Chapter 21
Inside, I pause on the spot, awed at the aesthetic of the bookshop.
The white shelves are wavy and curve around the elongated space.
There are nooks filled with striped beanbags and oversized plush swivel chairs perfect for lounging in.
The décor is beachy and relaxed, as if to be inviting for people coming straight off the shore.
Huge skylights in the ceiling make it light and bright so all the colourful spines stand out, patiently waiting for readers to take their books poolside.
‘It’s all been renovated! You kept that on the down low.’ Last night he was so mysterious about it: it’s best seen in sunlight, painting a picture of some gloomy bunker bookshop hidden away at the back of the resort.
He smiles, and I swear it’s the first genuine smile I’ve seen on the man’s face. ‘We had this renovated first. You can’t have a proper holiday without a beach read, it’s just not possible.’
‘Bookworm?’
‘For my sins.’
There goes any hope I had of not self-sabotaging with a guy like Xavier. The old zingometer dings when a guy is a reader. I skip off to fantasyland, imagining us swinging lazily on a hammock under the shade of a palm tree, books forgotten as we gaze into each other’s eyes and…
‘…not to mention KPIs.’ OK, maybe there is hope he won’t hypnotise me into love. I’m coming to learn the man likes an acronym and is quite fond of talking facts and figures. Makes sense, since he’s running a resort and all, but it’s not quite as alluring on the zingometer.
KPIs? What, pray tell, is that when it’s at home? ‘Ah, yeah sure, um, KPIs. Got it.’
He gives me a long look, his lips quirking as if I’ve amused him in some way.
I get the horrible feeling he’s well aware I wasn’t listening to a word.
Xavier drones on in minute detail about the mysterious KPIs, budgets, forecasts, expectations until I’m dizzy with it.
When he mentions the annual turnover, he gets my attention.
How can a bookshop this size be making so little?
Now I understand the urgency and why Gus wanted to breathe new life into the place.
‘The bookshop services the whole island, so we really need to get it out of the red or there is a real risk we’ll have to close it. I’m hopeful with you running the place, we can get back to where we need to be.’
My shoulders sink. The thought of a bookshop closing is always a devastating prospect, more so here when it’s the only one on the entire island.
Where will kids discover the joy of a picture book which develops into a lifelong love of reading?
And island locals; where will they source books, if not here?
What if they’re two books in to a four-book series and need the next instalment fast?
Or guests, ready to relax with a beach read only to be told the bookshop is closed. Permanently. It can’t happen.
‘So no pressure then?’ I do love a challenge, and this is right up my alley. ‘I’ll do my best.’ Doubt creeps up and taps me on the shoulder. If Gus couldn’t do it though, what makes Xavier think I can? Do freight and budgeting factor in terms of the downfall in the profit?
I don’t know enough about the resort yet, but I’m guessing that I’d have to make sure guests and locals alike know what stock we have here and offer some exciting events to get them in store. I can safely dip my toes back in social media in getting the word out for the Barefoot Bookshop.
His expression falters as if he forgets for a moment to wear his haughty mask. ‘No doubt you’ve heard the whispers that I’ve come back and made all these drastic changes that have upset the applecart, like some big, bad, money-obsessed CEO?’
I blank my features. Well, I try to but I’m a hopeless liar. ‘Umm…’
He lifts a brow and waits me out, and dammit I’m not great at keeping my mouth shut.
‘I’ve only been here a very short time. But OK, yeah, I’ve heard whispers. Apparently, you charge staff for damages? How can that even be legal?’
He scrubs his face. ‘Things on the island aren’t always what they seem, Harper.’
‘I bet.’ Why is everyone always so evasive around here?
‘Your role as manager would be to focus solely on sales and choosing the right stock. If we can add to the guest experience, even better.’
‘I can do that. I’ve got a lot of ideas about events and activities we can run from the bookshop. I can—’
‘Email me a list for formal approval.’
‘OK.’ I resist a salute, but it’s hard. I’m used to working with the gang at Paddington’s, who were all very relaxed.
And while the pressures are different here – this bookshop is failing, no question – the same issues crop up in London too every now and then when sales hit a decline for no discernible reason, and so we’d reshuffle stock and refashion displays to get more bodies inside.
We’d try all sorts, like ramping up social media, offering VIP discounts to regulars, and hosting fun literary events; all of that I can try here too.
‘Do you have any questions, or can I get my office to send you an updated employment contract?’ He takes a set of keys and places them on the counter.
I sigh. ‘Well, yeah, I have questions, like, about a hundred of them.’
He glances at his watch. ‘Email me those too.’
‘Sure.’ He’s already turning away, as if the matter is closed.
‘Wait! The point-of-sale system, is it—’
‘Everything you need is behind the counter. Call Mariola if you get stuck.’ He’s already got his phone pressed against his ear as he goes. The man is busy, busy.
I debate whether to ignore my rumbling stomach to explore the bookshop or grab a quick breakfast so I can settle in here for the day.
Breakfast wins, but only just. I can’t wait to seek out every nook and cranny of the bookshop and familiarise myself with the range which, from a quick glance, seems like a treasure trove.
That makes my job easier; it’s not as though there’s nothing to sell.
So why then aren’t they making enough money?
Maybe I need to advertise more widely to the locals as well since they live here, and it would be good to learn what their literary tastes are and if they’d be interested in attending events and bookshop parties.
I could look at hosting a book club for them.
Perhaps there are authors on the island – an author talk would be fun for locals and guests.
I’m energised by the task ahead. And while it’s not Bookstagram, I’m still surrounded by books and so I count that as a win.
It won’t be so terrible working here, not if Xavier leaves me to it. With the vanilla scent of books perfuming the air, and the sounds of waves rolling in outside, it just might be the perfect place to recover from the mess I made of my life.
I grab the keys from the counter, turn and freeze.
Staring up at me is the biggest tortoise I’ve ever seen in my life.
In fact, it’s the only tortoise I’ve ever seen but I’m sure they’re not usually this huge.
Do these creatures bite? It blinks lazily at me, as if I’m the intruder and not the other way around.
‘What are you doing in here?’
Unsurprisingly there’s no response. After what feels like a long stare-off, the tortoise takes an age to shuffle away and heads back outside. I tiptoe slowly behind, not wanting to frighten the reptile.
It stops by a sandy sunlit corner where I see a plaque on the wall:
Turt Vonnegut, 86 years old. Please don’t feed him. Turt comes here to sunbake in peace and tranquillity and is perfectly harmless. Ask our friendly staff how you can help with Aldabra giant tortoise conservation or about tortoise tours available around the Seychelles.
‘Nice to meet you, Turt Vonnegut. I love the literary play on your name. I’m Harper and I just might sunbake outside with you on my lunchbreaks.’
‘You’re friendlier to reptiles than people, you know that?’
I turn to the voice. ‘Michel. What are you doing here?’
‘Jogging.’ He points to his running attire. ‘You’re all set for your first day, then?’
‘Sort of. I’ve got to grab some breakfast. But Gus has retired, so it’s just me.’
‘Retired. Right.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means Gus lived and breathed this place; do you think he’d up and retire?’
I narrow my eyes. ‘I thought you’d never heard of Gus?’
‘Gus who?’ He shoots me a playful grin. ‘Well, enjoy the sunshine, Harper. And please, no photos. I’m sensitive about how I look in athleisure.’
Michel is wearing a rather snug outfit that shows off every ripple of muscle. ‘You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?’
‘No, never.’ He laughs as he jogs backwards, making a show of covering his face as if I’m going to snap illicit pictures of him. Oh boy, he’s a cheeky flirt who clearly knows much more than he let on before, the little sneak.
‘Jog on, Michel!’