for the funeral. As Posy had mechanically undressed and then dressed in whatever she was handed, Mariana had come into the changing room, cupped Posy’s face in her hands and said, ‘I know you think I’m a silly, vain woman, but the funeral will be hard, probably the hardest day you’ll ever have to get through, darling. A beautiful dress, a well-cut coat – they’re armour. And they’ll be two less things for you to worry about when I know you have the weight of the world on your poor, young shoulders.’
Once dress and coat had been purchased, Mariana had taken them to Hamleys Toy Shop and bought Sam a huge train set, which when assembled took over their entire living room and most of the hall.
Since then, every few months Mariana would send Posy beautiful designer clothes and Sam a huge box of toys. Although Mariana seemed to think that Posy could squeeze herself into an XS when she was an M at the least, and that Sam had remained eight for the last seven years, she had the best of intentions.
And on what had to be Mariana’s hardest ever day, Posy wanted to do what she could to ease her burden. She squeezed Mariana’s hands. ‘Honestly, if there’s anything I can do, anything you need, I’ll try to help. I’m not just saying it because it’s what people say in these sorts of situations, I really mean it.’
‘Oh, Posy, no one can help me,’ Mariana told her sorrowfully, and Posy tried to think of some other words of comfort, but she could feel her throat aching, eyes smarting, as if her own tears weren’t far off. So she said nothing but stared down at the safety pin that was anchoring her dress together, until Mariana slipped her hands out of Posy’s. ‘I need to be alone with my thoughts.’
Sebastian and Posy watched Mariana glide down the corridor, until she turned a corner and was gone. ‘I guarantee that she’ll be bored rigid after three minutes alone with her thoughts,’ he said to Posy. ‘Five, tops.’
‘Oh, I’m sure she won’t,’ Posy said, though she too doubted Mariana’s staying power. Someone who’d had that many husbands couldn’t be expected to do that well under her own steam. ‘This lawyer, then?’
‘In here,’ Sebastian said, opening the door and giving Posy a firm push, as if he suspected that she might bolt. She was certainly thinking about it. But Sebastian flexed his fingers against the small of her back and that was all she needed to propel herself forwards in an effort to get away from the burning brand of his touch through the cotton of her dress.
It was a small sitting room where the ubiquitous wood panelling had been ignored in favour of chintz. So much chintz; be-swagging and be-swathing everything from curtains and pelmets to the sofa and chairs. Posy stood uncertainly in the doorway as Sebastian sat down on the sofa and crossed his legs. His socks were the same shade of red as his shirt and pocket square. Even the laces of his highly polished black brogues were red.
Posy wondered if Sebastian had different coloured laces to match each of his shirts, and whether he spent five minutes every morning threading them through his shoes or if he had a minion to do it for him …
‘Earth to Morland! Don’t tell me you need to be alone with your thoughts too.’
She blinked. ‘What? No! Your shoes.’
‘What?’ he echoed in an exasperated tone. ‘I do think you might say hello to Mr Powell. And to think that you always accuse me of being rude.’
Posy tore her gaze away from Sebastian to see that, sitting on the other side of the room, was a middle-aged man in a grey suit and half-moon spectacles. He waggled his fingers in a half-hearted greeting.
‘Jeremy Powell, the late Mrs Thorndyke’s solicitor,’ he said. He looked down at the sheaf of papers on his lap. ‘And you are Ms Morland?’
‘Posy. Hello.’ She took a deep breath and clutched her hands together. ‘Is this about the shop? We’ve all wondered … but I didn’t think we’d hear so soon. Are you selling it?’
They’d lost so much, she and Sam: their mother and father, Peregrine, then Lavinia and now Bookends, which was more than just a shop. It was their home. The place they always came back to. And now, they wouldn’t even have that.
‘Sit down, Morland, and stop hovering,’ barked Sebastian, indicating the sofa. ‘No one likes a hoverer.’
With a baleful glance at Sebastian, Posy skirted around the sofa and sat in the armchair opposite Mr Powell. Sebastian plucked a bottle of champagne out of the ice bucket placed next to him. He peeled off the foil, untwisted the cage then slowly eased the cork out with all the skill of a virtuoso, so it came free with a small but emphatic pop. Posy hadn’t noticed the delicate glass coupes on the table, but Sebastian picked one up, poured some champagne into it and handed it to Posy.
‘I shouldn’t drink any more.’ If bad news were imminent, then maybe brandy would be better. Or a cup of sweet tea.
‘Lavinia’s orders.’ Sebastian looked at her, and his scrutiny, combined with the knowledge that a savage remark was sure to follow, were too much for Posy. She looked away and although she had only been planning to take one sip, just to be polite, she ended up chugging the champagne down in one graceless gulp.
Then she had to concentrate very hard on not belching as Sebastian smiled smugly and gestured at the lawyer. ‘Mr Powell, will you do the honours now?’
Posy feared the worst, but she hoped the worst would be brief: ‘Please vacate the premises at your earliest convenience and don’t let the door hit you in the arse on your way out,’ Mr Powell would say, though he might be more polite than that. Instead he leaned forwards to hand Posy an envelope.
Smythson’s Cream Wove Quarto. Lavinia had a box of them in the back office of the shop. Posy’s name was written in Lavinia’s beautiful cursive script in the navy blue ink she’d always favoured.
All of a sudden, Posy’s hands didn’t want to work. She was shaking so hard that she could hardly open the envelope.
‘Let me do it, Morland!’
It turned out that Posy’s hands were in full working order when it came to slapping away Sebastian, then she was easing a finger along the flap and pulling out two sheets of the same cream paper, closely covered in Lavinia’s writing.
Dearest, dearest Posy,
I hope the funeral hasn’t been too grim and that they haven’t stinted on the champagne. I always found that the best way to get through both funerals and weddings was to be slightly tipsy.
I also hope that you aren’t too sad. I’ve had a good innings, as they say, and though even at this late stage in the proceedings I’m not sure that I believe in an afterlife, if there is one then I’m surrounded by the people I love that I’ve missed so dreadfully. Reunited with my parents, my beautiful brothers, all those fallen friends and, best of all, my darling Perry.
But where does that leave you and Sam, my lovely Posy? I’m sure that my death, my demise, my passing (no matter what word I choose, it still seems unthinkable, ludicrous, that I’ve shuffled off this old mortal coil) has stirred up memories of your parents. But then you’ll remember what Perry and I told you on that awful night after the policeman had left.
That you weren’t to worry. That Bookends was as much yours as it was ours and that you would always have a home there.
Posy, darling, that still stands. Bookends is yours. Lock, stock, and that copy of Men Are From Mars And Women Are From Venus that we haven’t been able to sell for the past fifteen years.
I know that the shop hasn’t been doing well. I’ve been so intractable and resistant to change since Perry died, but I have every faith that you’ll turn the shop’s fortunes around. Make it the success it used to be when your father and mother were running it. I’m sure you’ll think of all sorts of exciting schemes to transform the old place. With you at the helm, Bookends will start a new chapter in its life and I know that I couldn’t be leaving my beloved shop in