‘I was thinking more of the book-buying aspect of the expedition,’ said Raphael. ‘As you know, I do like a trip out.’ He sighed. ‘I suppose you must start sometime. One’s first solo book-buying trip is a rite of passage.’
‘Don’t make me more nervous than I already am,’ said Jemma. ‘Now, I’ve got the addresses, my phone is fully charged, and you’re sure they’ll send the bill to the shop?’
‘As you said approximately two minutes ago, Jemma, it’ll be fine,’ said Raphael. ‘Off you go, and enjoy yourself.’
‘And if you bring back any copies of Fifty Shades of Grey, we won’t let you in,’ said Luke, grinning.
Jemma rolled her eyes. ‘You’re cheerful,’ she said. ‘And rather smart.’ The midnight-blue shirt had made a reappearance, teamed with snazzy black trousers with a thin black satin stripe down the side. ‘Another date tonight?’
Luke looked away, then gave her a little sidelong glance. ‘Might be.’
‘Are you leaving today or tomorrow?’ asked Raphael. Just then, the shop bell rang. ‘Good, a customer. Off you go, and stop disrupting my shop. I expect to hear all about it when you get back.’
‘You will,’ said Jemma. ‘And thank you.’ She smiled at the customer and hurried out. Gertrude was waiting, her bright orange paint shining in the mellow autumn sunlight as if she were a giant pumpkin.
Jemma had popped downstairs earlier and asked Carl to stay there when she left the shop. ‘I know you want to see me off,’ she said. ‘But you’ll say something encouraging or motivational, and I don’t want to cry in front of the others.’
‘Who, me?’ said Carl, with a cheesy grin. ‘Motivational? All right then, I guess I’ll just have to do it now.’ He folded her in a big hug, and whispered, ‘Go do your thing, and be awesome.’
‘Aargh!’ cried Jemma, but it was too late; she could already feel tears welling up, and his hug squeezed them out of her even faster. ‘I’m happy, really I am,’ she hiccupped.
And here she was, bowling along in Gertrude, with the maps app on her phone set to Putney. The roads seem quiet. She had expected to crawl out of the city, but somehow all the traffic lights changed to green as she approached them, and the bits of road coloured red on her map faded to orange, then their usual colour as she drove along them. Hmmm, she thought, and rubbed Gertrude’s steering wheel.
Her mood was further improved by the knowledge that the painters would arrive that afternoon. Having obtained three quotes, Jemma had gone with the cheapest, from the firm that Raphael used. ‘They’ve been in business for two hundred years,’ he had said. ‘They know what they’re doing.’
On one hand, Jemma hoped that she would be out when they arrived, so that she wouldn’t face the initial wrath of Maddy. Then again, she didn’t want to miss seeing the look on Maddy’s face when they arrived and started unpacking their equipment. After much thought she had gone for a deep, rich burgundy which was still bookshop-ish and classy, but much warmer and brighter than the current dull black. As for a name – unable to settle on anything, she had booked a signwriter for two days’ time, on the grounds that that would make her come to a decision.
Almost before she knew it, she was in Putney. Gertrude rolled down quiet leafy streets until eventually they came to a long, low warehouse, nothing special to look at. ‘You have arrived at your destination,’ the phone declared.
A tall, skinny, balding man in faded jeans and a voluminous shirt sauntered outside. ‘Hello, Gertrude,’ he said, rubbing her wing mirror. ‘Jemma James, I presume,’ he said, extending a hand to her. ‘I’m Dave Huddart. I gather you’re after books.’
‘I am,’ said Jemma. She dismounted from Gertrude and pulled a long list out of her bag.
Dave took the list and scanned it rapidly. ‘Yep,’ he said. ‘Got boxes?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Jemma. ‘And the trolley.’
‘All prepared, then.’ He twinkled at her. ‘First time?’
‘Is it that obvious?’ said Jemma, fighting the urge to take a step back.
‘Nah,’ said Dave. ‘You’ve just got that look about you. If you get your things and come this way, I’ll take you to the book department.’
He led Jemma through an Aladdin’s cave. To the left bristled a forest of chairs. To her right, a small army of mannequin heads wearing elaborate hats stared with sightless eyes. Then lamps and lights of all descriptions, some lit but most not, gleamed in their dark home.
‘I’m afraid things aren’t in order,’ said Dave. ‘I’ve split the fiction and non-fiction, but that’s about it.’
Don’t go mad, Jemma cautioned herself, as she gazed at the shelves. This is your first shop. Only choose things you’re sure will sell.
‘I’ll come back in ten minutes and see how you’re getting on,’ said Dave.
Jemma undropped her jaw long enough to say thank you, then continued to gawp at the shelves.
You’ve seen a lot of books before, she told herself. There probably aren’t as many here as there are in the stockroom at Burns Books. Or on the lower floor, come to that. But somehow these books, crammed into shelves, on top of shelves, in piles at the foot of shelves, had an impact all their own. ‘Folio would love this,’ she said aloud. Timidly, she reached out for a hardback copy of Hans Christian Andersen’s fairy tales. When she held the book in her hand, she knew she would buy it. ‘This is so tempting,’ she whispered, putting the book on a small table which stood nearby. ‘And so dangerous.’
Jemma decided to limit herself to five boxes. She chose carefully, visualising the book on her shelves, or turned so that its cover faced the customer, and considering how it would complement her other selections. Even so, she had amassed a good four boxes’ worth when Dave reappeared. ‘Found some stuff, then,’ he said.
‘Could I have two more minutes?’ asked Jemma.
He laughed. ‘I think that’s safe. Any more than that, and I suspect you’d buy the whole shop.’ He stood by as she chose twenty more books, her hands shooting out confidently, stroking the books as she laid them down. ‘Want me to price that lot up?’
Jemma blinked. ‘I’m not sure.’ She blinked. Now that she had been brought back to reality, she did seem to have chosen an awful lot of books. Very nice books. ‘Um, can I put some back if I’m over budget?’
Dave frowned, then laughed. ‘Course you can. Give me a minute.’ He crooked his forefinger and waggled it as he scrutinised the spines of the books, muttering to himself all the while. Jemma heard numbers, and words like original slipcase and colour plates, and her heart sank. What if she had to put half of them back? She felt as if it would break her heart.
Then Dave said a number, and she stared at him. ‘Excuse me?’
He said it again.
‘Are you sure? For all these books?’
‘Yep,’ said Dave. ‘I’ve got books coming out of my ears and you’ll be a good customer. And you’re a referral from Raphael, which counts for something.’ He grinned at her. ‘I take it you’re happy with that?’