Book People

Chapter Three

I really shouldn’t be telling you these things. It’s far too forward.

C

KATE

‘It is nigher than you think.’

Oh my God. Sebastian Blackwood is a stupid man who says the most unbelievably stupid things, and that makes me even stupider for taking his bait.

I crash around my tiny kitchen, stacking the dishwasher noisily and coming near to breaking several glasses.

It’s been a couple of days since that moment in my bookshop and I can’t stop thinking about him putting his hands on the counter and leaning in, his blue eyes piercing me right through.

I was shocked he even deigned to set foot in Portable Magic. Then incensed that he only did so to warn me away from his stupid festival again. Then furious that I inadvertently glanced at his magnificent chest as he stood with his arms folded, looking around at all the people having fun for Cosplay Day as if he couldn’t think of anything more stupid in his entire life, and basically being a human energy sink.

Then enraged that he leaned in, pinning me with that cold stare of his, telling me I was responsible for the drop in sales of his bookshop and basically accusing me of being Jeff Bezos.

The gall of him. The absolute gall .

I’m so tired of men telling me I’m the problem when they’re not exactly blameless themselves. Jasper, for example, always used to complain about how busy I was, that I never had time for him, when in fact it was the opposite. I was always rearranging my time to suit him, because he was the one who was so busy.

The annoying thing about the argument with Sebastian Blackwood, though, was that I felt bad for him. And the really aggravating thing is that I still do.

I researched the village when I first arrived, though that mainly consisted of looking at the other businesses here and the villagers. I didn’t do any research about its history. I decided I’d get to the history part – including my mother’s family’s history – once I’d settled in with the bookshop.

More than a few people have tried to talk to me about my great-grandmother, the original Kate Jones, and what a strong personality Rose, her daughter and my grandmother, was. But I didn’t know Rose. My mother, Rebecca, left Wychtree when I was three months old and she never went back.

I didn’t know much about the history of this village, because I never knew my family’s history was this village. Mum never talked about it, and I never asked, because it seemed as if the subject was a painful one and I didn’t want to bring anything up that might be hurtful. My distractible, optimistic, bright mother had enough to deal with being a single parent; she didn’t need to be doing battle with her history too.

Anyway, all that to say: I didn’t think a great deal about the historical significance of Blackwood Books. I didn’t think I’d feel bad about taking some of his customers away, either. But . . . I do.

I’d told him – and myself – that it was good old healthy competition, yet in that moment, when I looked up at him and there was fire in his eyes, all I felt was guilt.

The times I’ve seen him around the village – in the corner shop, the butcher’s, the little bakery, the café where all the tourists and the locals like to get their coffee, the post office – he’s seemed cold and distant. Not a man who cares too much about anything or anyone, and, yes, I’ve made some assumptions. Assumptions that were upheld every time he looked past me or through me, never acknowledging me, not even once.

Yet, just a few days ago, he looked straight at me and I saw the fire inside him. He wasn’t as cold as he seemed. He cared about his bookshop and, dammit, no matter how much I didn’t want to, I related to that hard. And I felt bad for taking his customers.

Infuriating man.

He hasn’t changed his shopfront window since then. I took down my romance theme after a new shipment of witch books came in, and had huge fun setting out tarot cards and crystals, a black cardboard cat and an old-fashioned twig broom. I even managed to beg a cauldron prop from the Wychtree Dramatic Society.

I thought he’d respond, put some kind of science-y books out and maybe a few biographies of Nobel Prize winners, but he hasn’t. The only prize winner in his window right now is that same stack of the Booker book that’s been there all week, and I don’t know why that annoys me so much, but it does.

No. I know why it annoys me.

I felt guilty for taking his customers, and now he’s decided to stop playing our little game with the windows, I’m disappointed.

I hate that I’m disappointed.

I hate that I feel guilty.

I was supposed to come back here to find joy, to find happiness, to think good thoughts, but Sebastian Blackwood is threatening my quest and my dream, and that is not what I want.

I slam the dishwasher shut and turn around, reflecting on how much men suck as I survey the tiny but cosy flat above the shop.

It’s an open-plan living area and kitchen, with a small hall that leads to a small bedroom and even smaller bathroom, but it’s plenty of room for me, and I love it.

I loved the flat I shared with Jasper, too. It was big and airy and got lots of sun. Except it was his and he never let me do any redecorating – he had no patience for my cheerful clutter.

Damn. I don’t want to think about Jasper. He doesn’t deserve any of my thoughts, and I’ve thought of him too many times lately already.

Anyway, the important thing is that I have a whole building that’s mine and a business that’s mine too, and no one can take those things away from me.

Most certainly not Sebastian Blackwood.

The mini-festival I planned in a frenzy the day I found out about his was petty, I know, and he’s probably right: I probably can’t plan a festival in a few weeks. But I’ll be damned if I don’t try.

I’ve already got a little social calendar of things I do with the shop. The romance book club. Tarot night. Yoga mornings. Role-playing weekends. Board-game Fridays. The bi-monthly Jack Reacher discussions.

The events were initially meant to attract more customers and get the word out there about Portable Magic, and they’ve proved very popular. It’s really going to come in handy now, because I can tell people to tell their people and those people to tell theirs about my mini-festival.

It may not compare with Sebastian’s in terms of attracting out-of-towners, but I bet we’ll have more fun. And judging from my Cosplay Day attendance, there are plenty who’d like to come.

Also. My events will be free.

I let out a breath and go over to the sofa, sit down and switch on my TV , channel-surfing for some distraction.

The flat wasn’t furnished when I arrived, and, since I didn’t have the money for brand-new stuff, I had to get second-hand. Yet while most of the furniture is old and run-down, it’s still perfectly serviceable.

I like the shabby-chic vibe. I’ve covered the old moth-eaten velvet sofa and the worn leather armchair by the window with a couple of pretty throws. A scarf thrown over the ugly shade of the lamp on a side table beside the sofa makes it shed a more muted and softer pink light. A couple of rag rugs I found in Mrs Bennet’s craft shop beside the post office cover up the worst of the spots on the cream carpet.

It’s cheerful and pretty, and I love being here.

Right now, though, staring at my cheerful, pretty room and scrolling through the nothing that’s on TV , I’m aware that grief is lurking in the corners of the room. It’s followed me from London and it’s waiting in the shadows, and I don’t want it. Not tonight. Not after Sebastian Blackwood made me feel so restless and off balance.

I need to get out, go and be somewhere else, be with people.

A village can be insular if you’re a newcomer, and while people here are friendly enough, it’s also clear that I’m an outsider. It doesn’t matter that my mother was from here; I haven’t lived here and thus I’m not a local.

I’d always planned to do a bit of digging into my family’s history, find out why my mother never spoke of home and never wanted me to either. Learn about my roots.

I’ve heard a lot of talk about Rose Jones and what a difficult woman she was, but I haven’t bothered to discover why and how, and exactly what kind of difficult she was. Maybe I’m afraid to.

I can’t let fear stop me, though. Fear bled all the colour from my life back in London, and I swore I wasn’t going to let it rule me again. So, yes, I should stop putting off investigating my family history, and I should look at what kind of business Blackwood Books is too, see if it really is the historical icon Sebastian told me it was.

Of course, to do that, I need to find people to talk to and the quickest way to find them is to head to the heart of any village: the pub.

I like wearing pretty things and I feel a bit plain in my current T-shirt and jeans. So I change into one of my favourite dresses, which is white and lacy and flowy. I wrap a wide belt around my hips and leave my hair free. I like to think the vibe is very Stevie Nicks. Either that or like I should have a garland on my head in preparation for leaping over a Beltane fire in the middle of Stonehenge.

Jasper preferred a more polished, corporate look, and he told me so often enough. But since I left London, the one thing I’m not doing is polished or corporate.

Grabbing my coat and my keys, I go downstairs and step out into the evening twilight.

The Wychtree Arms is smack in the middle of the village, where all the roads meet in a small, cobbled square. It’s your classic historic British pub, with low beams, a smoke-stained ceiling, a giant fireplace and a big oak bar. There are little nooks and crannies everywhere for people to sit in, and apparently in the summer it heaves with tourists.

Tonight, though, in that weird space between the end of spring and the beginning of summer, when the weather can’t decide if it’s hot or cold so chooses to be rainy and damp instead, there are only locals in here.

Gerry, who owns the butcher’s shop and who’s been fighting the construction of a giant Tesco on the outskirts of town, is locked in deep conversation with Molly and Lindsey, who own the bakery.

Claire, who works at the post office, is having dinner and a drink with her husband, John, an accountant.

Leonard and his cronies from Len’s Quality Construction are being loud with their pints in a corner.

I spot Aisling, who has just taken over the café and is trying to introduce ‘plant-based delicacies’ to unimpressed villagers who only want a giant scone and some clotted cream, and maybe a sausage roll, with their tea. She’s the one friend I’ve managed to make here and she’s lovely. But she’s married and has a small toddler, and she too is having a quiet drink with her husband, Ben, so I don’t bother them. If it’s date night and they have a babysitter, they won’t want me barging into their quiet time.

I take another survey of the pub, and that’s when I see him in the snug next to the fireplace. Sebastian Blackwood, grimly reading a book.

He does everything grimly, I think, as I stare, which is a shame, especially when it comes to reading. No one should ever read a book grimly. Yet grim is the only word that springs to mind when I look at him, the carved lines of his face set, his black brows drawn down, his mouth in a line.

He’s wearing a dark-blue casual shirt and his usual black trousers, and he gives the impression of splendid isolation, his looks making him appear even more so somehow. Yet, as if defying that isolation and all that grimness, there are his absurd little hipster glasses perched on the end of his very fine nose: a tiny flaw, a sign of his humanity.

It’s endearing, which is an odd thing to think about a man so cold and rigid.

Except, he wasn’t rigid leaning over my counter with fire in his eyes, furious about my bookshop, furious at the threat to his livelihood. He’s protective of it, that’s clear. I guess it was pretty cheeky of me to open my bookshop directly across the road from his, and perhaps I’ve been in denial about that.

I want to explain. I want to tell him why I did it, that it’s been my dream to own my own bookshop, and that opening one here, in the building my mother left me, is the only way I could afford to do it. Yes, I truly did think that it wouldn’t affect his sales and that readers drew the same lines in the book sand that he and I do, but . . . well . . .

I was na?ve, clearly.

I turn to the bar and order myself a gin and tonic from Tom, the publican, and then, when it’s ready, I turn back to the snug where he’s sitting. But just as I’m starting to rethink talking to him, because he really does look very grim and I don’t want to interrupt anyone’s reading, he looks up from the pages of his book and his gaze meets mine.

His eyes are ridiculous. The colour of them is astonishing. I see something flare in them, something I can’t name because it’s gone too fast for me to figure out what it was. It’s also too late to alter my course, to go sit at another table. I don’t want him to think I’m afraid of him, or embarrassed to be caught staring, or too chicken to talk, so I brace myself and head towards the snug determinedly.

With extreme deliberation, he slips a bookmark into his book, closes it, and puts it down on the table, and by the time I arrive, the book has been somehow obscured by the pub’s menu. Which is annoying in the extreme, because now I’m desperate to know what he was reading and what put that expression on his face.

‘Yes?’ he asks, in that ridiculously deep voice of his, somehow managing to make the question sound bored, annoyed and challenging all the same time. ‘Can I help you, Miss Jones?’

He doesn’t invite me to sit, so I’m left standing awkwardly with my gin and tonic. If I was still the me I was back in London, I’d give him an apologetic smile, take his tone as a rejection, and slope off somewhere else.

But I’m not that me, and so I think to hell with it and sit down anyway, putting my drink down on the table between us, a declaration of intent.

‘What are you reading?’ I ask, like the excellent bookseller I am.

‘A book.’

‘What book?’

‘None of your business.’

Off to a great start then.

‘I want to talk to you,’ I say.

His gaze touches on the book obscured by the menu. ‘I’m reading.’

‘So?’

‘If I wanted to talk to someone, I wouldn’t be reading.’

‘But you put your book down.’

‘I was being polite.’

‘Were you? Is that even possible, Mr Blackwood?’

This time his gaze isn’t on his book, but the dress I’m wearing. It’s a lightning-fast glance, but I catch it all the same, just as I see how his mouth hardens. Does he like it? Does he disapprove? Do I care?

‘What do you want?’ he demands, all impatience, and desperate for me to leave.

Naturally, I decide to settle in for the evening.

He’s turning me into a bloody-minded, stubborn arse, and I find I quite like the experience, especially since I was always giving in to Jasper.

‘I told you what I want.’ I pick up my gin and tonic and take a sip. ‘I want to talk to you.’

‘Why?’

‘To explain why my shop is where it is and that I didn’t intentionally set out to take your customers.’

‘I don’t need an explanation, nor do I want one.’

‘Too bad. You’re getting one.’

‘I’ve been told consent is important, Miss Jones. And I do not consent to you sitting at my table and disturbing my reading.’

‘You really are a stubborn bastard, aren’t you?’

‘Pot. Kettle.’

We glare at each other over the table and once again his gaze drops to my dress, and all at once I’m aware that I neglected to put on the cream slip I usually wear with it and that my knickers are purple, and my bra is red, so he can see them.

At first I’m reflexively embarrassed, but then I catch myself. It’s not my problem if he doesn’t like it or disapproves. It’s only underwear and I very much don’t dress for men any more.

I grip my drink. ‘I had to open my shop there because I inherited the building when my mother died. I had a relationship breakup, and I didn’t come out of it with any money, so I didn’t have the luxury of choice. I deliberately don’t stock any of the books you have in your inventory. Not a single title. There’s no overlap. But I genuinely didn’t know that people in the village used you to order in titles. I thought they would have gone through Amazon or something.’

He is silent, staring daggers at me over the top of his glasses. He’s very fierce and it makes me restless. It’s disturbing to be under his gaze. He stares at me like a watchmaker stares at a watch he’s taking apart, piece by tiny piece.

‘That’s all very interesting,’ he says at last, as if it’s the most tedious thing he’s ever heard. ‘But I don’t care. The fact remains that you have taken some valued customers and now I have to find some way to replace them.’

I take another sip of my drink. ‘Tell me about Blackwood Books.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I want to know. You said yours was an historic local business and it should be respected.’

He crosses his arms over his broad chest, his expression nothing but hostile. ‘Tell me, did you do any research at all before you came here?’

Heat creeps into my cheeks. ‘Of course I did.’

‘Then why are you asking me questions that you should already know the answers to?’

My face is hot. I take yet another sip, relishing the burn of the gin as it goes down, because I do not relish the way he’s looking at me. It’s clear that he’s majorly pissed off, not to mention being very judgemental, and he does have a right to his anger if not the judgement. And I suppose I have to give him points for honesty, too. I had precious little of that with Jasper, for example.

‘I get that you’re angry with me,’ I say doggedly. ‘And you have every right to be. I . . . perhaps assumed a few things about bookselling that I shouldn’t have. But if you want me to respect your business, then tell me why I should respect it. Unless it’s a state secret, of course.’

He doesn’t like that, not at all. His eyes glitter and his mouth hardens. ‘I don’t owe you anything.’

It’s true, he doesn’t.

We’re not going to get anywhere if we’re too busy sniping at each other, and I don’t know why I even want to get somewhere with him. He’s rude and cold, so why bother?

I’m not here for arguments, for negativity, for bad feelings. I left those behind in London. I’m here to reclaim my joy, to find something good in the wreckage of my life.

I want to be happy again and it’s clear that I’m not going to find it arguing with the stubborn bastard across from me, so maybe I won’t bother.

Maybe it’s better to leave him to marinate in whatever fury he’s in and disassociate myself from him entirely.

So I give him a tight smile. ‘No, you don’t,’ I say, and pick up my drink. ‘Well, you can’t say I didn’t try.’ I get to my feet. ‘Thanks for the non-conversation, Mr Blackwood. I’ll leave you to your book.’