the shop, do you?’
‘It’s not that. It’s just—’
‘It is that, Dell. Just be honest with me. You’re absolutely against it and I can’t understand why. D’you think I’ll try to take over, or are you worried I’ll make a mess of things here?’ It’s only a little village bookshop! she wanted to add, frustration bubbling up in her now. How hard can it be?
Concern flickered in Della’s dark eyes. ‘I just think you might not enjoy it …’
‘You mean I’m not passionate about it like you are. That I might put things on the wrong shelves and wouldn’t know where to find books about fermented breads.’
Della tried for a smile. ‘Well, yes, just like you wouldn’t expect me to know how to pull together a fashion shoot for a magazine …’
Roxanne exhaled. ‘Okay, I get that. Your customers expect you to be here – an expert on braising and hors d’oeuvres and suet, not just any old random person manning the till …’
Della nodded.
‘But you have Faye helping out—’
‘Yes, and she’s excellent – but she’s only here because Frank convinced me I needed help and I finally gave in. I mean, we were never seeing each other, apart from in the shop. I was working crazily long hours, six days a week, often late into the night. Our idea of a date was to order takeaway pizzas and eat them right here on the floor, surrounded by books and bubble-wrap, while we packaged up orders together.’ Pink patches had sprung up on Della’s cheeks. To Roxanne, that kind of date sounded impossibly romantic.
‘Well, if Faye can man the place for a few hours,’ she said carefully, ‘don’t you think I can too?’
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ Della muttered.
‘Or d’you think I’d put people off with my fancy London ways?’ She pushed back a strand of wet hair and smiled.
‘No! No, of course not.’
‘So … can you please let me help out? Not categorising books, or being an expert on tinned peach desserts or doing anything terribly complicated but …’ She broke off and looked around the shop. ‘Just sitting here, manning the till and being pleasant to people? Can’t I at least do that?’
Della’s eyes shone out at hers. ‘Yes, of course you can.’
‘Okay, great. And another thing …’ Roxanne looked over at Stanley. He had taken himself off to his wicker basket by the Cooking for Pets shelf. ‘How often is he being walked these days?’
‘He’s walked plenty,’ Della replied defensively.
‘But how on earth d’you find the time?’
‘Well, he has a quick walk first thing, and then he’ll sit around in the shop and we nip out at lunchtime. And I walk him again in the evening.’
Roxanne looked at her. ‘Not many long walks, then?’
‘It’s hard to fit those in,’ Della admitted, ‘except for Sundays …’
‘So, how about I take him out on a long walk every day?’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes – I’d like to. It’d be good for me, and it’s something I can do to make up for—’ She stopped.
‘Rox, honestly, you don’t have to make up for anything.’ Della looked down at the books, as if avoiding eye contact, then glanced around at Stanley. ‘Actually, I’m not so sure he’ll want to go out with you again.’
Roxanne frowned. ‘Why not?’
‘Oh, it’s not your fault. He just hates the rain. Honestly – he’s a complete wuss about it. If he’s taken out and gets a soaking, he holds a grudge for ages.’
Roxanne laughed in disbelief. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve worked with models who’ve thrown a strop because the sun was shining too brightly or there was a teeny bit of wind. I’m sure I can win him round.’
‘Okay,’ Della said with a smile. ‘Good luck with that. You can take charge of his walks – on one condition.’
‘What’s that?’ Roxanne handed her the damp towel.
‘Look, I hear what you’re saying about being perfectly capable of dressing yourself. Of course you are – but can I at least dig you out some proper outdoor gear?’ Roxanne blinked at her. ‘Don’t look so appalled,’ Della added. ‘You’re not in Islington now.’
‘What d’you have in mind?’ she asked nervously.
‘Well, waterproof trousers for one thing, for when it’s raining …’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake. I have jeans and I will wear your wellies, okay? I was only joking about the Agent Provocateur corset dress.’
‘C’mon, Rox, this is the country …’
‘Waterproof trousers are disgusting!’
‘No, honestly – they’re brilliant. You don’t know until you’ve tried them.’
Roxanne spluttered. ‘I’m not a child, refusing to eat sprouts.’
‘I’m just saying give them a go,’ Della insisted.
‘Remember Mum said that to us when she wanted us to try one of her new recipes? Like that time she made that terrible salmon mousse?’
‘God, yes – that pink hillock on an oval plate the size of a boat …’
Roxanne chuckled. ‘And she got terribly angry with Jeff when he refused her ham in aspic …’
‘“You don’t know until you’ve tried it,”’ Della mimicked, and Roxanne sensed the knot of tension unravelling in her stomach as they laughed. ‘Will you at least try a pair on?’ she added.
Roxanne sighed. ‘Yes, all right. My editor wants me to write that style-in-the-country blog. I suppose waterproof trousers can be my debut post.’
Della smiled broadly and patted her arm. ‘Great. Now, off you go for a hot shower and please stop dripping all over my shop.’