Her eyes opened. It was pitch black, possibly because she had managed to pull the throw she kept on the chesterfield sofa over her face. But when she struggled free, it was still dark outside. Something was digging into her back. She felt around carefully and retrieved Pigs Have Wings, which looked slightly the worse for its experience.
Oh dear. She glanced at her phone: a quarter past four. She sighed, padded upstairs to her bedroom, and lay down as she was. After all, she’d have to get up in three hours.
It’s been ages since I had a nightmare, she thought, but she didn’t bother to interrogate the cause. She knew perfectly well.
Jemma had tried her best to honour her new action point to be kind to Maddy, but somehow, it wasn’t bearing the fruit she had hoped for. Far from the glimpses of possible companionship, and a future for the bookshop without Brian in it, Maddy had grown even more set in her ways. When Jemma had suggested gently that perhaps the bookshop could widen its remit and introduce a shelf of classic novels, plays, and poetry, Maddy’s head had pulled back and her nostrils had flared, as if she were a warhorse ready to charge.
‘I’m not sure what our customers would make of that,’ she said, fetching a cloth and wiping an invisible smear from the counter. When a customer came in, she asked him – after she had fulfilled his requirements, of course. ‘While you’re here, Mr De Vere,’ she had said, ‘Jemma wonders whether we should present classic fiction in addition to our current offer.’
Mr De Vere, a lean man in a tweed jacket, snorted. ‘Not for me, thank you,’ he said, regarding Jemma as if she were a slug on his salad. ‘The shop is fine as it is. I wouldn’t want it – diluted – with fiction.’ He leaned forward and murmured something to Maddy which Jemma was too far away to catch.
Maddy considered, and as she did so, Jemma moved closer. The pair of them eyed her, then Maddy said, ‘I really couldn’t say.’
‘Since you’re here, Mr De Vere,’ said Jemma, feeling that as she was already in his bad books it couldn’t hurt to sink any lower, ‘are there any other books you might be interested in? I’m thinking of compiling a database of customers’ interests.’
Mr De Vere ignored her while he put his purchase into the large leather satchel he had brought for the purpose. Only then did he respond. ‘When I want a book, my dear, I shall come in and ask for it. Good day to you.’
‘That went well,’ said Jemma, once the door had closed behind him.
Maddy turned, and Jemma almost recoiled at her forbidding expression. ‘We do not solicit the customers in the shop,’ she said.
‘Why not?’ said Jemma. ‘Usually people like being asked what their interests are.’
‘Our relationships with our clients go back years,’ said Maddy. ‘You can’t expect to get chummy with them in a matter of days.’
‘Then maybe we need friendlier customers,’ said Jemma. ‘Meanwhile, I need tea.’ And she stomped to the back room in high dudgeon.
The rest of the afternoon had been no better. They had two more serious customers who also rejected the idea that the shop might stock even Folio Society editions of appropriate fiction. In between, a sprinkling of browsers were scared off either by the books or by Maddy, who had told one customer with great contempt that they did not stock chick lit.
‘If that’s what you’re looking for,’ said Jemma, ‘why don’t you try Burns Books? It’s just down the road that way. They have lots of fiction, including chick lit, and a café.’
‘Oh, right,’ said the woman, slinging her handbag more firmly over her shoulder. ‘Thanks for that, I’ll go there now. I could just fancy a coffee.’
Maddy was silent until the customer had left. Then she rounded on Jemma. ‘What did you do that for?’
Jemma shrugged. ‘If we don’t have what she wants, it’s only reasonable to send her to a shop that does. Perhaps they’ll send people our way, too.’
Maddy muttered something.
‘I didn’t quite catch that,’ said Jemma.
‘I said,’ Maddy declared, clear as a bell, ‘that left up to you, the shop would be run into the ground within a fortnight. Sending people to our competitors?’
‘They aren’t our competitors,’ said Jemma. ‘In case you’ve forgotten, I work for both shops, and I don’t see why they can’t complement each other. Perhaps you should stop being so narrow-minded.’
Maddy muttered again at that, and Jemma decided that, whatever she was saying, she couldn’t be bothered to listen to it. They had spent the rest of the afternoon in different parts of the shop.
They closed bang on five o’clock, as usual. So much for kindness, thought Jemma. She gazed around the beautiful, cold shop, and sighed. Then she texted Carl. Just finished here. Want to come round? I’ll cook.
It took longer for him to reply than usual. Jemma sat at the shop counter, waiting. It wasn’t as if she needed to go anywhere. Sorry, not tonight. I’m meeting up with Rumpus. Will you be in the shop tomorrow?
Jemma’s eyebrows rose. I thought rehearsals were yesterday, she replied.
His response was quicker this time. They were. This is something else.
Jemma rolled her eyes. He really wasn’t getting the message. When are you meeting them? she texted.
7.30, but I’ve got stuff to do first. Can we talk tomorrow?
No, I want to talk now!
I’ve had a rotten day and I want someone to be nice to me.
My plan isn’t working and I don’t know what to do.
Sure, see you tomorrow. Jemma had debated putting a kiss on the end of her message, but decided he didn’t deserve it. And now, huddled in a cold bed in the dead of night, she still felt exactly the same.
***
Jemma woke the next morning sticky-eyed and grumpy. Everything still rankled. What annoyed her most was that she had succumbed to the lure of a Snacking Cross Road double-pepperoni pizza and two cans of full-fat Coke. No wonder she hadn’t slept well. ‘Bad choices, Jemma,’ she groaned as she peeled herself out of bed.
At least I don’t have to face Maddy this morning, she thought, staring at her doleful reflection in the bathroom mirror.
But you do have to face Raphael.
She winced, and turned the shower on.
Two slices of toast and a strong coffee later, she felt slightly more human. I suppose I should apologise, she thought, as she put mascara on.
‘Yes, you should,’ said a voice rather like her mother’s. ‘He thinks you’re capable. Let’s face it, you need people like that.’
Jemma had an almost overriding impulse to put her mascara away and slam the cabinet door on that annoying little voice, but remembered just in time that she had only done one eye. So she endured more nagging, her mouth half-open so that she couldn’t even retort, then took great pleasure in shutting it in for the day.
At least once she got to the shop Luke looked his normal, slightly scruffy self. ‘How did it go?’ she asked.
Luke glanced up from The Language of Film. ‘Good, thanks,’ he said.
‘And…?’ she prompted.
The book lowered. ‘I’m going on a date tonight,’ he said. ‘Drinks, then a movie. I’m finishing early so that I can get ready.’