No, Jemma told herself sternly. You are going to avoid the takeaway, go home, and cook yourself a proper meal.
But I have to stand up to do that. I’ve been on my feet all day—
Then you’ll have to get used to it. Jemma took a deep breath, looked straight ahead, and marched past the takeaway. Enticing smells of grease and pepperoni assaulted her nostrils. I am strong. I can do this. Anyway, I had pizza for lunch.
She had been surprised when Raphael announced that he was nipping out for lunch at twelve thirty, then returned with a pizza box emblazoned with the logo of the takeaway next door, Snacking Cross Road. ‘I hope you like anchovies,’ he said, lifting the lid and revealing a pizza Napoli.
‘Ooh, thanks,’ said Jemma. She salivated at the aroma. Breakfast had been light, as she had been too nervous to eat much, and had happened what seemed like a very long time ago.
Raphael lifted a slice in his long fingers and took a hefty bite. ‘Well, go on then,’ he said, through the pizza.
Jemma glanced at the door. ‘Should I wait?’ she asked. ‘A customer might come in.’
‘And the pizza will get cold,’ said Raphael, giving her a severe look.
‘Fair point,’ said Jemma, and dived in.
No, there was definitely no excuse to stop by the takeaway tonight. The shop had closed at five o’clock precisely, and they had cashed up and found £152.50 in the till, which Raphael pronounced a record for a Monday. He locked it in the safe, then glanced at his watch, cried ‘Good heavens, it’s almost half past!’, and shooed her out of the shop.
I’ll wear more comfortable shoes tomorrow, she thought as she walked down her road, wincing as her heel rubbed yet again. Are Converse acceptable? She decided that if dress suits and gold bow ties were OK, then baseball boots would be fine. Especially since she would be behind the counter a lot of the time.
She arrived at the slightly dilapidated Victorian townhouse where she had a studio flat, let herself in, and wished, not for the first time, that her landlord would put in a lift. I can probably cancel my gym membership, she thought. It isn’t as if I went anyway, and the shop will keep me fit. She climbed up the grand staircase to the third floor. As usual, the slightly wonky B on the door of the flat irked her. Not much I can do about it, she thought, and opened the door.
Jemma kicked off her shoes, resisted the call of the sofa, and went to investigate the cupboards in the kitchenette. She found pasta, a tin of tomatoes, a tin of beans, and in the fridge, a heel of cheese and some dried-out ham. She checked in the bread bin, but the three slices of bread left had green speckles blooming on them, and she put them in the bin. ‘Pasta it is,’ she said, and filled a pan with water.
Even after filling a bowl with the resultant cheese and tomato gloop, there was still plenty left. I can have it again tomorrow, she thought. She flopped on the sofa, switched on the TV, and was puzzled for a moment when she didn’t see what she expected. Of course, it’s still early, she thought, channel-surfing until she found something suitable to accompany forking pasta into her face.
She had just put a particularly cheesy, tomatoey forkful into her mouth when her mobile rang. ‘Mmff,’ she said, reached for her phone, and looked at the display.
Em.
Jemma pressed Accept. ‘Hi, Em,’ she said, after swallowing.
‘I called to see how you were doing,’ said Em. ‘I hope you’re all right.’
Jemma smiled to herself. ‘I’m fine, thanks. I haven’t long got in from work. I’ve been cooking.’
‘Work?’ said Em. ‘What are you doing?’ Suddenly a loud metallic-sounding voice boomed unintelligibly. ‘Sorry, just waiting for my train. You did say work, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, I found a job,’ said Jemma, feeling exceptionally perky. ‘I’m working in a bookshop.’
‘Oh,’ said Em. ‘That’s a bit different.’ A pause. ‘Are you enjoying it?’
‘Yes,’ said Jemma. ‘It’s an independent one, on Charing Cross Road.’
‘Oh, right,’ said Em. ‘Doesn’t that have loads of bookshops?’
‘That’s right,’ said Jemma. ‘My one is called Burns Books.’
The tannoy boomed out again, and Jemma waited patiently for Em’s congratulations. The noise ceased, but Em was still silent. ‘Em? Are you still there?’
‘Yes, I’m still here.’ Em sounded faint, but down in the tube the signal was always poor. ‘Was that Burns Books you said? Only—’
‘Have you heard of it?’ asked Jemma, eagerly. ‘It isn’t a big shop, but it’s got lots of potential. I think I can make a real difference.’
‘Um,’ said Em. ‘It’s just that – My train’s here, but I read something. I’ll send it to you. You haven’t signed a contract or anything, have you?’
Jemma laughed. ‘Raphael isn’t that kind of boss,’ she said. ‘But what did you—’
‘Got to go, bye, bye.’
Jemma looked at the phone for a moment, then put it down and scooped up more pasta. Maybe she’s jealous of my new start, she thought to herself, chewing.
She had just finished the bowl when her phone pinged with a message. You might want to read this. Sorry.
Jemma clicked on the attachment. It was an article: The Ten Worst Bookshops in Britain. It was from a website that specialised in listicles, and beneath the title it said, in smaller letters: Information taken from The Bookseller’s Companion and social media. And at number two – not even the top spot – was Burns Books.
Looking for a satisfying shopping experience? Then don’t come here. The owner dresses like a failed Doctor Who who’s found a bookshop from the bad old days and brought it kicking and screaming into the present. He couldn’t care less about the customers, the shop is a death trap, and if the shop doesn’t get you, the cat will. How the shop keeps running is a complete mystery, but I wouldn’t advise you to try and solve it by going there.
Jemma’s mouth twitched. She had to admit that, as descriptions went, it wasn’t entirely inaccurate. She closed the article and hit Reply. That was an interesting read, she texted. Thanks for sending it. The shop does have a lot of potential.
She yawned widely, and covered her mouth. I shall read in bed, she decided, and opened out the sofa-bed. If I’m going to turn the shop around, I’ll need to be well rested.
***
Folio, now the size of a tiger, roared at Jemma, and she had to build a barricade of books to keep herself safe. She had just put the last book into place when Folio leapt on top of it and books rained down on her. ‘No!’ she cried, flinging up her hands. Then she blinked, removed Anna Karenina from her face, and realised that the roaring was a loud rock number which, in her view, was completely inappropriate for breakfast radio.
She got ready, had a large bowl of cornflakes, and set off for the tube. As before, she had to knock for admission, but at least this time Raphael was dressed. Today’s outfit was a tweed suit with elbow patches, a pink shirt, and a navy cravat with stars on. Jemma remembered the article, and tried not to smirk.
‘You’re early again,’ said Raphael, with a yawn. ‘Perhaps I should sort you out with a set of keys, and then you can open up when you arrive.’