The Bookshop on Rosemary Lane: The feel-good read perfect for those long winter nights

‘No, I mean like, er … packaging design.’

‘What kind of packaging?’

‘Well, everything needs designing,’ Jeff said loftily. ‘Washing-powder boxes, cereals, labels for jam …’

‘But I don’t want to design labels for jam!’ Sophie exclaimed.

‘What about websites?’ Tamsin chipped in. ‘Everyone needs a website these days, you could make a fortune that way.’

‘But Sophie loves art,’ Della said, more forcefully than she’d intended, ‘and she’s really good. Don’t you believe in following your passion? I mean, isn’t that what being young is all about? Why should she design marmalade labels when she wants to paint amazing landscapes and portraits?’

‘Jeff only meant—’ Tamsin started.

‘Yes, well,’ Della charged on, aware of her heartbeat quickening, ‘there’s the rest of her life for Sophie to grow old and cynical and, I don’t know, worry about bills and drains and the garden fence blowing down and—’

‘Our fence blew down?’ Mark exclaimed. ‘When did that happen?’

‘No, no, that was just an example.’

‘And what’s wrong with our drains?’

‘Nothing,’ Della said sharply.

‘If the shower’s blocked again it’ll be because of your hair. I had to hoick out a great wodge of it last time that happened.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with the drain, Mark!’

‘No need to shout,’ he muttered, glaring at her.

Della cleared her throat, aware of Isaac and Noah giving her foreboding stares, like two miniature policemen about to arrest her for breach of the peace. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s just been … quite a day, that’s all.’

Tamsin smiled sympathetically. ‘Of course it has, Dell, and you managed everything so beautifully.’ She paused. ‘And, you know, you’re right about Sophie following her dreams. Passion is great, of course it is.’ She turned and gave Jeff’s earlobe a little tweak, a gesture that made Della’s stomach swirl disconcertingly. She excused herself, heading for the kitchen where, a little fuzzy with wine now, she poured herself a large glass of water. ‘For God’s sake,’ Sophie muttered, having followed her. ‘All they care about is money, Mum.’

‘That’s probably why they have loads of it,’ Della remarked.

Sophie smirked. ‘Yeah, but what about creativity, doing something you love?’ She shook her head in frustration. ‘I mean, Aunt Tamsin doesn’t even work.’

‘Well, she’s a full-time mum,’ Della reminded her.

‘Yeah, and the boys are, like, ten! They go to school … that’s if a school will have them. What does she do all day?’

Della glanced at her daughter: so like Mark, with her sharply defined cheekbones and wide, generous mouth. Her wavy brown hair was dyed black at the moment, her brown eyes smudged with dark shadow, her red lipstick almost worn away. How Della would miss her fire and spark when she left for college in two weeks’ time. It would be just her and Mark then; the phrase ‘empty nesters’ made her feel more than a little panicky.

‘I’m sure she manages to fill her time, love.’

‘What, with lunches and shopping?’

‘Probably. I have no idea actually.’

‘And they have a cleaner,’ Sophie added. ‘I’d hate that, Mum.’

‘You mean, having someone come in and make your room all lovely and sweet-smelling?’ This was Della’s attempt to cheer her up.

Sophie frowned. ‘No, I mean being completely dependent on a husband, doing what he wants, not having any independence at all …’

‘You’re right, of course you are. I know you’ll never be like that.’

‘I won’t, Mum. God, they’re like the, the … I don’t know. People from the nineteen fifties!’

Della gulped her water. While she was impressed by her daughter’s fiercely feminist streak, she couldn’t help reflecting that, really, her own and Mark’s marriage wasn’t so different. They had remained in Heathfield because Mark’s podiatry practice was here, as was Sophie’s life – friends, school, the tennis and gymnastic clubs she had belonged to until sipping a caramel frappé in Starbucks with a gaggle of friends began to hold more appeal. However, while everything rolled along reasonably happily, Della had often caught herself thinking, is this it? She worked full-time in Heathfield Castle’s gift shop and, whilst she didn’t despise it exactly, never once had she thought, This is what I was made to do. It had never been her life’s ambition to sell polyester tabards and chain-mail snoods.

Sophie swung morosely on the fridge door as Della made a pot of tea. ‘Grab a tray, love,’ she said. ‘Hopefully this’ll stop Uncle Jeff slugging down any more wine. And put out some more cookies, would you?’ Sophie snorted in derision and selected the cheapest packet of biscuits from the cupboard, tipping them haphazardly onto a plate. As they made their way back to the living room, Della could hear Tamsin’s shrill tones: ‘What was that woman’s name, the one with the awful peachy-coloured hair?’

‘Oh, God, Irene Bagshott,’ Jeff groaned, ‘nosying into everyone’s business.’

‘Is her hair dyed that colour,’ Tamsin mused, ‘or is it naturally a sort of washed-out, faded ginger?’

‘You mean the one with the hairy mole?’ Isaac asked. For all their expensive education, the boys hadn’t learned much in the way of manners.

‘Er, yes, I did notice that,’ his mother tittered.

‘Could hardly miss it,’ Jeff added.

‘Is her hair a wig, Mum?’ Noah wanted to know.

‘Honestly, sweetheart, I have no idea,’ Tamsin replied. ‘I didn’t examine her that closely.’

Isaac jabbed Jeff’s arm. ‘Dad, what’s that little fruit, the furry one with a stone inside?’

‘Peach, son.’

‘Nah, nah, the other one.’

‘You mean apricot?’ Tamsin asked.

‘Yeah!’ Isaac spluttered. ‘Apricot wig and a hairy mole!’ Somehow, he managed to fit this instantly into a jaunty tune, reminiscent of an ice-cream van jingle, and now he and Noah were singing it in what felt like an endless loop.

Apricot wig and a hairy mole,

Hairy mole, hairy mole,

Apricot wig and a hairy mole …

Della felt as if a clamp was being applied to her skull. Let’s run down the whole village while we’re at it, she thought tersely, checking the wall clock and trying to calculate how long it might be before she could curl up on the blow-up mattress, which she planned to jam in between the two sofas, and go to sleep. When everyone else had gone to bed, she supposed.

Roxanne turned to her as Della set the tray down on the coffee table. ‘So, what are we going to do, Dell?’

‘You mean, tonight? Well, you’re in the spare room and Mark and I are sleeping down here. Jeff, Tamsin and the boys can have our room …’