‘No,’ said Jemma. ‘Would it matter if I was?’
‘Sometimes they try and sneak in undercover,’ said the man. ‘It’s to do with business rates.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Don’t tell me you’re from the retail association.’
‘Still a no,’ said Jemma. ‘I just wanted to come in and look at books.’ She took a step towards the shelves, but the man unfolded himself from behind the counter and intercepted her.
‘Why are you dressed like that, then?’ he asked, eyeing her suit and heels.
Jemma eyed him back. ‘I could ask you the same question.’ He was wearing blue and green tartan trousers, a thick bottle-green velvet waistcoat incredibly unsuitable for the weather, a dress shirt with a pleated front, and a gold lamé bow tie.
‘I’ll dress how I like, thank you very much,’ the man replied, with dignity. ‘Which books do you wish to look at?’ He said this as if expecting her to back down and admit defeat.
‘Novels,’ declared Jemma, nose in the air. ‘I like novels.’
‘The fiction section starts there,’ he said, jerking a thumb at it, and retreated behind the counter.
Jemma approached the shelves, trying to remember the last book she’d read. She liked reading – loved reading, in fact – but somehow those evenings working late or getting merry with Em, and the weekends doing a little bit of extra work to stay ahead, really cut into her reading time.
She scanned the shelves for something impressive. Something which would show this snooty bookseller that she wasn’t an illiterate fool who had stumbled into a bookshop by accident. Tolstoy. That should do it.
Her hand stretched towards Anna Karenina on the bottom shelf, but before she could grasp it the book was obscured by a blur of marmalade fur. Yellow eyes glared at her. The cat sat down right in front of the book, then without ceremony began to clean its bottom.
‘Um, excuse me?’ Jemma called.
There was no response, and she had to call again.
‘Yes?’ the man enquired.
‘There’s a cat in the way of a book I want to buy.’
‘Oh yes, that will be Folio.’ And the man returned to his comic.
‘I don’t think you understand,’ said Jemma. ‘I need you to move the cat.’
The man stared at her over the top of his comic. ‘I don’t think Folio would like that.’
‘He’s a cat,’ said Jemma. ‘I’m a customer. Or at least, I’d like to be a customer, but I’m finding it difficult.’
‘I know!’ the man cried, looking as pleased as if he had made an important discovery. ‘I can make a note of the book you want, and your name. When Folio moves, I’ll put the book in a safe place and you can come back for it!’
Jemma stared at him. ‘Or I could go to another bookshop.’
An unpleasant shiver ran down her spine. Really, the bookshop was remarkably cold. And it smelt a bit damp. She straightened up, and looked around her. It’s like going back in time. The counter was dark wood, probably mahogany, and on it stood a huge brass cash register. The shelves were sagging pine, and the floor was wood in a herringbone pattern, like in an old-fashioned school. There were no posters, no promotional materials, no recommendations… The only attractive thing in the bookshop was a red leather button-back armchair with a tapestry cushion. That looked warm and inviting. She took a step towards it, and the cat – Folio, was it? – dashed past her, leapt into the armchair, and settled himself down. What a miserable dump.
Jemma bent, retrieved the book, and took it to the counter. ‘I’d like this, please,’ she said.
The man inspected it, and shrugged. ‘Never read it myself.’ He opened the front cover. ‘Two pounds fifty, please.’
Jemma held out her phone, and the man looked at it. ‘That’s worth more than two pounds fifty,’ he said.
Jemma put it back in her bag and took a card from her purse. The man shook his head again.
‘Good grief,’ said Jemma, staring. ‘You actually want money?’
‘That’s how it works,’ said the man. He pushed buttons on the cash register and with a great clanking and ringing, figures pinged up in the top window.
Jemma opened her purse and handed over a two-pound coin and a fifty-pence piece. ‘I’m afraid I’m fresh out of shillings,’ she said.
‘Very funny,’ said the man. ‘I can write you a receipt, if you wish.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Jemma.
‘Would you like a bag, then?’ He indicated a nail driven into the shelf behind him, from which hung plain brown-paper bags on a string.
‘I’ll put it in my own bag, thanks,’ said Jemma. She felt something pushing at her ankles. It was the cat, Folio. ‘Oh, he likes me,’ she said, bending to stroke the cat.
‘I wouldn’t do that,’ said the man. ‘He isn’t very friendly.’
Folio looked up at her, then put his head against her leg and butted. Jemma took a step back, and he advanced and butted her again. He’s trying to push me out of the shop, she thought. Well, that’s fine by me. I don’t think I’ll be returning here in a hurry. ‘Bye,’ she said, and walked briskly towards the door.
As she reached for the handle Jemma noticed a small white card stuck into the wood with a drawing pin. Help Wanted, it said, in elegant copperplate script. It certainly is, thought Jemma, with a smile. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a sorry excuse for a bookshop in my whole life. And with that comforting thought, she closed the door firmly behind her.
Chapter 2
Jemma felt unaccountably nervous as she walked down Charing Cross Road on Monday morning. It’s only a bookshop, she told herself. I could work anywhere I like.
She had spent the weekend trying to decide what she wanted to do with the rest of her life. She had made lists. She had read articles about how self-made millionaires under thirty got their start. She had updated her CV. But still, when she closed her eyes, the scruffy bookshop with so much potential kept reappearing. I could make something of that, she thought. I really could.
She hadn’t said anything to Em when she rang on Saturday afternoon. ‘How are you, Jemma,’ Em had enquired, with a wheelbarrow-full of concern in her voice. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t be there yesterday. I’d have rung earlier, but I’ve just got up. Damon had tickets for the races, you see, as a leaving present from the agency, and then there was a boat trip, and it got a bit messy—’
‘You knew, then,’ said Jemma, feeling like a flat glass of lemonade.
‘I didn’t exactly know,’ said Em. ‘I mean, I’d heard talk. But you know I don’t spread rumours.’
Em had been in the same intake of the graduate scheme as Jemma. Despite cheerfully admitting that she didn’t know one end of a spreadsheet from the other, she had risen in the company through what she called a series of happy accidents. If Jemma hadn’t been her friend, she would have envied Em tremendously. She had shiny dark hair that never seemed to need washing or cutting, and looked good in whatever she wore.
‘I’m going to regard it as an opportunity,’ said Jemma. ‘A chance to do something different. The company wasn’t right for me; that was the problem. Our values weren’t aligned.’