Poppy Hartwell
Fintan Callaghan disliked bookshops.
Not because he disliked books. Quite the opposite. His Hampstead penthouse housed a carefully curated library, floor-to-ceiling shelving fitted by a specialist joiner from Bath, first editions occupying pride of place behind glass. Books, to Fintan, represented knowledge, craftsmanship, permanence.
Bookshops, however, represented inefficiency.
No clear system. Customers wandering aimlessly. Staff shelving at inexplicable speeds. The scent of coffee drifting into paperbacks. It was all rather chaotic.
He stood just inside the doorway of Foxglove Books, one hand resting in the pocket of his navy overcoat as the little brass bell announced his arrival.
Outside, London moved in its usual impatient rhythm. Inside, the atmosphere shifted immediately.
Warmth.
Soft instrumental music playing somewhere overhead.
The smell of coffee and paper.
A spaniel asleep beneath a display entitled Books That Feel Like Coming Home.
Fintan frowned faintly at the sign.
He was forty-seven years old, chief executive of Callaghan Human Capital, and entirely capable of purchasing a birthday gift without assistance.
In theory.
In practice, Marcus was impossible to buy for.
Fintan had been attempting to solve the problem for three weeks.
Marcus had money. More than enough to acquire whatever he wanted for himself. He appreciated quality but had little patience for frivolity. Flowers would be absurd. Whisky predictable. Experiences unlikely to appeal.
Books remained the only viable option.
Unfortunately, Fintan had no idea where to begin.
He moved deeper into the shop.
A young man sat cross-legged on the floor in the travel section, engrossed in a guidebook about Japan. Two elderly women debated the merits of Agatha Christie versus Dorothy L. Sayers with surprising ferocity. Somewhere toward the back, someone laughed softly.
There was no reception desk in the traditional sense.
Instead, there was a broad oak counter covered with stacks of newly arrived titles.
Behind it stood a young woman rearranging a display of hardback classics.
Honey blonde hair fell in long, natural waves down her back, catching the late afternoon light filtering through the shopfront windows. She wore a forest-green cardigan over a cream blouse, a small silver necklace resting at the base of her throat. Reading glasses perched on the top of her head.
He noticed none of those things immediately.
What he noticed was the expression on her face.
Contentment.
As though shelving books constituted a perfectly reasonable way to spend a Tuesday afternoon.
He approached the counter.
She glanced up.
“Hi,” she said, smiling warmly. “Can I help you find anything?”
The question was so straightforward that Fintan found himself answering honestly.
“I hope so.”
The smile widened slightly.
“What are we looking for?”
“A birthday present.”
“That’s manageable,” she assured him.
Fintan almost smiled.
“It’s for a friend.”
“Tell me about him.”
He hesitated.
The request itself wasn’t unreasonable.
Yet it struck him how differently most people approached these interactions.
They recommended bestsellers.
Gift vouchers.
Coffee table books.
This young woman wanted context.
“He’s...” Fintan paused. “Particular.”
The corners of her eyes crinkled.
“I’ve noticed that people tend to say ‘particular’ when they mean ‘difficult’.”
“He isn’t difficult.”
“No?”
“No.”
She leant lightly against the counter.
“What does he read?”
“History. Psychology. Philosophy. True crime.”
“Fiction?”
“Occasionally.”
“Does he reread books?”
Fintan blinked.
“Yes.”
“Annotate them?”
“Religiously.”
The young woman nodded seriously.
“Hardbacks or paperbacks?”
“Hardbacks.”
“What’s his favourite book?”
Fintan considered.
“I don’t know.”
The admission sounded stranger aloud.
The smile she offered held no judgement.
“Then let’s work backwards.”
She moved around the counter.
“I’m Poppy, by the way.”
“Poppy?”
“Hartwell.”
“Fintan Callaghan.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr Callaghan.”
“Fintan is fine.”
Poppy led him through the shop with an ease that suggested she knew every shelf intimately.
“What does your friend do?”
“He’s involved in private investment.”
“And would he prefer to be left alone at a party?”
Fintan’s eyebrows rose.
“Without hesitation.”
Poppy laughed softly.
“Right.”
She stopped before a display of literary fiction.
“Does he like people?”
“Very few.”
“Interesting.”
Fintan found himself watching her as she scanned the shelves.
There was nothing hurried about her movements.
Nothing performative.
She wasn’t attempting to impress him.
She was trying to solve a problem.
Eventually, she withdrew a hardback and turned back toward him.
“I think he might appreciate this.”
Fintan accepted it.
“You don’t know if he’ll like it?”
Poppy tilted her head.
“I think books are a bit like introductions,” she said thoughtfully. “The right one makes people feel understood. That doesn’t necessarily mean they’ll enjoy it.”
He looked down at the cover.
Then back at her.
“You seem very good at this.”
Colour touched her cheeks.
“I just really like helping people find stories they’ll carry with them.”
The simplicity of the statement caught him unexpectedly off guard.
No mention of sales targets.
No strategic thinking.
No self-promotion.
Just quiet sincerity.
A customer appeared beside them holding a copy of Rebecca.
“Sorry,” the woman said. “Would you happen to know if you have any Daphne du Maurier recommendations?”
Poppy brightened instantly.
“Oh, absolutely.”
She turned back to Fintan.
“Give me two minutes?”
“Of course.”
Fintan stood where she left him.
He watched as she guided the customer toward another section, speaking animatedly about atmosphere and suspense and Cornish coastlines.
The customer laughed.
Poppy laughed too.
The elderly women near the crime section called her name.
The sleeping spaniel lifted its head when she passed.
There was a curious gravitational pull about her.
Not charisma.
Not beauty.
Something gentler.
People relaxed around Poppy Hartwell.
Five minutes later she returned.
“Sorry about that.”
“No need.”
“Did you decide?”
Fintan glanced down at the book in his hands.
“I think so.”
Poppy smiled.
“I hope your friend likes it.”
“So do I.”
As she wrapped the book in crisp brown paper and tied navy ribbon around the parcel, she asked lightly, “Do you always buy birthday presents three days before the event?”
He looked up.
“You remembered that?”
“You said it was for Saturday.”
“Oh.”
Poppy slid the parcel toward him.
“I think he’ll appreciate the effort.”
Fintan took out his wallet.
“I’m sure he will.”
As he left the shop several minutes later, gift tucked beneath his arm, he realised he had spent nearly forty minutes inside Foxglove Books.
Forty minutes discussing literature with a twenty-one-year-old bookseller.
It was ridiculous.
The brass bell chimed softly behind him as the door closed.
London surged around him once more.
Traffic.
Voices.
Deadlines.
His phone vibrated with an incoming message from his solicitor regarding the divorce proceedings.
Fintan glanced down at the screen before slipping the phone back into his pocket.
Then, unexpectedly, he thought of Poppy Hartwell.
The way she had listened.
The seriousness with which she had approached a stranger’s birthday gift.
The quiet certainty with which she had spoken about stories.
A strange feeling settled somewhere beneath his ribs.
Not attraction.
Not yet.
Something quieter.
Relief.
As though, for the briefest of moments, he had stepped into a world where nothing needed fixing.
Then the traffic light changed.
Fintan adjusted the parcel beneath his arm and continued walking.
Behind him, unnoticed, the little brass bell above Foxglove Books rang again as another customer stepped inside.
Fintan let himself into the townhouse just after seven.
The house was beautiful.
It always had been.
A six-bedroom Victorian property in Chelsea with high ceilings, original fireplaces and the sort of understated elegance that appeared effortless until one realised how much money it took to maintain. Fresh flowers stood in the entrance hall. Classical music drifted faintly from somewhere upstairs. The scent of expensive candles lingered in the air.
Victoria had always had a gift for making spaces feel lived in.
Fintan placed his keys in the porcelain dish beside the door and loosened his tie.
“Vic?” he called.
“In here.”
He followed the sound of her voice towards the kitchen.
Victoria stood at the marble island, barefoot despite the cold flagstones beneath her feet. Dark curls had escaped the loose knot at the nape of her neck, and she wore paint-splattered linen trousers and one of his old university sweatshirts. A half-finished glass of white wine sat beside a laptop displaying colour swatches for some charity event she was apparently helping to organise.
She looked up as he entered.
“There you are.”
Fintan crossed the room and pressed a brief kiss to her cheek out of habit more than affection.
“How was your day?”
“Three committee meetings, one sponsorship disaster and an argument with a florist who insisted beige roses are elegant.” Victoria reached for her wine. “They aren’t. They’re funeral flowers pretending to be champagne.”
Fintan almost smiled.
“How was yours?”
He held up the brown paper parcel.
“I found Marcus’s birthday gift.”
Victoria stared at it.
“You’ve been obsessing over that for weeks.”
“He isn’t easy to buy for.”
“No one who owns six watches and an island is easy to buy for.”
Fintan set the parcel carefully on the island.
Victoria reached for it immediately.
“What is it?”
“A book.”
Her expression flattened.
“A book.”
“Marcus enjoys reading.”
“Marcus enjoys analysing people,” Victoria corrected. “Reading is just how he acquires information.”
She untied the navy ribbon without waiting for permission.
Fintan resisted the urge to stop her.
Victoria peeled back the brown paper.
Then blinked.
“Oh.”
“Oh?”
“Oh no.”
Fintan frowned.
“What?”
Victoria held up the hardback.
“He’ll hate this.”
“He won’t.”
“He absolutely will.”
“You haven’t read it.”
“I don’t need to.”
Victoria waved the book in the air.
“Marcus is the sort of man who colour-codes legal documents and probably has a preferred brand of paperclips.”
“He doesn’t.”
“You see?” Victoria said triumphantly. “You know that immediately. Because you’ve thought about it.”
Fintan pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Victoria.”
“I’m serious.”
She placed the book back on the counter.
“Marcus likes certainty. This...” she gestured vaguely at the novel, “...looks introspective.”
“He enjoys introspection.”
“He enjoys being right.”
“He can enjoy both.”
Victoria sighed dramatically.
“This is why I don’t understand men.”
“Women are hardly straightforward.”
Victoria laughed.
“No, but at least we admit it.”
Fintan reached for the parcel.
“It’s a thoughtful gift.”
“It’s a terrible gift.”
“It’s not.”
“It is.”
Fintan looked at her.
“Why?”
Victoria stared back.
“Because Marcus doesn’t want thoughtful.”
“What does he want?”
Victoria didn’t hesitate.
“Recognition.”
The certainty in her tone irritated him disproportionately.
“You’ve met him three times.”
“I’ve observed him three times.”
“That’s hardly sufficient.”
Victoria took a sip of wine.
“You asked for my opinion.”
“I asked whether you thought he’d like the gift.”
“And I said no.”
“Then perhaps we should leave it there.”
Victoria lowered her glass.
The atmosphere shifted.
Subtly.
Almost imperceptibly.
“You don’t actually want my opinion,” she said.
“That’s not true.”
“It is.”
“No.”
“You only want agreement.”
Fintan felt exhaustion unfurl quietly beneath his ribs.
“We’re discussing a birthday present.”
“We’re discussing the fact that every conversation becomes a negotiation.”
“I disagree.”
Victoria laughed.
“Of course you do.”
Silence settled between them.
Fintan wrapped the ribbon back around the parcel with careful precision.
Across the kitchen, Victoria watched him.
“You know,” she said after a moment, “Marcus probably will appreciate the effort.”
Fintan glanced up.
“But?”
“But I still think he’ll hate the book.”
Despite himself, a reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Victoria noticed immediately.
“There he is.”
“There who is?”
“The man I married before he became Chief Executive of Everything.”
“I’ve never been Chief Executive of Everything.”
“You tried to optimise our honeymoon itinerary.”
“It was a logistical success.”
Victoria groaned.
“You scheduled relaxation.”
“It prevented unnecessary stress.”
Victoria looked at him for a long moment.
Then she smiled.
Softly this time.
“We really are impossible, aren’t we?”
Fintan met her gaze.
For a fleeting second, he saw them as they had once been.
Brilliant.
Funny.
Entirely unsuited to one another.
“No,” he said quietly.
“Just different.”
Victoria’s smile faltered at the edges.
“I suppose that’s the problem.”
Neither mentioned the divorce.
Neither needed to.
The papers already existed.
The solicitors had already been instructed.
The ending had begun long before either of them had admitted it aloud.
Victoria drained the last of her wine.
“So,” she said lightly. “When Marcus inevitably hates your thoughtful gift, do I get to say I told you so?”
Fintan tucked the parcel beneath his arm.
“Absolutely not.”
Victoria grinned.
“You see? That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”
“What?”
“You never let me win.”
Fintan looked at her.
At the vibrant woman everyone adored.
The woman who argued passionately about politics, floristry, novels, restaurant reservations and the appropriate use of semicolons.
The woman who had once seemed so alive that loving her had felt like standing too close to a bonfire.
She wasn’t wrong.
He didn’t let her win.
And she never stopped trying.
“I’ll order dinner,” Victoria announced, already reaching for her phone. “You’re choosing.”
Fintan hesitated.
Then:
“Whatever you’d prefer.”
Victoria snorted.
“Oh, absolutely not.”
And for reasons he couldn’t entirely explain, Fintan found himself thinking of honey-blonde waves and hazel eyes behind a bookshop counter.
Of a young woman who had listened carefully before making a recommendation.
A young woman who had said:
I think books are a bit like introductions. The right one makes people feel understood.
Poppy Hartwell had never once contradicted him.
The thought came and went so quickly that he barely noticed it.
He certainly didn’t examine it.
Instead, he loosened his tie another fraction and followed Victoria into the dining room, the wrapped book still tucked securely beneath his arm.
Behind him, unnoticed on the kitchen island, the navy ribbon Poppy had tied lay in a perfect bow.
