Mornings with Rosemary

Mornings with Rosemary

The international bestselling debut about friendship and love—featuring the life-changing relationship between an anxious young reporter and an eighty-six-year-old lifelong swimmer that “follows in the footsteps of the enormously popular A Man Called Ove …charming and heartwarming” ( Kirkus Reviews ). We’re never too old to make new friends—or make a difference. Rosemary Peterson has lived in Brixton, London, all her life, but everything is changing. The library where she used to work has closed. The family grocery store has become a trendy bar. And now the lido, an outdoor pool where she’s swum daily since its opening, is threatened with closure by a local housing developer. It was at the lido that Rosemary escaped the devastation of World War II; here she fell in love with her husband, George; here she found community during her marriage and since George’s death. Twentysomething Kate Matthews has moved to Brixton and feels desperately alone. A once-promising writer, she now covers forgettable stories for her local paper. That is, until she’s assigned to write about the lido’s closing. Soon Kate’s portrait of the pool focuses on a singular woman: Rosemary. And as Rosemary slowly opens up to Kate, both women are nourished and transformed in ways they never thought possible. “Charming [and] an unusually poignant tale of married love” ( The Washington Post ), Mornings with Rosemary is a feel-good novel that captures the heart and spirit of a community across generations—an irresistible tale of love, loss, aging, and friendship. *Originally published as The Lido Libby Page graduated from The London College of Fashion with a BA in fashion journalism before going on to work as a journalist at The Guardian . After writing, her second passion is outdoor swimming. Libby lives in London, where she enjoys finding new swimming spots and pockets of community within the city. Mornings with Rosemary (originally published as The Lido) is her first novel. Follow her on Twitter @LibbyPageWrites and Instagram @TheSwimmingSisters. Mornings with Rosemary CHAPTER 1 Step out of Brixton underground station and it is a carnival of steel drums, the white noise of traffic, and that man on the corner shouting, “God loves you,” even to the unlovable. “Tickets for the Brixton Academy tonight,” yells a ticket tout at the station entrance. “Buying and selling, tickets for the Brixton Academy!” Commuters shake their heads at promoters and preachers who try to thrust leaflets into their clenched hands. You push through the crowds and walk past the Rastafarian selling incense and records outside Starbucks. Across the road is Morleys, the independent department store that has stood on the street for years. “Love Brixton” glows in neon lights in the nearby window of TK Maxx. Today spring flowers bloom in buckets at the flower stand: daffodils, tulips, and fat peonies. The florist is an old man in a dark green apron with soil under his nails and a gold chain around his neck. Whatever the weather, he sells “Sorry”s and “I love you”s at a reasonable price. Wrap it in brown paper and tie it up with ribbon. Next to the station is Electric Avenue: it heaves with people and market stalls selling everything from vegetables to phone chargers. The air smells of sweet melons and the tang of fish. The fish lie on beds of ice, turning it from white to pink throughout the day and reminding you that you should never eat pink snow either. Market traders fling prices across the street at each other, discounts thrown like Frisbees. Catch it quick and throw it back. “Three for a tenner, threeforatenner.” “Don’t miss out, three for a fiver, THREEFORAFIVER.” “Three for a fiver? I’ve got five for a fiver!” On the other side of the street Kate walks quickly home from her job as a journalist at the Brixton Chronicle. She doesn’t have time to examine vegetables. Or maybe she just wouldn’t know what to look for. It may be spring, but Kate is living under a cloud. It follows her wherever she goes, and however hard she tries she can’t seem to outrun it. She weaves through the crowds, desperate to make it back to her house and to close the door behind her and climb into bed. When she is not at work, her bed is where she spends most of her time. On the street, she attempts to block out the sounds around her, trying not to let them fill her up and overwhelm her. She keeps her head down and focuses on the pavement. “Excuse me,” she says, stepping past a plump elderly woman without looking up. “Sorry,” says Rosemary, letting Kate pass. She watches the back of the young woman hurrying away—the woman is petite with a midlength light brown ponytail flicking behind her with the speed of her walk. Rosemary smiles, remembering what it was like to be in a rush. At eighty-six, she rarely goes anywhere fast. Instead she carries her shopping and walks slowly away from the market and toward her flat on the edge of Brockwell Park. She is