Book People

Chapter Six

You are so beautiful. It’s a cliché, I know, but you quite literally take my breath away.

H

SEBASTIAN

Of course I’ve heard of Lisa Underwood. I read Colours . Who in the entire world hasn’t? It was a runaway hit and one of my biggest sellers, and despite my initial misgivings when I first read it, it wasn’t bad.

But I have no idea what Lisa Underwood has to do with my festival.

A festival that will be a disaster because of fucking James Wyatt .

I couldn’t believe it when his publicist rang this morning to give me the news. I was less than polite to her. And when he called me just now to give me his apologies personally, I almost bit through my tongue restraining the urge to tell him that he’s just fucked my fucking festival fucking fuck.

Yes, I kicked the bloody bin.

No, I shouldn’t have kicked the bloody bin.

And I was extremely unhappy to have Miss Kate Jones, so perky and pretty, witnessing my toddler meltdown.

We’re men of control, the Blackwoods. We keep our emotions locked down and it’s a point of pride. There’s nothing more embarrassing than being out of control emotionally, so we do other things to compensate.

My great-grandfather lost himself in books, the way I do.

My grandfather liked betting shops.

My father liked the bottle.

We all have our vices and mine is to let fly sometimes in the privacy of my own home. Or my shop. When no one’s in it. Privacy being the operative word.

Now Miss Jones is standing on the other side of the counter looking like the cat who’s got the cream, as if my outburst hadn’t mattered and hadn’t happened, and fuck me but that’s a good look on her.

She’s wearing (I can’t help but notice because I always notice) a bright blue dress with frills and flounces that barely grazes her knee, and silly little high-heeled sandals that are somehow also sexy as hell. Her hair is loose again and I wish it wasn’t because it’s perfect for gathering into a fist, and she’s glittering in that way she does. And I want her.

I’m appalled at myself, the way I was appalled the first time I saw her six months ago, when she leaned in to peer through the window of what would be her shop. She’d been wearing golden yellow then, a dress that clung to her figure, and her hair had been loose then too, and somehow I’d lost my mind.

It was as if a ray of sunshine had taken human form and I’d been in darkness my whole life.

‘Yes,’ I say. Tersely. Because I’m always terse with her, I realise now. Because I can’t be any other way. I’ve never met a woman I’ve wanted so badly and, even now, even amidst the wreckage of my festival, all I can think of is how much I want to kiss her. ‘Of course I’ve heard of Lisa Underwood.’

‘Well,’ Miss Jones says grandly. ‘I happen to know her quite well. I used to work with her in my former job. We got to know each other and I still email her on occasion.’ She sparkles just like she did last night in the pub. ‘I could ask her if she wants to come to All the World’s a Page as our headliner. What do you think?’

I think it’s ridiculous. It’s outlandish.

It’s . . . good.

No. Not just good. It’s fucking brilliant .

Lisa Underwood is the perfect meeting of genre and literary fiction. A genuine cross-genre sensation.

Literary types might look at her askance, but . . . No one can argue with her sales or her talent. She’s not James Wyatt, but then James Wyatt isn’t her, and the one thing she has that he doesn’t is reach.

Miss Jones raises an eyebrow. ‘Well? Are you thinking of some kind of snobby putdown or are you astounded by my brilliance?’

‘Both,’ I say, and it’s no less than the truth. A snobby putdown to distance her because I am astounded by her brilliance and all I want to do is pull her close and kiss her sweet mouth.

I am a bloody idiot. Of epic proportions.

‘But I can’t deny that it is a brilliant suggestion,’ I say.

‘Why, thank you, good sir,’ she says, and gives the most adorable curtsey.

I am also so, so fucked.

At that moment the bell above the door chimes and Dan comes in.

Dan is one of my closest friends – I should say my only close friend – and he’s the Wychtree GP . We were at school together and we both applied to get into medicine and, while I dropped out, he didn’t.

He admires me for it, though I can’t think why, since he makes far more money than I do. He always says he went into medicine because he couldn’t think of anything better to do and wishes he had a vocation, like me. A vocation, though, is a curse. It rides you hard, sinks its claws in: no matter how badly you want to throw it off, you can’t. It’s deep in your cells, in your blood, and, yes, like I said, you’re fucked.

Dan is smiley and pleasant, unlike me (I would have made a terrible doctor), and he smiles pleasantly at Kate as he approaches the counter. ‘Morning, Kate,’ he says warmly, then, to me, much more casually, ‘Morning, Bas.’

Dan, like me, is single.

I find myself bristling at the way he’s smiling at her for absolutely no reason. ‘Miss Jones and I were just discussing the festival,’ I say, with far more belligerence than the situation warrants, especially with my best friend. ‘I’ll text you later.’

Dan gives me a surprised look, as well he might since I’m just about biting his head off. ‘No drama,’ he says. ‘Only wanted to see if you were up for a pint tonight.’

‘Yes, yes.’ I am brisk. Too brisk. ‘I’ll text you.’

He frowns slightly, then glances at Miss Jones, and of course he knows exactly what’s going on with me now. This is the problem with close friends. They know you far too well.

Miss Jones is standing there glittering and sparkling, giving him the widest, brightest of smiles. ‘Did you get the latest newsletter?’ she asks him. ‘I’ve just got a new shipment of thrillers you might enjoy.’

Dan’s smile abruptly disappears. As well it might.

So . . . there is a newsletter . And he’s subscribed to it.

‘Traitor,’ I mutter.

Dan looks sheepish, while Kate glances from him to me and back again, as if she has no idea what’s going on. Then it dawns.

‘Oh,’ she says. ‘ Oh .’

I am rigid with offence. ‘You order books from her? Fucking hell, Dan.’

He continues to look sheepish for about a nanosecond longer, then he shrugs. ‘The newsletter is how I find out about all the new releases. It’s really great. I like a thriller, you know that.’

Miss Jones is watching us and, to give her credit, she’s looking a bit sheepish too. ‘Sorry,’ she mutters, though who to I can’t tell. ‘I’d better go. I need to find Lisa’s email address and email her.’

She leaves, and I’m sure it’s my imagination that my bookshop is a little less bright now she’s not in it.

‘Okay,’ Dan says, giving me a sly grin. ‘ Now I get why you’ve been in such a foul temper the last couple of months.’

I refuse to engage in that conversation. ‘I’m in debt up to my eyeballs and you’re ordering books? From her ?’ I know I’m repeating myself but I don’t care.

‘Yes.’ Dan is unbothered. ‘Have you ever tried to find new thrillers online? It’s a bloody nightmare.’

I grind my teeth. ‘Fine. But you should order through me.’

He lifts a shoulder. ‘I order my medical books through you and you know how bloody expensive those things are.’

‘Still. You’re my friend.’ I sound like a child. This is what she’s reduced me to. It’s infuriating.

‘You like her.’ Dan’s gaze is very direct. ‘Don’t you?’

‘Dan—’

‘Don’t think I didn’t notice you being all territorial the moment I smiled at her.’ He’s grinning now. ‘Fucking hell, mate. You’re almost bloody in love.’

‘ Daniel— ’

‘I get it, believe me. She’s gorgeous.’ He shoves his hands in the pockets of his trousers and looks at the ceiling. ‘Maybe I should ask her out for a—’

‘Don’t you fucking dare,’ I growl, rising to his bait despite knowing full well he’s taking the piss.

‘Really, though,’ Dan continues, unfazed. ‘The real question is why you’re holding back, because it’s clear you are. You’re a grumpy bastard, Bas, but you’ve never been this feral.’

No, he’s right. I haven’t.

I make a conscious effort to release the tension in my muscles. I’ll probably have to go for a run later and then have the mother of all cold showers.

‘Wyatt pulled out,’ I say shortly. ‘Which is not helping my mood.’

Dan frowns, because he knows what this means. ‘Shit. That’s tough. Why?’

‘Some kind of scheduling clash. It doesn’t matter why, though. He’s not coming and I’ve lost my headliner.’

‘What are you going to do?’

It galls me to say it, but I do. ‘Miss Jones—’

‘You mean Kate.’

‘ Miss Jones has an idea.’

Dan grins at my stupidity. ‘Fine. Miss Jones , then. What’s the idea?’

‘She apparently used to work with Lisa Underwood. You know who that is?’

‘Yeah, course. Colours , right? I read it. Liked it.’

‘So does the entire world. Miss Jones is going to email her to see if she wants to come here.’

Dan’s brown eyes widen. ‘That would be a coup.’

‘It would.’

‘How well does Kate know her? I mean, would she want to come here? And also . . .’ Dan pauses. ‘She must cost a bomb.’

I shove a distracted hand through my hair, because I’m only now thinking that. She’s a major, global sensation and no doubt charges thousands for appearances. More than James Wyatt. More than I’ve got.

‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘But, yes, she probably would. And I don’t have that kind of money. I’ve already invested far too much in this bloody festival and I don’t have any extra cash to spare.’

‘What about the council?’

‘They’ve allocated as much funding as they can. They don’t have any more.’

And they don’t. They were already generous with what they gave me, because they know how much it’ll benefit Wychtree. But I can’t ask them for more.

I drop my hand. ‘There’s not much here I can offer her as an incentive, either. It’s not a major festival. It’s a small local event and she’s not going to do it for free since it’s not like she needs the exposure.’

‘Maybe a small local festival is what she prefers? Some people like a more personal experience.’

He’s not wrong. Then again . . .

‘She must get invitations to speak everywhere, at festivals larger and more interesting than ours. Why would she choose to come to us over something else?’

‘Good point.’ He glances down at his watch. ‘Hold that thought. Got to get back to the clinic. Let’s discuss at the Arms tonight, yeah?’

I nod and then, after he’s gone, I spend some time pacing pointlessly.

Across the road, a group of women are pushing vast prams into Portable Magic, gossiping and laughing. No one is coming into Blackwood Books. No one at all.

I curse under my breath, pacing some more.

There’s no reason I can think of why Lisa Underwood would want to come to Wychtree. None. Not even as a professional favour. I don’t know her from a bar of soap, but I’m guessing she has publicists to the eyeballs and that they’ll be dragons about what events she’ll agree to.

And I can’t pay her.

The money I would have used for Wyatt I’m now going to have to use to pay back the debts I already have, not to mention the cost of changing all the marketing.

I reach the shelves, turn around and pace back to the front window.

My brain is falling over itself, trying to find alternative authors who would work, and not coming up with any. They’re either too famous to cold call, or they’re not famous enough to generate the kind of ticket sales I need.

Lisa Underwood is our best bet. But how can we get her to come? For nothing. What does Wychtree and Blackwood Books have to offer that she couldn’t get at a book fair? Or any of the other literary festivals going on around the country at the moment?

I’m mid-pace when I notice something sitting on the top of my counter.

It’s a book.

I go over and glance down at it.

Science fiction. Martha Wells.

I’ve been meaning to order her latest SF , because I read the last Murderbot book and enjoyed it immensely. But what with the festival organisation, I haven’t got around to placing the order.

Where did it come from, though? I don’t have any science fiction in the shop, and it’s not from Dan because I didn’t see him put anything down and he doesn’t like SF anyway.

Was it a customer from yesterday?

I pick the book up and turn it over. There’s a price sticker on the bottom of the cover with ‘Portable Magic’ printed in a jaunty font, complete with magic wand.

Instinctively I glance out of the front window and there she is, Miss Kate Jones. She’s standing in her own shopfront window and looking at me, looking at the book.

She mouths, ‘For you.’

Then she smiles. And waves.