The conversation moved back to safer territory—who had been seen smooching who in the White Hart and how Aunty Jada was recovering after her disastrous hysterectomy and so forth—until Nory heard her dad come in.

“Is that Nory?” she heard him ask.

“Yes, love, I was just telling her about Jada’s hematoma.”

“Tell her Isaac looks like hell. Every time he came down last week, he looked worse.”

“Jake!” her mum hissed. But her dad was unrelenting.

“Those two want their heads banging together. You haven’t been on the phone to her this much since she first went up to that school up the hill. With all that’s going on in the world . . .”

Her dad was about to go into a rant. This happened sometimes; Nory would be on the phone with her mum, and her parents would suddenly begin a whole discussion about what was happening on the TV or in the news, and Nory would be left sitting on the phone, quietly waiting for her mum to remember she was still on the end of the line.

“Don’t belittle people’s feelings, Jake. You always do this. You compare every problem to world hunger, and you can’t do that! Just because a person isn’t experiencing a global tragedy doesn’t mean they aren’t suffering . . .”

“Mum, I’m probably going to go . . .”

“I’m not belittling anyone, Sasha. I’m merely trying to give a little perspective; they’ve got roofs over their heads and food in their bellies . . .”

“Well, if that isn’t patronizing, I don’t know what is. You are a Neanderthal when it comes to mental health . . .”

“Mum, can you hear me? I’m going to go now, leave you two to it. Say hi to Dad for me . . .”

“I know plenty about mental health. My grandfather had shell shock after the war . . .”

Nory gave up and ended the call.

The books in the Christmas window had been selling out almost faster than they could refill it. Nory had reached the stage where she was having to place some of her most favorite vintage titles in the display—titles that she had surreptitiously held back because she couldn’t quite bear to part with them. Of course, Andrew had been onto her from the start.

“Here, this would go nicely near the front, propped up by Santa’s boot,” he said on Wednesday morning, handing a book through to Nory, who was kneeling inside the deep bay window with her back to him. She took it and sucked in a sharp intake of breath.

“This is a 1955 edition of Pookie Believes in Santa Claus.”

“I know, that’s why I handed it to you.”

“I can’t sell this!”

“You absolutely can, and you must. You are a bookseller, it’s literally what you do.”