‘Eat in or take out?’ Then his grin narrowed a little. ‘You OK?’
She frowned. ‘Yes, of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?’
He turned away to put the panini in the warmer, and began making her cappuccino. When he finally put her cup on the counter, he wore the expression of someone walking across ice. ‘You just looked a little too pleased to see me.’ His gaze moved to the book in her hand. ‘And you’ve got a PG Wodehouse book. You told me once that you read those for escapism.’
Jemma sighed. ‘Well done, Sherlock Holmes,’ she said. ‘It’s probably nothing.’
‘Doesn’t look like nothing,’ said Carl. ‘I’ve got rehearsals with Rumpus tonight, but we could go out later, maybe nine? Or I could come round?’
Jemma heard a voice behind her mutter, ‘Oh do get a move on.’
‘No, it’s fine,’ she said quickly. ‘Like I said, it’s probably nothing.’
Jemma paid, took her cappuccino and found a small table at the edge of the café area. She opened her book and attempted to lose herself in it, but she had only read two pages when the cry of ‘Tomato and mozzarella panini!’ brought her back into the café.
The panini was nice, and so was the cappuccino, and the bookshop had just the right soothing background hum; but somehow the image of a bookshop, empty apart from herself and Maddy, and silent apart from the ticking of the grandfather clock, kept getting between her and the Empress of Blandings. Once she had finished her lunch Jemma sighed again, though she wasn’t sure exactly why, and took her book upstairs.
‘Luke’s on his lunch,’ said Raphael. He hadn’t moved from the armchair, but Folio was sitting on his lap. ‘You can serve yourself, can’t you?’
Jemma laughed. ‘Yeah.’ She popped behind the counter, scanned her book with the little scan gun they now had at each till, and held her phone to the card reader. ‘All done.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Raphael. ‘I put a book aside for you. I was shelving your boxes and I thought it might be useful.’
Jemma saw a Burns Books paper bag on the counter, with a book inside. She drew it out. Your Business, Your Way. ‘Oh, um, thanks,’ she said. ‘Do you think it’ll help?’
‘Well, you don’t seem happy with things as they are,’ said Raphael. ‘You can always bring it back.’
‘I suppose I can,’ said Jemma, still gazing at the cover of the book. ‘I’ll start it tonight. Thanks, Raphael.’ She replaced the book in the bag, added the Wodehouse to it, and left the shop.
She still had ten minutes of her lunch hour left, so she stopped in at Nafisa’s mini-market and bought a packet of sausages and enough potatoes to make a generous portion of mash for one. I don’t have to impress anyone tonight, she thought. And if I’m seriously taking on Brian’s bookshop – no, not Brian’s bookshop, my bookshop – I need proper food.
Nafisa frowned at the packet of sausages. ‘Are you sure?’ she said.
‘You’re selling them,’ said Jemma. ‘I assume they’re fit for human consumption.’
Nafisa considered her. ‘Sausages don’t seem very you,’ she said. ‘You’re more chickpeas and lentils these days.’
‘Don’t forget the quinoa,’ said Jemma. ‘Yes, I suppose I am. But sometimes you need comfort food.’
Nafisa let out an ominous ‘Mmm,’ and scanned the sausages. ‘May you find comfort in them,’ she said, almost as if she were blessing them, and handed them to Jemma. And as Jemma strolled back to BJF Antiquarian Books, opened the door, and saw Maddy sitting just as she had left her an hour before, she really hoped that she would.
Chapter 2
Jemma leaned against the worktop in Brian’s – no, her – compact but well-appointed kitchen, reading Your Business, Your Way. In the background, sausages sizzled. Every so often she would reach across and poke them with a spatula to ensure they cooked evenly. But really, her attention was on the book.
They had closed on the stroke of five, and the afternoon had been as quiet as the morning. They had cashed up at a quarter to five, since Maddy had said with authority that none of their regulars were likely to visit after four thirty anyway, and locked the takings in the safe, ready to go to the bank tomorrow. The takings were fairly respectable, considering the low number of books they had sold. ‘Low volume, high profit,’ Maddy had said, with a smug air. There was no tidying to do, no books to replace on shelves, and nothing to be said about the day at all. ‘See you tomorrow,’ said Maddy, and left on the first chime of the clock.
Jemma enjoyed mashing her potatoes. She added plenty of milk and butter, and pretended that she was pummelling the bookshop into shape. Yes, she thought, as she mashed, it’s my bookshop, and it is up to me to make the changes. Perhaps she had mashed the potatoes too thoroughly and added a little too much milk, since she was left with a purée instead of a mash, and when she stuck her three sausages into it at jaunty angles, they immediately sank into the puddle of potato. Jemma refused to derive an insight from this minor cookery fail, adding a dollop of tomato ketchup and telling herself that it would taste fine. Who wanted hard lumpy mash, anyway?
She continued to flick through the book as she ate. It was rather inspiring, with its talk of working out your goals and moulding your business to fit them, and ensuring that the business reflected your values. But while it was heavy on buzzwords, it was extremely light on practicalities. It didn’t, for example, tell you what to do if you had taken on a bookshop which was the exact opposite of a shop you would actually want to visit, complete with an assistant who was happy with things the way they were. Jemma laid the book down, and decided to focus on her remaining sausage rather than her values.
She was just chewing the last mouthful, and wishing that Carl was there to laugh over the book with her, when her mobile rang. Jemma’s heart leapt. Maybe his rehearsal had finished early and they could go out for that drink after all. But when she got her phone from her jacket pocket the display said Mum.
Jemma’s heart sank a little, which made her feel guilty, and she pressed Answer. ‘Hi, Mum.’
‘Hello, Jemma. I didn’t expect you to answer.’ Her mother sounded a little aggrieved that she had. ‘I thought you’d still be working. Or on your way home.’
‘It’s gone half past seven, Mum. Don’t forget I live over the bookshop now.’
‘Oh yes.’ Her mother sniffed. ‘I always liked that other flat. Such a nice building. And a nice road, too.’
As far as Jemma could remember, her mother had visited the flat twice, and hadn’t been particularly complimentary on either occasion. ‘Expensive, though,’ she said. ‘This one is rent-free. Perk of the job.’
‘Probably because the owner can’t find a tenant for it,’ said her mother. ‘Anyway, how are you getting on with your new job?’
Wild horses wouldn’t have dragged the truth out of Jemma. ‘It’s great,’ she said. ‘The shop has so much potential, and I’m looking forward to making changes.’
‘I expect the owner will have things to say about that.’