‘That’s exactly what I think,’ said Em. ‘Do you fancy going for a quick drink?’
Jemma wrinkled her nose at her pyjama bottoms and T-shirt, and examined the split ends in her reddish-brown hair. ‘Maybe not today,’ she said. ‘I’m taking some downtime to consider my new direction.’ Plus she didn’t feel ready to face Damon, whom she found hard going at the best of times. With a new job, he’d be insufferable.
‘Oh, OK,’ said Em. ‘Well, Damon and I will be in the Grapes if you change your mind. I expect we’ll be there for some time.’
And so, after considerable research, Jemma found herself striding down Charing Cross Road wearing ballerina flats, wide-legged black trousers, a smart-casual top, and her second-best work jacket, ready to make an impression.
The shop was closed.
Jemma looked at her watch, and tutted. The door had a brass knocker in the shape of a mythical creature; she wasn’t sure quite what. Jemma lifted it, and brought it down sharply three times.
After two minutes, she knocked again. This time she was greeted with a yowl. Then she heard a muttered word which sounded rude, and someone fumbling with the lock.
The man who had been in the shop on Friday opened the door. He was wearing a mustard-coloured dressing gown over sky-blue silk pyjamas. ‘Not today, thank you,’ he said sharply.
Jemma put a foot in the door. ‘I’m here to help,’ she said.
‘What, at this time of the morning?’ The man looked incredulous. ‘I don’t need my soul saving, thank you very much.’
‘I meant in the bookshop,’ said Jemma. ‘Help wanted?’
The man stared at her. ‘I never expected anyone to answer,’ he said. Then, grudgingly, ‘I suppose you’d better come in.’ He opened the door wider. ‘Here, take a seat.’ He indicated the armchair. ‘I’ll go and, um, get dressed.’
Jemma did as she was told and gazed around the shop. It was as dilapidated as she remembered. Good. That means I can make more of a difference. She opened her large work handbag, took out a folder, and put it on her knee, ready. At least that cat didn’t seem to be around.
‘Sorry about that,’ said the man’s voice. He reappeared, now dressed in a navy velvet suit with a crisp white shirt and a floppy black bow at his neck. Jemma wondered how on earth he had managed to get changed in such a short time. ‘So.’ He stood in front of Jemma, hands clasped, rocking gently on the balls of his feet.
‘Aren’t you going to interview me?’ asked Jemma.
‘Oh,’ said the man. ‘Um, yes, I suppose I am.’
‘I’m Jemma James,’ said Jemma, standing up and extending a hand. She had to look up quite a long way, as the man was at least a foot taller than she was.
He shook her hand firmly. ‘Raphael Burns, owner and proprietor of Burns Books. Pleased to meet you.’ He nodded, and Jemma sat down.
‘About that,’ she said. ‘Do you really think Burns Books is a good name for a bookshop?’
The man seemed rather offended. ‘The shop has been called Burns Books ever since it opened,’ he said. ‘It’s been in the family for a long time.’
Jemma took that as a no. ‘Would you like to see my qualifications?’ she said, opening her folder. ‘I’ve brought my GCSE, A-level and degree certificates, and my management diploma.’ She held out a sheaf of papers, which the man took and paged through – possibly, she suspected, more from good manners than anything else.
‘All most satisfactory,’ he said, handing them back. ‘When can you start?’
‘Aren’t you going to ask me any questions?’ said Jemma. ‘My previous experience, or why I want the job, or what I could bring to it?’ Then she reflected that her lack of retail experience might count against her. ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘I’ve put together a short-term action plan. Would you like me to present it to you?’
Raphael shuddered. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ he said.
‘Yes please,’ said Jemma. While he’s gone, she thought, I’ll get my bullet points in order.
She was fully prepared when Raphael Burns returned, bearing a tray with a cloth, two china cups and saucers, and a large teapot with a Space Invaders tea cosy over the top. ‘I thought of some questions while the tea was brewing,’ he said.
‘Oh good,’ said Jemma, composing herself. She hoped that his previous absentmindedness hadn’t been an act, and he wasn’t about to skewer her with something she hadn’t thought of.
Raphael put the tray on the counter, poured out, and delivered a cup of tea with milk and one sugar, as Jemma had requested. Then he brought the chair from behind the counter, placed it facing her, and sat down. It was slightly too small for him, and he inhabited it like a wooden artist’s figure arranged to show discomfort. ‘This is my first question,’ he said grandly. ‘Do you like cats?’
As if on cue, Folio sauntered into the room, meowed at Jemma, then jumped into her lap, sitting on her papers and kneading them with his paws.
‘Um, yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, I do like cats.’
Folio looked round at her and his golden eyes narrowed. The sound of tearing paper grew slightly louder.
‘Excellent!’ exclaimed Raphael. ‘Now for my second question. Do you mind being bored?’
‘Did you say bored?’ asked Jemma, wondering if this was a trap.
‘Yes, I did. Do you mind being bored, sometimes for hours at a time?’
‘I don’t think that question applies to me, really,’ said Jemma. ‘I find I’m hardly ever bored, as I can always think of something to do. For example, if business was slow in the shop, I could spend time writing and scheduling posts on the shop’s social media feeds.’
‘But we don’t have any social media feeds,’ said Raphael.
‘I know,’ said Jemma, triumphantly. ‘I checked. And that, if I may say so, is one of your problems. Social media would give you additional shop windows onto the world. With the right targeted content, you could bring people here from far and wide.’
Raphael picked up his cup and drained it. He was clearly impressed.
‘Another thing I could do during downtime in the shop,’ said Jemma, ‘would be to create eye-catching themed displays of books which we have in the shop. For example, you have The Lord of the Rings in the window, and I’m sure you must have Harry Potter books knocking around. We could make a display with a starry backcloth, and pointy hats, and maybe a flying broomstick or two.’
‘Good heavens,’ said Raphael.
‘And I’m sure I could organise a way for the shop to take credit and debit cards,’ said Jemma. ‘You know, bring you into the twenty-first century.’
‘I’m really not sure that’s necessary,’ said Raphael. He looked down his nose at her. ‘All right, I shall employ you.’
‘Wait a minute,’ said Jemma. ‘Aren’t you going to ask me if I have any questions?’
‘Do I have to?’ asked Raphael.
‘Yes, you do,’ said Jemma, who had been on a recruitment course. She tried to remember what she had written, since Folio showed no sign of moving. ‘What is the salary?’