‘Of course you may stay,’ said Raphael, sounding surprised. ‘You’re the first assistant I’ve had since – well, I can’t remember – who has lasted till Friday.’
Jemma felt a slight prickle of unease. ‘Why is that, do you think?’
Raphael considered, gazing into the middle distance, or possibly at the Self Help section. ‘Oh, there are many reasons which I won’t bother you with just yet. I really don’t think it will be relevant. Now, would you like to ask me again if you can stay, or may I get on with my crossword?’
Jemma opened and closed her mouth like a fish out of water.
‘We can sign something, if it would make you feel better,’ said Raphael. He got up, went to the counter, and pulled a brown-paper bag off the string. Then he took a fountain pen out of his jacket pocket and wrote rapidly on the paper. ‘Here.’ He held it out to Jemma.
Jemma read what he had written in his beautiful copperplate.
I, Raphael Burns, promise to employ Jemma James at Burns Books for as long as it is mutually convenient to us both.
I, Jemma James, agree to work in said bookshop until I am bored or for other reasons.
Raphael had already signed it. ‘Will that do?’ he said.
Jemma thought of early mornings clutching a cup of grainy coffee from the kiosk by the tube, hurrying home in the evening via Kris’s Takeaway, and waking up in the middle of the night convinced she had left something vital out of her latest report.
‘It’ll do,’ she said. Raphael passed her his fountain pen, she signed with her little flourish, and the deed was done.
Chapter 6
Jemma’s clock radio woke her with ‘Fame’ on Monday morning, which she took as an exceptionally good omen. Not that she wanted to be famous – good heavens, no – except perhaps as some sort of shop turnaround-er, like Mary Portas. Yes, that would be good. Maybe she could have her own series, going into unprofitable businesses and, with a wave of her magic wand, transforming them into happy places where the money poured in. She decided to have wholemeal toast with organic strawberry jam for breakfast. After all, it was an important day.
Today the tube didn’t misbehave, and Jemma arrived at Burns Books at a quarter past eight. It was a lovely bright spring day, but with a fresh breeze and a slight chill in the air which she hoped would induce chilly tourists to pop in for a browse. A day to blow the cobwebs away, she thought. Oh, what a good idea. She delved into her bag and brought out her new prized possession: the keys to the shop.
Raphael had given them to her after closing on Friday. ‘Would you mind opening up on Monday?’ he asked. ‘I always find Mondays rather difficult.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Jemma said, watching the keys as they swung gently back and forth on Raphael’s finger.
‘Now, the big iron key is for the lock which is under the handle,’ said Raphael. ‘It’s a bit stiff. And the other lock is at eye level.’ He studied Jemma. ‘Actually, you might need to look up.’
‘I’m sure I can manage,’ said Jemma, taking the keys off his finger. I’ll get a keyring for them, she thought. Something bookish. I wonder if we could sell keyrings in the shop? She resolved to follow that up at the weekend.
And she had, as well as planning the bookshop’s social media content for the next three months, and producing a set of graphs showing which genres had sold best over the previous week. She had also bought herself another pair of baseball boots, an extra pair of smartish trousers, this time in navy, and, on impulse, a T-shirt which said Bookworm And Proud in curved rainbow lettering. It was a bit children’s TV presenter, but she figured that sending a clear message was part of her communication strategy.
She had also found time to send a quick text to Em. Had my review yesterday and I’m permanent in the shop. Can’t wait to get properly started.
And she couldn’t. Not even when Em replied: Are you sure you’re doing the right thing? I just don’t see how this can be a career X.
I can, and that’s what matters. And with that Jemma put her phone out of reach, and carried on with her trend analysis.
But I have to get back to basics first, she thought, as she jiggled the huge iron key in the lock. I have to get into the shop, and open it up.
The lock finally gave in, and admitted her. The Yale lock, by comparison, was a doddle, though she did have to stand on tiptoe to get a good view of it. The door swung open, and the bright, merciless light revealed the state of the shop.
‘I’m here!’ she called, but there was no response. Not even a meow.
Oh my, she thought, as cobwebs wafted gently in the breeze. The shop looks as if it’s been asleep for a thousand years. And it’s only been a weekend. She heaved a sigh, then winced as a cobweb settled on her face. She batted it away, then frowned. If there are this many cobwebs, then how many spiders must there be? And how many flies? She shuddered, and pulled up the blind to reveal a decidedly grimy shop window.
‘You need cleaning, and no mistake,’ she said, nodding at it. ‘I’ll open up, and then I shall deal with you.’ She ran a fingertip over the window, and grimaced at the result.
There was plenty of change in the till, even though Jemma had made Raphael go to the bank with a large bundle of cash on Friday afternoon, and she switched the lights on without any untoward incidents. In some ways, she thought, surveying the premises, it might be better to leave them switched off. The additional light emphasised the dust which rose every time Jemma moved around, and gave the cobwebs shadows which made them seem twice as thick. Right, she thought, I’d better get to it. I’ve got about half an hour before the shop is supposed to be ready for customers.
Jemma looked for a bucket, but drew a blank. How does he clean this place? Then she tried the cupboard under the sink in the back room for cleaning materials, but found nothing. She decided to assume that Raphael kept such things in his own flat above the shop. The alternative was too depressing to imagine. In the end she commandeered the washing-up bowl, which she filled with hot water and a squirt of washing-up liquid in the absence of anything better, and grabbed a J-cloth from the side of the sink. She made a mental note to research natural cleaning products, and carried the bowl through to the front of the shop.
I’d better start at the top, she thought, and fetched the small step which she used for restocking the middle shelves. Then she cleared out the window display, which needed redoing anyway, and set to work.
She was stretching into the top right-hand corner of the window when a cough nearly sent her into space. ‘What are you doing?’ enquired Raphael.
‘What do you think I’m doing?’ Jemma replied.
Raphael said nothing for a moment, but gazed at the window. ‘I heard squeaking,’ he said.
‘That,’ said Jemma, wringing her cloth out, ‘is the sound of clean.’ She gestured at the bowl. ‘Look at the state of that water.’
Raphael frowned. ‘Why are you using dirty water to wash the window?’
‘It wasn’t dirty when I started,’ said Jemma, between gritted teeth. ‘Where do you keep your cleaning stuff?’
‘I need a coffee,’ said Raphael. ‘And it needs to be an espresso.’