‘Oh no, he supports me fully,’ said Jemma.
‘Well, it’s his money.’ Her mother sighed. ‘If the bookshop was failing anyway, anything is an improvement.’
‘It’s only your positive attitude that keeps me going, Mum,’ said Jemma.
‘I’m sorry, I missed that,’ said her mother. ‘I wish you’d get a proper phone line. I’m sure phoning your mobile is costing me a fortune. Anyway, your boss. Is he nice?’
Jemma felt on firm ground now. ‘Yes, he’s very nice.’
‘And how old is he, would you say?’
Jemma couldn’t help grinning. ‘Oh, he’s much older than me.’ She would have loved to see her mother’s face if she had told her how much older Raphael was, but sadly it was not to be.
‘Oh,’ said her mother. ‘I suppose at least if you don’t have to commute you’ll have time to go out and meet people. And I’m sure lots of nice people come into the bookshop.’
‘Mum, I’m seeing someone,’ said Jemma. ‘I did tell you.’ She had found more and more, since leaving home, that her mother’s brain was like a temperamental sieve. It was good at retaining the things she wanted to remember, and remarkably skilled at letting everything else go.
‘Did you? Are you sure? What does he do? I suppose it is a he. Or should I say they? Is that what one says now?’
‘He’s a he,’ said Jemma. ‘He works—’ She hesitated. But working in the café was nothing to be ashamed of. ‘He’s working in the main bookshop café at the moment, because he’s between jobs. He’s an actor.’
‘Oh,’ said her mother. ‘Does he have a name, this actor? Would I have seen him in anything?’
‘I doubt it, Mum, he hasn’t done any TV work. His name is Carl.’
Her mother sniffed in a way that suggested that if Carl hadn’t been on her television, he didn’t really exist. ‘Amanda and Jake have bought the house they were looking at, in the next village.’
‘Oh yes, she texted,’ said Jemma. ‘I know they really wanted it.’ Amanda was two years younger than Jemma, and somehow, since Jemma had left home to go to university and Amanda had decided to live at home and become a primary school teacher, Jemma felt the balance of her mother’s affection had distinctly shifted in Amanda’s favour. Amanda’s career was so rewarding; Amanda’s boyfriend Jake had such lovely manners; Amanda came for Sunday lunch every weekend without fail. Jemma probably would have resented her sister if Amanda hadn’t been so frank in private about how hard she found teaching some days, and how often their mother praised Jemma to her as an independent woman making her own way in the world.
‘Yes,’ said her mother. ‘I’m so pleased they’ve been able to get a foot on the property ladder.’
‘Oh, absolutely,’ said Jemma. ‘And with the money I’m saving on rent at the moment, hopefully I can get a deposit together for when I’m ready to buy.’
‘Does this Carl have a place of his own?’ asked her mother, in a voice which somehow suggested a dragon scenting an addition to her hoard.
Jemma laughed. ‘He works in the shop café, Mum, what do you think?’
‘I only asked,’ said her mother. ‘Anyway, I’d better go; EastEnders is on soon.’ Jemma had a distinct suspicion that, though her mother must have visited London several times, she still thought EastEnders was an entirely accurate representation of the whole of London life. She considered asking if she had seen Notting Hill, then decided that would just bring a whole new range of assumptions to deal with.
‘It’s been nice talking to you, Mum,’ she said. ‘Are you all right? And how about Dad?’
‘Oh yes, we’re both fine,’ said her mother. ‘Your father is building the Millennium Falcon at the moment. It’s all over the dining-room table.’
Jemma grinned. Dad had always been a Lego fanatic, building things for them when they were tiny, then with them, and when Jemma and Amanda reached their teenage years and preferred hanging around the local shopping centre, without them. ‘I’m sure it won’t take him long to finish it,’ she said.
‘You haven’t seen it,’ her mother said, darkly. ‘Anyway, it’s five to eight and I’ve just got time to make a cup of tea, so I must go. I’ll phone you next week, Jemma.’
‘OK. Bye, Mum,’ said Jemma. And as always, her mother managed to put the phone down first.
Jemma looked at the phone in her hand. As usual, her mother had said nothing about her own life. Jemma occasionally wondered whether her mother could be a secret operative for MI5, or engaged in a string of glamorous affairs. She was certainly good at gathering information while managing to divulge only select snippets of her own.
Jemma sighed. Even if she did have an amazing secret life, she thought, I still wouldn’t want to be my mum. She’s so – so determined to be disappointed. Particularly in me. She knew full well that even if she made the bookshop into the most high-profile, successful bookshop in London – no, the world – and earned a six-figure salary, and married Carl, who then landed a leading role in EastEnders, her mother would find something to be disappointed about. But she still wanted to please her.
I’ll make a go of this bookshop, she thought, and her hand tightened on the phone. I’ll work out my goals, and my vision, and my values, and I’ll make that shop into a place where I’m proud and happy to work. And if Maddy doesn’t like it, well— She shrugged. She can put up, or shut up.
Jemma nodded, to bed in her resolve more deeply, fetched her laptop, and went into the kitchen to make tea and raid the emergency biscuits. Perhaps, if she could transform the bookshop into the shop of her dreams, everything else would follow. At any rate, it was worth a try.
Chapter 3
Jemma’s resolve to take the bookshop in hand was still firm when she woke in the morning. She had created a new spreadsheet the previous evening: colour-coded, with goals, milestones, and dependencies. That had made her feel much better. When Carl texted at nine o’clock, she had replied: Yes, I’m fine, I’ve got a plan. She hadn’t even read herself to sleep with Pigs Have Wings, because she had no need to escape any more.
When getting ready, she selected comparatively businesslike attire: black trousers, a smart top, and a jacket instead of her usual cardigan. She thought of Maddy’s Birkenstocks, and added a pair of shoes with a slight heel. After all, now that she spent most of her time sitting, baseball boots weren’t required. Thus armoured, she made herself a strong coffee, tucked her laptop under her arm, and went downstairs.
She almost jumped out of her skin when Maddy arrived five minutes later, and only just managed to swallow her mouthful of coffee. ‘You’re … early,’ she said, and felt her resolve trickling away. She put her mug down and sat up straight.
‘Not really,’ said Maddy, hanging up her coat and beret. Jemma eyed her feet and wondered whether the Birkenstocks would persist throughout the winter, and what Maddy would do if it snowed. ‘I always come in early on the third Tuesday of the month. It’s stocktake day.’