Book People

Chapter Twenty-two

I wish you would talk about it with me. I wish you would let me help you. I live for the day when you come to my bed and stay there, and he becomes only a memory.

H

SEBASTIAN

I stare at the laptop screen as the post I’ve just written appears on the Wychtree Village Facebook group. It reminds everyone that Lisa’s signing in Portable Magic is in just a few hours and that any villager who wants to attend gets first dibs on tickets to her session tonight. We had to move her talk from Blackwood Books to the village hall in the end, because we had too many people who wanted to come. I thought it would be possible to stream it, but the setup was tricky and difficult, and it was much easier to have it in the hall instead. I’m a bit disappointed, since having it here would have been great exposure. Then again, my disappointment is offset by selling far more tickets than we’d anticipated, due to having it in the hall.

We’re allowing villagers special discounts and priority seating – Kate’s excellent idea – and in the post I’ve also included a sign-up link to the new Blackwood Books newsletter.

I glance up from the laptop to check on my customers.

The shop is heaving.

All the World’s a Page literary festival was officially launched last night with a party at the Wychtree Arms, and judging by the number of people in attendance – mostly out-of-towners – it’s going to be one hell of a success.

It’s not a long festival – a couple of days only – which is a good thing, because it’s not only my shop that’s heaving, but the entire village. Those with businesses are ecstatic. Those who hate outsiders are furious. But no one can deny that it’s going to be good for the village coffers, and that, in the end, will silence the naysayers.

I’ve just presided over Augusta Heroine’s poetry reading/performance, which had an excellent attendance. Quite unexpected for poetry. Copies of her verse novel are selling like hot cakes, which, again, is unexpected yet very pleasing.

I’ve got a newsletter form displayed prominently on my counter and already have a number of sign-ups from people, both local and not. It means I’ll need to get my act together and put the finishing touches to my inaugural issue, but that will have to be after the festival, when I have time.

Right now, I should be mingling with the poets and festival attendees, yet I’m staring down at my laptop and thinking about the dinner last week instead. Thinking about Kate’s face when Lisa said Kate and I being together was fate. How something had flickered in her eyes and how I didn’t know what it was, only that it was something. Then Lisa offering her an editor position, and me . . .

Well. I left. I shouldn’t have, but I did. Because the thought of her leaving the village altogether made me want to howl at the moon like a wolf, and I had to get out of there before I did something completely ridiculous like reach across the table and drag her into my arms. Not exactly the kind of atmosphere we wanted to project for Lisa’s first visit to Wychtree.

I was almost glad Kate didn’t come back to my place that night. She sent me a ‘too tired’ text, which was fine, because I wasn’t in any state to have a conversation that didn’t include me being a demanding bastard, and I figured she’d already had enough of that to last a lifetime.

I didn’t see her until the following day. By then I’d calmed down and we didn’t speak about the night before, but I’ve been thinking about it almost constantly.

It’s not surprising that Lisa offered her a position. Kate’s an amazing woman and the truth is that she’s wasted here in Wychtree. She’s managed to get her bookshop off the ground and be part of village life in only two months and that’s an incredible feat. Where else can she go from here? She’s reached the pinnacle of achievement in our tiny village and now there’s nowhere for her to go. She should be out in the world sharing her expertise, not trapped here in a casual-sex relationship with her competition.

In fact, I’ve come to the conclusion that it would be better if she did go. She’s taking up too much of my brain space as it is, and I think I’d be better off if she wasn’t around. I should talk to her about it, but the past week has been fraught with festival preparations and we’ve been too busy to discuss anything else.

Yet even as the thought of her leaving passes through my head, an acid fury gathers inside me at the prospect. Again, mostly at myself and my complete inability to actually feel casual towards her. My emotions used to be much more controllable, much more ignorable, before she came, and now she’s here . . .

Christ. I need to start thinking about something else.

I step back from the computer and pace restlessly over to the poetry section, threading through the knots of people still standing around after the reading. Augusta Heroine – tall, regal, tattooed and pierced – is talking to local poet Jim Macalister – late sixties, bushy-haired, wearing a tatty pullover full of holes. Jim is telling her about his modest success with his bird poetry while she listens intently.

I go to the shelves, ostensibly to check titles, though I don’t need to. I know exactly what’s on my shelves. But I can’t pace around like a beast on a chain when there are customers filling the shop.

I fussily rearrange the books and grit my teeth, wishing I’d never crossed the road that night and gone into Portable Magic. Never gone upstairs to her flat. Never kissed her senseless in the first place. Because if I’d never done any of those things, I’d never have to consider the relationship I’m in with her, and how it’s driving me round the bend, because all I want is more.

More of her. More of us together. More time to explore what we have and what the future might look like and—

Fuck. I can’t start thinking like that. She’s been through far too much already in the past year, and she doesn’t need me demanding things from her that she can’t give. Not that I want to anyway, no matter what my heart is telling me.

I don’t want more.

What I want is to stay in my bookshop, ordering stock and talking to customers and looking at reviews and redoing the front window. Reading.

That’s all my life has been so far and that’s what it will be in the future and I’m fine with that. More than fine. It’s all I ever wanted.

Maybe that’s what I should tell her. Maybe I need her to know that she shouldn’t concern herself with me and whatever our relationship is. That she can take that editing job and leave, go back to London.

Better she does that now, while things aren’t serious between us, rather than later when it’s more . . . difficult. Because they all leave in the end, the women in my family. They can’t live with the Blackwood men, because, quite frankly, the Blackwood men never deserve them.

Sebastian left his Kate to the mercy of a man who abused her and then shirked his responsibility by diving into a river. My grandfather’s commitment to gambling got in the way of him being a good husband to his wife and she left. Then there’s Dad, who never much liked the bookshop either and decided to take up drinking instead.

I’m no different. I haven’t had a relationship with a woman at all beyond a couple of days, let alone a serious one, and this casual business is doing my head in. Anything more will be a fucking disaster.

I pace back to the counter and check my newsletter sign-up list yet again. Another name. Excellent.

At that moment, a small golden-haired whirlwind comes charging into the shop and rushes up to the counter.

It’s Kate. She’s pink-cheeked, her hair up in a hasty, untidy knot on the top of her head, golden strands falling down all over the place. She’s wearing some ridiculous rainbow of a dress that she must have borrowed from the Wychtree Dramatic Society’s wardrobe – the thing has underskirts, for God’s sake – and she looks like she’s about to have a panic attack.

I’m surprised to see her. She should be getting ready to open the doors at Portable Magic for Lisa’s signing, which is in exactly twenty-five minutes.

‘Shouldn’t you—’ I begin.

‘There are no books!’ she bursts out. ‘None! They didn’t arrive. Lisa’s going to be here in ten minutes and there are no books for her to sign.’

I frown at her. ‘You only found out about this now ?’

‘I had so many boxes arrive from the supply company,’ Kate says furiously. ‘And there’s only me unloading and unpacking them, and I followed the shipment of Colours up twice and they said they’d get them to me by this morning at the very latest.’ She throws out a dramatic hand. ‘But they’re not. Fucking. Here.’

She is beside herself and I get it. It happens sometimes. You organise an author signing, and then the books don’t turn up, and the author is left sitting at a table with nothing to sign. Uncomfortable and awkward for the author and financially devastating for the bookshop, especially if the author signing is a big name.

I glance out the window at the already massive queue that’s formed outside Portable Magic. A lot of people. A lot of people who will want to buy signed copies of the global smash-hit book by Lisa Underwood.

Except there are no books to buy, which means Kate will miss out on a lot of money.

‘Fuck, indeed,’ I say, pithily and to the point.

Kate blinks rapidly. ‘I don’t know what to do. I’ve got two copies on the shelves but nothing out the back, and she’ll be here at any minute, and this is a disaster. A total disaster!’

I don’t blame her for panicking. She’s only been running a bookshop for two months, not to mention throwing herself headfirst into helping me plan and run a literary festival. And when I had a small fit about James Wyatt pulling out, she helped me get a new headliner. So the least I can do is help her, and, luckily, I’ve been in this situation before, so I know exactly what to do.

‘It’s fine,’ I say, projecting as much calm as I can. ‘I have my stock out the back, so you can use that.’ Lisa agreed to do a second signing at the end of the festival because of the demand, and it’s going to be held here. I got my stock from a different supplier and it’s already been delivered.

Kate is still breathing fast. ‘But what about you? Won’t you need—’

‘It’s fine,’ I interrupt gently, coming around the counter and taking her hand in mine, hoping to calm her down. ‘Nigel in Greenham will be able to courier over some more.’

Her fingers close instinctively around mine as if for comfort. ‘Nigel? Greenham?’

‘He owns Dusty Shelf Books. I’ve done a few favours for him recently and he owes me one. He’ll probably have a whole lot in stock, because his shop is bigger and he’ll be wanting to catch some overflow from our festival.’

Her eyes go very wide, panic receding. ‘How will we get them here, though? Is there anyone with a truck who’ll be willing to deliver on a Saturday?’

As it happens, there is. ‘Len’ll do it.’

‘Len? As in Len’s Quality Construction Len?’

‘Yes.’ I smile at her surprise. ‘You wouldn’t know it, but our Leonard has a taste for art and history, and I’ve just ordered him a very expensive title on Venetian architecture. I’m quite sure he’ll be happy with doing a delivery in lieu of payment.’

Hope flickers in her eyes and I feel it in my chest, a growing pressure. Satisfaction that she came to me for help. Pleasure that I could help her. Desire to be the first one she turns to whenever she needs help in the future . . .

‘Are you sure, Sebastian?’ she asks, huskily.

I squeeze her hand and, before the pressure gets too much, I let go of it. Before I hold on for grim life so she’s never out of my sight.

‘Go back to your shop. Open the doors. And let me handle it.’

She leans forward, then puts her hands on my chest and rises up on her toes and kisses me. It’s only a fleeting brush of her mouth, but it pierces me like an arrow. For long moments I can’t move or breathe.

‘You’re the best,’ she says quietly. ‘If you don’t want me falling for you, you’re going the wrong way about it.’

Falling for me? I think. She’s what?

But she whirls around and is gone, leaving me standing there staring after her with my mouth open, probably looking very similar to a stunned mullet.

She’s kissed me before, a thousand times, and it’s never had this effect, yet I can’t think about why right now.

Not when I have a damsel to save.

I text Dan to help me carry the boxes of books from my shop to Portable Magic, then I give Nigel a ring. He’s more than happy to help out and has plenty of stock. We discuss the financials and, once that’s sorted, I ring Leonard. He’s got no issue with driving to Greenham and doing a pick-up for me, and can do it immediately. He’s pleased at getting the book on Venetian architecture in return, and I tell him I’ll also throw in a signed edition of Colours for his wife, who is a huge fan.

By the time I’ve made the arrangements with Nigel and Len, Dan arrives and we start gathering the boxes of books I’ve got in my back room, carting them over to Portable Magic.

Kate has Lisa’s signing table all set up, with a poster of the book, some pens, a glass of water and a little bowl of peppermints. Lisa is standing behind it chatting with her, while Clive looms menacingly behind Lisa.

They all look up as Dan and I come in with the boxes, carrying them over to the table and setting them down beside it. Kate’s face is shining as she looks at me and all I can hear is her telling me that I’m going the wrong way about not having her fall for me. All I can think is that her falling for me is exactly what I want.

Because I’m falling for her too.

Fuck.

‘Nigel’s sending some of his stock over,’ I say, my voice hoarse-sounding. ‘We’ll have plenty for the signing at Blackwood Books tomorrow too.’

‘Oh my God, that’s amazing!’ Kate exclaims, her smile like the sun rising. ‘You’re a hero, Sebastian Blackwood.’

No, I’m not. I’m an uptight bookseller who prefers books to people, and yet when she looks at me that way, there’s a part of me that almost feels like a hero. Her hero.

I almost tell her. I almost open my fucking mouth and tell her that’s what I want to be. I want to be her hero.

But luckily there’s no time for that, because Dan is busy opening boxes, getting out books and stacking them on the table, and the doors are opening, and people are coming in, and the moment is lost.

A good thing.

I’m not anyone’s hero, least of all hers.