‘I can’t say it’s my favourite topic of conversation, either,’ said Raphael. ‘Anyway, you wanted to talk about stock.’
Jemma studied him. ‘I do,’ she said. ‘But if I can help in any way—’
‘I’ll think about it,’ said Raphael. ‘Thank you. It’s nice to talk to someone who understands. I mean, I’m sure many of my Assistant Keepers would, but there’s always that niggling feeling that they might use that knowledge against me.’
Jemma shivered at the thought of an army of subordinates gunning for him. ‘I don’t know how you can bear it,’ she said.
‘Mostly, I put it aside,’ said Raphael. ‘Besides, I’m a wily old fox, and I do find that it helps to be a bumbling idiot.’
‘You mean pretend to be a bumbling idiot,’ said Jemma.
‘Oh no,’ said Raphael. ‘I really am. Just not in everything.’ He took a large bite of his danish pastry, and apart from appreciative noises, was silent for a good minute. ‘So, stock,’ he said, eventually. ‘We are going to talk about this.’
Jemma grinned. ‘Yes, we are. We’re starting to sell more lower-price books, but the catch is that we don’t have many left. So I’m after good-quality books that won’t break the bank. If possible’ – she leaned forward – ‘I’d like to get fiction in there.’
‘Oooh,’ said Raphael. ‘So what do you need to know?’
‘Firstly,’ said Jemma, ‘do you have any stock like that which we could put into the shop? Most of your customers want paperbacks. If you had any nice hardbacks, though…’
‘I take your point,’ said Raphael. ‘Although this will probably mean making an arrangement about inventory—’
‘Such language, Raphael,’ said Jemma reprovingly. ‘When I’m looking to strengthen both our respective niches, too.’
‘Oh well,’ said Raphael, ‘if you’re strengthening our niches…’ He grinned back at her. ‘Come and pull a couple of boxes out of the stockroom, and we’ll see what turns up. You may have them on a sale-or-return basis.’
‘Thank you,’ said Jemma. ‘But I can’t pinch your stock all the time. I need to buy books myself, and I haven’t a clue where to begin.’
‘Oh, I can talk you through that,’ said Raphael. ‘But take a couple of boxes from me for now, and see how you get on. Time enough to think about your own book-buying expeditions when you’ve seen if you can make this expanded niche work.’ He sipped his coffee. ‘Ugh. I need to wash my mouth out.’
A brief foray into the stockroom yielded three boxes of books. Among the spoils were hardback sets of Jane Austen, Thackeray, and Henry Fielding, a complete Wordsworth, a beautiful edition of London Labour and the London Poor, and a book of Aubrey Beardsley drawings which made Jemma blush. The stockroom also yielded rather a dusty Folio, who jumped on the counter and shook himself, releasing a fine mist of particles which made Jemma sneeze. ‘What have you been doing?’ she asked him.
Folio gazed steadily at her, his eyes golden with a tiny black pupil slit. ‘Meow,’ he offered.
‘Silly cat,’ she told him, and concentrated on loading her boxes onto a small wheeled trolley, to transport them to her own shop. But once she had thanked Raphael and left, a fine dust of concern settled on her too. What would happen if Raphael were challenged again, and this time he didn’t win? Would he lose both shops? And what would happen to him?
Never mind him, a little voice nagged. What about you?
Never mind me, Jemma told it crossly. I’ll be fine. What about Raphael? And the seeds of that particular worry were far harder to remove than dust from a cat’s fur.
Chapter 9
Jemma towed the trolley of books carefully behind her, making sure to keep it level and avoid any bumps in the pavement. She stopped dead when she got to the door of her shop. The trolley, due to momentum, bumped into her hip, and Jemma bit back a swearword.
The swearword wasn’t entirely for the trolley.
In the window of BJF Antiquarian Books, the rainbow of books had gone. One book, one expensive-looking book, was spotlighted.
Jemma blinked, then looked again. After all I said… I thought Maddy was finally on board, and the minute I leave the shop—
She rattled up to the door and pushed it open, fully on the warpath. But inside, Maddy was laughing with Mr De Vere, and a large leather-bound book hunkered smugly on the counter in its protective box.
‘I’m back,’ she announced to nobody, and squeaked her way into the stockroom. Once there, she parked the little trolley against the wall and stared at the boxes of books morosely.
There’s no point even unpacking them, she thought. I can’t get to the computer, so I can’t put them on the system, so I don’t know where to shelve them. Instead, she went and made herself a cup of tea. The minute he’s gone—
But as Mr De Vere was leaving, another customer greeted Maddy like an old friend. Jemma seethed until she wondered whether she might actually whistle like an old kettle, to let off steam.
Eventually the customer left – without buying, Jemma noted – and she stormed back into the shop. ‘Why did you change the display?’ she demanded, pointing at the book in the window as if it were the lone contender in an identity parade.
Maddy drew herself up and her lips tightened. ‘It was a business decision.’
‘What do you mean, business decision? I make the business decisions. I’m in charge of the shop.’
Maddy stood firm. ‘I reviewed our sales,’ she said. ‘We’ve sold more books since your display went up, but unfortunately, as they’re low in value, we’ve made half what we usually would. Within half an hour of me changing it back we’ve had two sales. Two good sales.’
‘Right,’ said Jemma, ‘show me.’ But when Maddy did, she had to admit that the figures were right. If anything, Maddy had been generous in saying that the shop had made half as much.
Oops, said her inner voice. Maybe that change of direction wasn’t such a good idea.
‘I’m still not happy about this,’ Jemma said, eyeing Maddy. ‘It’s been less than a week. You haven’t given people time to get used to the change.’
‘Mmm,’ said Maddy, straightening the card reader on the counter.
‘You had no right to do that without asking,’ Jemma chided. ‘I’ve a good mind to put that display back exactly as it was.’
Maddy gave the tiniest shrug. ‘Unfortunately, you weren’t here to ask,’ she said. ‘You’re the boss. But I wouldn’t advise it.’
Jemma spent the rest of the day in a fairly even split between annoyance, indecision and resentment towards Maddy for being right. Every so often she glanced at the window, and the sight of the book, lit up as if it had won an award, made her hackles rise.
Mid-afternoon, as an act of mutiny against the shop, she brought her new acquisitions through and put them on the database. But there was no place for fiction in the shop, and no category for it in the database. In the end, Jemma entered them under Z9, an empty shelf in the far corner of the stockroom, to give them a home of sorts. I ought to fight, she thought, but I haven’t the energy. I’m worried about Raphael, and sad that I was wrong about the shop, and I honestly don’t know if I’m doing harm or good. So she packed the books away out of sight, closed the stockroom door on them, and got Pigs Have Wings out of her bag.