Miss Mary's Book of Dreams Read online

  Praise for

  SOPHIE NICHOLLS

  ‘So as we raise our glasses (and cupcakes) to the successful launch of this already much-adored story, there is a certain something in the air, that little bit of sparkle you can’t see, only feel. The sense of comfort a good book, favourite dress or a roomful of happy people can provide – a moment of magic.’

  Yorkshire Times

  ‘Trust us, you’re in for a treat.’

  Living North Magazine (Yorkshire)

  ‘A light read about love, relationships and friendships as well as appreciation for fashion and handmade clothing . . . Nicholls’ writing style is very easy to read, the story is compelling and grabbed me from the start.’

  Prettily

  ‘This book is a wonderful read and I would definitely recommend it . . . I can’t wait for the sequels!’

  Loubee Lou Blogs

  ‘I immediately felt at home inside the pages. It felt so magical and I adored the characters too. The book is well written and charming.’

  The Reading Shed Book Blog

  ‘An unashamedly romantic novel – romantic in the best sense – not really a love story, but a novel that has a deep belief in the intrinsic goodness of individuals . . . Sophie Nicholls should be taking her place among the bestselling mainstream authors – Kate Morton, Adèle Geras, Joanne Harris – because she’s good enough.’

  Indie Ebook Review

  ‘It’s a delightful and easy read, and could work as both a beach read and or one to curl up with in the colder months.’

  Belle About Town

  ‘This is a wonderful book about relationships, accepting challenges and showing courage. It makes you think a lot about prejudice and how we see people.’

  Chick Lit Club

  Contents

  Cover

  Praise

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Reading Group Questions

  Copyright

  For Tom

  Prologue

  A pair of leopard print shoes, size 37. A bracelet in the shape of a snake. A handkerchief with embroidered initials. A pair of red silk ballet shoes . . .

  When I first scribbled those words in my notebook a couple of years ago, I thought that I was writing the end of a particular story, the story of Mamma and me. I imagined that I was bringing the many different pieces together – tucking in the raw edges, smoothing the seams and then fastening it all with a fancy clasp, perhaps something made from crystals and emerald-green feathers.

  I’d forgotten that stories, like dresses, have a life all of their own. They shape themselves to the sway of your hips, that soft swell beneath your ribs, the curve of your collarbone, the rise and fall of your breath.

  Over time, their fabric becomes a little softer, fits itself to the way that you walk, speaks in rustles or soft swishing sounds, begins to make new meanings.

  Sometimes, of course, a story finds a new wearer altogether.

  ‘You are the storyteller now, tesora,’ says Mamma, smiling into the webcam in her kitchen on the other side of the ocean. Her sunglasses are pushed up on to the top of her head and she’s silhouetted against the Californian sunshine that pours through her floor-to-ceiling windows.

  ‘You and only you, carissima, know how this next part of the story goes.’ And she sips from her little white cup of coffee where I can see that her lipstick has already left its print like the wings of a scarlet butterfly.

  But when I blow Mamma a kiss, click my own webcam closed and open up a new blank page on my laptop, I find myself faltering. As hard as I try, the words don’t come. The screen hums. The pigeons clatter on the roof. The books creak and whisper on the shelves.

  On some days, my fingers crackle with a familiar static. A restless wind sweeps into the courtyard, whipping up leaves and litter.

  On other days, the air settles in ridges of grey and dusty yellow around my shoulders, pressing me close so that I can hardly breathe.

  I once wrote that all you had to do to claim a story as your own was to raise your arms above your head, like this, and let the shape of it settle over your shoulders, just so.

  But now I know that the form of things is always changing. There’s never one true ending to anything.

  Sometimes a waistband or a collar becomes too tight, your body straining against it, longing for more room. Sometimes a hem droops or a zip gets stuck or a button must be moved.

  And in the same way, sometimes you outgrow a particular story. It no longer feels quite right. You follow sentences with your finger like seams, wondering where they might lead you. You find yourself saying a word over and over, under your breath, and it begins to take on a new meaning.

  That’s how it is. A story is never still.

  And even though she’s thousands of miles away, on the other side of the Atlantic, I can hear Mamma’s words, soft and low, as if blown in on a mischievous wind, filling the spaces between my out-breaths.

  Yes, you are the storyteller of the family now, carina, she’s saying, just like your great-grandmother before you . . .

  Mamma’s grandmother, Maadar-Bozorg, is the only mother she has ever known. Although I’ve never met her, she has always been there, sitting at Mamma’s shoulder as she filled me with her stories.

  I remember, tesora, Mamma is saying now, how people would sit in the cool of the courtyard at my great-aunts’ house in Tehran, just to listen to Maadar-Bozorg’s voice, how it teased you and tickled you, the words running up and down your spine. My gift, for what it’s worth, lies in the fabric – the feel of it against my skin, what it tells me when I rub it between my fingers. But your gift, Ella-issima, my darling, is Maadar’s gift, the gift of the storyteller herself. You only have to stop for a moment, taste the words on the roof of your mouth, roll them around your tongue. They will tell you where to go next.

  And so I’m beginning to understand that it isn’t my job exactly to shape this next part of the story, but simply to hold it gently in my hands for a while, to let it unfold for you. And then I’ll pass it on, so that you can make it anew, stitching it with your own bright threads, spinning it into a new form, smoothing it over your own kitchen table.

  I take a deep breath. I let my mind relax to its still point, let the words rise up in me from that place under my ribs and then flow down through my fingers as they move over the keyboard.

  That’s right, Mamma whispers. What do you already know, carina? What do you feel, deep inside you?

  My fingers drift across the keys. Faintly, I hear them tapping, as if I’m somewhere far away, translating a half-heard music.

  Can you hear it too?

  1

  To summon dream guides from the Other World: Find the place where oak, apple and birch trees grow together. Make an offering to the spirits there. That same night, look through a holed stone before falling asleep. If you know who you wish to see, ca
ll their name politely three times.

  – Miss Mary’s Book of Dreams

  ‘Mummy. Mummy, I can’t wear these boots with my mermaid costume. Mermaids don’t wear WELLINGTONS.’

  Ella turned to see her daughter, a whirl of wild, brown hair, glitter and turquoise nylon, in the centre of the shop floor. With one tiny hand, she was tugging at the spangled bodice of her dress. In her other hand, she waved a wand, topped with a pink plastic shell and trailing blue and green ribbons.

  Behind her, Billy held up his hands in a gesture of helplessness, his face contorted into an expression that was half amusement, half exasperation.

  ‘Tell him, Mummy.’ Grace jabbed the wand at her bare feet. ‘Mermaids DON’T WEAR WELLINGTONS!’

  Ella sighed. Her head was throbbing from a combination of too much Pinot Grigio and a night of confused dreams. She took a slug from the coffee cup in her hand and frowned at Billy.

  ‘Daddy, OF COURSE mermaids don’t wear wellingtons. Especially mermaid princesses.’ She balanced her cup on a pile of books and crossed to where Grace was poised on the brink of a full-on meltdown. ‘You’re absolutely right, darling.’ She smoothed the curls from Grace’s sticky forehead. ‘Mermaids only have tails. Poor things. Which is why they can’t stomp around in all those puddles.’ She glanced out of the window at the courtyard where the cobbles were gleaming with pooled water. ‘Poor mermaids. Such beautiful puddles too, this morning.’

  When she looked back, Grace had already hit the floor, her fingers catching in the handkerchief hem of her costume as she scrabbled to pull on her boots.

  Billy applauded her silently.

  ‘Socks?’ he mouthed.

  Ella shook her head.

  ‘Come on then, Mademoiselle Mermaid.’ Billy held out Grace’s yellow raincoat with a mock flourish.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Daddy.’ Grace was all smiles now, letting him slip her arms into the coat sleeves. ‘I’m only a pretend mermaid, aren’t I, Mummy?’

  She flung her arms around Ella’s neck, covering her face with moist kisses.

  ‘Yes, darling.’ Ella held Grace’s face in her hands. ‘For today, anyway.’

  ‘Bye-bye, Mummy,’ Grace sang. ‘Love you.’

  Ella put out her hand to slip the bolts on the shop door. She winced as a crackle of static, familiar shivers of green and silver, nibbled at her fingers.

  ‘El?’ Billy laid a hand on her arm. ‘You sure you’re OK?’

  She shrugged. ‘Of course. Just tired, that’s all.’ She found her coffee, raised it in a mock toast. ‘Nothing this won’t fix.’

  ‘Write like the wind, then,’ Billy said. ‘Strictly no distractions.’ He wagged a finger at her.

  Ella watched them go. She stood in the window as they slithered hand in hand across the cobbles, Billy ducking under the archway that led out onto Grape Lane. The tall, slim man in jeans and a navy nylon parka. The little girl with blue-green streamers escaping from the bottom of her raincoat, stomping to make the soles of her wellingtons light up. Billy and Grace. Her family. The two people she loved most in the world.

  She pulled the sleeves of her sweatshirt further down over her wrists, cradled the coffee cup to her chest. There it was again. That faint humming in the air. Unmistakable this time. A haze of silver around the doorway. Whispers in the corner of the room. The Signals. How often she found herself wishing that they would just leave her alone. It was always worse when she was tired. This so-called ‘gift’ that had been handed down to her through a long line of Jobrani women: Mamma, Maadar-Bozorg, the great-aunts back in Tehran, and so many women before them. Most of the time, she could control it, keep it at bay. But then it would come to her at the most inconvenient moments, usually when she was worn out, reaching the end of her tether. It was enough to drive you a bit bonkers.

  When she’d first tried to explain to Billy how the Signals worked, she hadn’t known how to put it into words. It wasn’t like all that second-sight stuff – not exactly – because it involved all her senses. She saw colours and shapes but she could also taste the Signals, feel them on the backs of her hands, hear them crackle and whisper in the air. Around other people, they might shimmer and vibrate or spark in sudden warning.

  ‘Synaesthesia,’ Billy had pronounced. ‘That’s what it sounds like. Aren’t all writers a bit like that?’

  ‘Other people will never really understand, carina,’ Mamma had always said. ‘They will say there is a simple explanation. Or they’ll think you’re a bit, you know.’ She tapped the side of her head. ‘Cuckoo. Not quite right. Usually better not to tell them anything.’

  Today, the courtyard outside the shop was empty and silent but she could already feel the air tremble around her shoulders, barely perceptibly, as if it was a second stretched skin. The marmalade cat, who usually came inside when it was raining, even allowing himself to be stroked by enthusiastic customers, was skulking in the overhang of the doorway, back arched, fur bristling.

  Ella thought again of the dream she’d had last night. Mamma had appeared at the bedroom window, her fingertips tapping at the glass, and Ella had thrown off the duvet, tiptoed to the window and pushed up the sash.

  Mamma’s green eyes had burned into hers. She’d swung her legs over the windowsill, her bare feet spattered with mud, her dress clinging to her damply, her hair stuck to her face.

  ‘Mamma, what are you doing here?’ Ella had reached out and touched her mother’s icy cheek. ‘How did you get here?’

  ‘I flew, tesora.’ Mamma’s voice was hoarse, hurried. ‘I flew a long way. I came to tell you to pay attention, to listen to what the Signals have to tell you. To ask yourself what you already know, deep inside you.’

  Mamma had raised her hand, the rings on her fingers flashing in the dark room. And then, just as suddenly, she’d disappeared, fading in front of Ella’s eyes, leaving only the imprint of her wet feet on the rug and the open window, rattling in the wind.

  Billy had switched on the bedside light, hauling himself up on the pillows, squinting at her. ‘What’re you doing out of bed, El? And close the window, will you? It’s pouring out there.’

  ‘I don’t know, Billy. What am I doing? I had a dream and –’

  She’d prodded at the damp footprints with her own bare toes. There was no explanation. Obviously, her exhausted brain must be confusing things.

  Billy had rolled his eyes, grinned at her in that infuriating way of his. ‘You and your dreams, El. Come back to bed. You can tell me all about it in the morning and then we’ll work out what it means.’

  There was nothing Billy loved more than a spot of amateur dream psychology. Ella found it irritating. Mamma, of course, had always encouraged him. It was no coincidence that the Popular Psychology section was one of the best stocked in their bookshop, Happily Ever After. The bookshop, of course, had once been Mamma’s dress shop and there had been more than a little protest among Mamma’s friends when Ella had taken over the lease. Mamma had already sold off most of her stock by then, readying herself for her move to San Diego with David. But it was one thing to close Mamma’s shop down and quite another to dismantle the rails and display tables, screw oak bookcases to the walls, put up hand-drawn signs for reading groups and a children’s book corner.

  ‘What do they want me to do?’ Ella had complained. ‘Keep it as some kind of shrine to you?’

  ‘Never mind them, tesora.’ Mamma had winked, laying her hand on Ella’s arm. ‘Don’t you remember? It’s exactly what they all said when we arrived here. That I was a crazy person. That the shop would never survive. People didn’t need vintage dresses.’ She threw back her head and laughed. ‘Give it a little time. You’ll show them.’

  And so now the shop was a different place entirely. It had shaped itself around its new owner, like one of Mamma’s dresses.

  The chandelier was still there, throwing wobbly rainbows across the polished wooden floor whenever the sun hit the windows. The shop doorbell still jangled in the same way. But now the w
alls of the shop were lined with books. There were books carefully arranged on the mahogany counter and, very often, more books spilling over into piles on the floor. Where once there had been little tables displaying shoes and hats and scarves, now there were leather armchairs, inviting any passer-by to curl up and lose themselves in the pages of a novel for an hour. And if any further encouragement might be needed, one corner of the shop had been fitted out with a gleaming stainless-steel cafe bar and a coffee machine.

  Now, as Ella stood warming her hands on her second Americano, her body straining to catch the crackle in the air, she tried not to think about last night’s dream. The clammy feel of it still clung to her, the fragrance of Mamma’s damp skin, that strange look in her eyes.

  ‘Get a grip, El,’ she muttered to herself, turning purposefully away from the shop door, perching herself on one of the stools behind the counter, opening her laptop. She looked up at the big, pale moon-face of the grandmother clock in the corner, another addition to the space, a present from Billy after Grace was born. Half past eight. She had two hours, with a bit of luck, before the first customers started arriving. She needed to push on with this book. The manuscript was due just three months from now and yet it was all still a tangle of characters, ideas, the vaguest plot lines.

  She opened up the document, took a deep breath, dived in . . .

  It seemed only moments before the shop bell jangled her out of her reverie.

  She looked up to see Laura, her friend from the Mother and Baby Book Group, wrestling a buggy through the door with one hand, steering Izzie, her protesting three-year-old, with the other.

  Ella clicked Save, glanced at the clock. Ten o’ clock. Bang on.

  ‘Sorrysorrysorrysorrysorry . . .’

  Laura threw back the hood of her parka. Ella could see now that she was biting back tears. She slid off the stool, wedged the door open wider with her foot. From under the buggy’s rain hood came a long, high-pitched wail and Izzie started to join in, planting herself on the rug in defiance, her mouth opening and closing.