Chapter 7
Damn him! Once Diana had apologetically left, Jules tried hard to eradicate thoughts of Roman’s latest sneaky trick from her
mind, so she could concentrate on drafting her business plan. As much as she tried to work on marketing strategies, adjectives
to describe him kept popping into her mind: “arrogant,” “entitled,” “privileged,” “underhanded”... And what about this
glamazon Cally woman whom he’d imported from New York? It was clear he thought himself above any of the local women who would,
doubtless, still be breathlessly eager to shack up with him even so...
For some reason, this thought irritated her most of all. “Pig,” she muttered, under her breath. “Montbeau pig.”
Jules was still growling to herself as she tried to dredge up something scintillating to post on the shop’s underused Instagram
account—her new daily habit—when the doorbell clanged and in bounced a tall, slim, androgenous figure with an arresting white-blond
crew cut, multiple face piercings, and baggy black trousers held up with rainbow braces. The figure moved with a natural elegant
grace, as they seemed to waft over to the till where Flo was sitting.
“Hello again,” said Flo warmly, before Jules had a chance to utter a greeting. “I remember you.”
“Yo,” they replied with a broad smile, holding out a smooth, dark, impeccably manicured hand for Flo to shake. “Came in last week, didn’t introduce myself. Charlie. He, him.” His voice was light and musical, with a note of humor in it that was just short of a chuckle.
“Flo. She, her,” Flo responded, promptly giving the hand a hearty shake. “It’s a pleasure, Charlie. What can I help you with
today?”
“Got a thing to ask you.” He raised his bleached-blond eyebrows, inquiring after permission to continue.
“What kind of ‘thing’?” asked Flo, giving him an encouraging smile.
“Kind of a favor thing?” Charlie screwed up his face, wincing, but Flo’s warm expression clearly engendered confidence. “Okay,
so, basically, über-cool bookshop. I’d really like to work here.” He rushed to the end of the sentence and huffed in relief,
slumping slightly.
“Ah,” said Flo sadly, glancing at Jules. “That’s not going to happen, I’m afraid. We just can’t afford to take anyone on at
the moment. Maybe try Portneath Books across the road?”
Jules glared at her aunt. Seriously? she signaled with her eyebrows. Why was her aunt actively helping the enemy now?
“Even if I want to work for free?” Charlie asked.
This time Flo’s eyebrows shot up. “Don’t tell Portneath Books that,” she counseled. “You’d be selling yourself cheap.”
“Fair. But anyhow, I don’t want to work for Portneath Books,” Charlie went on. “Too bright and shiny—not my thing.”
“I know! Right?” chimed in Jules, finding the conversation a lot more compelling now that it had turned into a bitch-fest
over Portneath Books. “So blingy and tasteless, don’t you think?”
“Y-eah,” said Charlie uncertainly. “You know what else they are? Too new. They’ve only got new books, and I’m mainly into old ones.
I’m actually an antiquarian books expert.
” Charlie ran his thumbs up his braces, standing tall with a hint of pride.
“Except I’m not. Not yet,” he added, slouching a little again.
Jules was intrigued. She wasn’t sure what an antiquarian book expert did look like, but she was pretty sure it wasn’t normally anyone like Charlie, who was cool and getting cooler in Jules’s eyes
by the minute. Not least because he didn’t think much of Portneath Books.
Emboldened by Flo and Jules’s obvious interest, Charlie continued. “Yeah, so, thing is, I’m doing a doctorate,” he explained.
“First I studied English lit, but now I’m into antiquarian books big-time. I did an MA and I’m in the middle of a PhD. And
yeah, I want to be an auctioneer or maybe a specialist librarian...” His face was lit with enthusiasm.
“That all sounds delightful, Charlie, and we’d love to help, but—what’s your immediate plan for us?” asked Flo.
“Okay, so...,” Charlie said, settling himself on one of the low toadstool seats in the children’s book section, legs akimbo
and elbows on knees, “I was having a bit of a nosy in your secondhand books department the other day.”
“Oh, is that what you were doing,” Aunt Flo exclaimed. “You were up there so long I thought you were taking a nap.”
“Ha! No-o,” Charlie said, grinning. “I’m guessing you maybe don’t have a complete handle on what’s up there?” He paused to
look at Aunt Flo and Jules in turn, clearly anxious not to offend. “Like, maybe, a stock list?”
In tandem they shook their heads. A stock list? thought Jules. No chance.
“So, what I would like to do is evaluate and catalog what you’ve got.”
“That would be amazing,” admitted Jules. “A great start, but what I was really thinking of doing was flogging off the stock to clear some space up there.” She shot Flo an apologetic glance, as they hadn’t yet discussed it. “We sell close to zero old books. The space could be put to better use.”
“As in?” Flo inquired.
“I dunno...,” admitted Jules, “but let’s say, for example, Roman isn’t the only one who can shove a café in a bookshop.
It’s not rocket science, and it could maybe draw customers in?”
“Hmm. Spillages? Plus sticky, cakey hands all over our pristine books?” mused Aunt Flo. “Not sure. But definitely not ruling
it out.”
“Selling stuff off works for me,” said Charlie. “I was just about to say, I’ve been checking up on you—not in a weird way—but
I notice you haven’t got an online presence. No one who’s serious about collecting antiquarian books goes around to bookshops
anymore—not most of the time anyhow. Obviously, there’s auctions for the significant stuff, but also all the antiquarian sellers
have their stock up online these days. Ever heard of BookFinder.com?”
Jules and Aunt Flo shook their heads.
“Basically, it’s eBay for old books,” Charlie explained. “It’s where buyers expect to go these days, and it’s easy to be really
specific about what you’re looking for.”
“But not paying you doesn’t seem right,” insisted Aunt Flo.
“Tell you what?” piped up Jules, excited now. “You evaluate and catalog those books”—she jerked her thumb at the ceiling—“and
once either Aunt Flo or I have given our agreement, you can put them up on this BookFinder site and keep ten percent of anything
you sell. How about that?”
“Deal,” said Charlie instantly, springing athletically to his feet and holding out his hand again, this time for Jules to
shake.
Later, Jules found her mind wandering to their conversation with Charlie as she plowed on with the accounts. She was dying
to get on with something more exciting, and Charlie’s suggestions had piqued her interest.
The second floor had always been her favorite part of the shop as a child.
She could lurk up there undisturbed for hours in a world of her own.
No, short of just hiring a skip, they needed Charlie’s time and expertise.
It was a stroke of luck at a time when luck was in short supply.
And hopefully Charlie knew enough to stop them from accidentally selling a Shakespeare’s First Folio for five quid.
Not that there would be anything as exciting as that up there, she told herself. Jules wasn’t a big believer in karma. If
she was, she would be spending even more of her day thinking of the elaborate ways fate could avenge her for the unwelcome
presence of Roman Montbeau in her life.
Jules was determined to reject any overtures. She would buy her own coffee in the future, thank you very much.
Jules made Flo scrambled eggs on toast for supper, all the time regretting her promise to join Freya on a girls’ night out
after they had eaten. She pulled on the shapeless black dress she had collected from her childhood bedroom in Middlemass the
day before. She had cravenly decided to visit in the middle of the day when she knew her mother would be out, and Diana had
been available to kindly give her a lift in. It wasn’t that she totally hated spending time with her mum, but Jules was feeling
a little down, and, in that mood, she found her mother’s negativity hard to bear. The dusty contents of her old wardrobe had
offered up slim pickings, and it was either the frumpy dress or a pair of purple dungarees that she had inexplicably adored
fifteen years ago. The red lipstick she had rescued from the bottom of her bag, along with a slick of black mascara, was her
only makeup. With her pale, pasty winter skin—she was too busy in the shop to catch the sun—the overall effect was more sulky
goth than sophisticated London publisher.
“It’ll do you good,” insisted Aunt Flo as Jules searched for another excuse to bail. “You’re her maid of honor, you can hardly refuse to go on her hen night.”
“It’s not a hen night. The wedding’s not for weeks yet,” grumbled Jules.
In any case, work-obsessed Freya had refused a proper hen night, citing fatigue and difficulty getting a night off from the
restaurant. She had made Jules promise faithfully not to organize a surprise one either and had displayed genuine terror that
Jules might spring matching slogan T-shirts—let alone fluffy pink deely-bopper head gear or, God forbid, a stripper—on her
and her friends. Instead, for old times’ sake, they had agreed on a classic night out on the town, probably ill-advisedly
reliving their teenage nights out at the fetid and sticky-floored Rumours nightclub on the quay. This was the location of
many Saturday nights. There, en masse, they drank lime and soda with shots of vodka from a smuggled hip flask and bopped sweatily
to “Teenage Dirtbag” and “Dancing in the Moonlight” until they were chucked out, worse for wear, in the early hours.
Good times.
Flo was now tucked up in bed, with a cup of tea in hand and a purring Merlin slumped contentedly on her knees. Jules wanted
nothing more than to curl up at the end of her bed to chat and idle the evening away. She hovered in the doorway uncertainly.
“Go,” insisted Flo, pointing to the door. “And have a nice time, or you’ll have me to answer to.”