Chapter 10
Despite now being back in her cozy, familiar childhood bedroom up in the flat, Jules’s sleep was disturbed with feverish dreams
about a strange man with no face throwing his coat across a puddle for her, trying to entice her into a mysterious car, and
then—when she refused—following her as she ran along the beach, getting steadily closer however fast she ran.
She woke up panting, in a panic, to a sore throat and a hacking cough. Her head pounded every time she swallowed, her nose
was blocked with what felt like concrete, and her skin felt like it had been sandpapered. She put on her ancient jogging bottoms
and a beautifully soft brown cashmere jumper, which Aunt Flo had lent her because she had hardly anything to wear, over the
T-shirt she had slept in. The color didn’t suit her, but to be fair, nothing was really going to go with her chalk-white face,
blue undereye shadows, and bright pink nose, she thought, looking into the bathroom mirror.
“I told you so,” said Flo, when she set eyes on her.
“Yup, caught my death,” conceded Jules. “Although it’s a well-known fact getting caught in the rain doesn’t actually give
you a cold. Only germs do that.”
“You’ve been working too hard, running the shop, looking after me,” fretted Flo. “It’s hardly surprising you’re ill.”
“I’m fine,” insisted Jules, although it came out as “I’b fide.” “It’s just a bit of a cold. I’ll get you settled in the shop,
get those remaindered books out, and maybe stay in the office after that, so I don’t infect all the customers.”
“I think you should go to bed,” ventured Flo, but Jules just gave her a stubborn look, spoiling the effect when she got caught
out by an enormous sneeze.
There was proper warmth in the sunshine that morning, in contrast to the previous day’s storms, and there were throngs of
tourists on the street when Jules went out to set up her books. She kept it simple, just two tables with the books arrange
in stacks. One was for paperbacks, with a vibrant orange star-shaped sign announcing “3 for ￡10.” The other table was for
the hardbacks, including a top cricket player’s ghostwritten autobiography and the beautiful cookery books, where customers
could choose “2 for ￡10.” They were fantastic value—all well below the recommended retail price—and perfect for holidaymakers.
Everyone read more on holiday, didn’t they? And Aunt Flo always told her women were the ones who bought the novels—not just
romance but really grisly crime too—whereas the men were more inclined toward factual books. So, there was something for everyone,
thought Jules with satisfaction, pleased that people were stopping to browse even before she had finished setting up.
“Ooh, classy,” came a deep, familiar voice just behind her.
She spun around. It was Roman. Of course.
“I take it you’re being sarcastic,” she said, as coolly as she could.
“No, no, I like the honesty of it,” he said, theatrically wincing at the fluorescent orange signs, which Jules had affixed to the tables with blue tack. “Simple but effective.” He paused for a beat. “If that’s the market you’re after.”
“Yeah, it is, actually,” said Jules, thoroughly nettled. “We represent excellent value, and there’s nothing the matter with
that. Customers can’t all afford your fancy Booker Prize long list, special edition, just released stuff. Although of course
we do that too,” she added hastily. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with people wanting to get a bargain,” she snuffled.
“You’re a towering snob if you think any different.”
But Roman wasn’t listening. “Are you all right?” he asked. He stooped down to her level, seeking eye contact, his handsome
face a picture of concern.
Was he for real?
“Of course I ab—I’b fine,” Jules said, wishing she could pronounce her M’s and staring at the pavement, the shop window, anywhere
rather than meet his gaze.
“You do look as if you’ve been crying, though.” There was nothing confrontational or teasing in his tone now. It was, for all the
world, as if he actually cared. “I mean, it’s definitely not the pressure of the competition?”
Ha. There it was. Jules was almost pleased to be proved right. Roman? Sympathetic? She didn’t think so...
“I’ve got a cold,” she said, glaring at him, acutely aware of her shiny bright red nose and pink-rimmed eyes. “Apart from
that, I’b perfectly... perfect.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” he said, and laughed. “Seriously, you need to get back into the warm before it turns into pneumonia.”
Back in the shop, she clasped her hands to her flaming cheeks.
Maybe she was running a temperature? But there was no time for that today; if the displays outside were going to lure the tourists in, she was going to be damned sure she gave them something to catch their eyes on inside of the shop too.
She had put a display stand right in the middle, en route to the till, with local maps, guidebooks, and a short collection
of local ghost stories that included a couple of fabulously spooky ones about the ruined castle on the top of the hill. It
was a major tourist attraction, and people always came into the shop wanting to know more. There was a unit in the middle
with free leaflets from the Tourist Office too, and she was gratified to see people already perusing the books outside and
coming in with their choices. Flo was going great guns at the till, chatting with people as she rang their purchases through.
Charlie was keeping out of the way upstairs, getting on with loading some used books onto BookFinder.com. Jules felt superfluous,
so she went to the bakery for saffron buns and then put the kettle on, bringing Charlie and Flo a cup of tea with a split
and buttered bun each to keep them going until lunchtime.
“You look absolutely terrible, darling,” said Flo when Jules delivered her elevenses.
“Thanks,” Jules deadpanned. She did feel awful, though. Even getting a bit chilly collecting the buns had left her aching
from head to toe. Roman was right. Damn him.
“For God’s sake, go and get into bed for a couple of hours,” Flo implored her. “Use mine, it’s comfier, and I’ve just changed
the sheets.”
Jules was persuaded. She wasn’t planning on staying in bed long, so she couldn’t be bothered to put on pajamas. She just slipped
into Flo’s bed fully dressed, with a mug of tea and a book, Rosamunde Pilcher’s The Shell Seekers —a comfortingly familiar reread that she loved because she could totally imagine it being set in Portneath.
The next thing Jules knew, she woke up to see the light fading. Outside, stars were starting to come out, pinpoints of light
in the inky cobalt sky. Flip! It must be late. Nearly half past five. She had been unconscious for about six hours. Feeling lightheaded, Jules got up, slipped on her shoes,
and flumped wearily down the stairs to the shop to help Flo with closing up. She arrived to discover Charlie already gone
and Flo just cashing up at the till.
“That was a good long sleep,” said Flo. “I popped up to see if you wanted lunch, but you were dead to the world. How are you
feeling?”
“Not too bad,” Jules lied. “Shall I lock the door?”
“Do,” said Flo.
There was a wicker basket sitting on the doorstep. Weird, thought Jules, opening the door and bringing it in.
“Someone’s left their shopping,” she said, putting it on the table. Delving in to see if there was anything to identify the
owner, she unearthed a fat, shiny lemon, a chunk of ginger, a jar of Hollytree Farm honey, and a half bottle of scotch whisky.
There was no purse or wallet, but right at the bottom was a white envelope with her name on it. Intriguing.
Inside was a slip of paper:
HOT TODDY
Combine honey, grated ginger, and sliced lemon with boiling water. Add whisky and drink. Repeat as necessary until well.
“Ah...” said Jules, touched. “That’s so sweet. It must be from Freya. The honey’s definitely from her anyhow.”
“Ha! Or it’s from a secret admirer?” Flo suggested.
“An admirer of people with snotty noses and hacking coughs,” scoffed Jules. “Yup, I’m irresistible.” Having to stand up was beginning to make her feel lightheaded. She had had far too much sleep to want to go straight back to bed, though.
“Go up and make yourself that drink,” said Flo. “I’ll just finish up here. We’ve had a stunning day, by the way. Best trading
day since Christmas! Well done you, with your remainders stock.”
Up in the little kitchen, Jules followed the instructions and then took her steaming glass into the sitting room. She wrapped
herself in the hairy checked sofa blanket and curled up on the window seat, sipping as she gazed dully out. The honey soothed
her raw throat, and the lemon really did seem to clear her stuffy nose a little. The warm alcohol on an empty stomach rapidly
seeped into her bloodstream, relaxing and soothing her aches and pains. So, the encounter with Roman had rattled and disturbed
her, but they had had a good day in the shop. Fifteen–love to Capelthorne’s, Jules thought as she gazed across at enemy lines. Odd how Portneath Books still had all the interior lights on after closing.
Usually, it was just the mega-bright halogen spotlights—which, even on their own, caused Jules to sanctimoniously tut about
the planet—illuminating the window displays. Surely, they weren’t open late today, were they?
And then she saw.
There was a gaggle of women sitting at the biggest table in the café on the second floor, perhaps eight or ten of them, chattering
animatedly. The book club! And there was Diana, of all people, sitting at the head of the table, tipping back her head to
drain her champagne glass and then holding it out for a refill.
Et tu, Diana? thought Jules, narrowing her eyes.
If he wanted to fight dirty that was fine. Whatever he could do she—Jules—could do better. And she would. Just as soon as
she stopped feeling quite so rubbish.