27
I EMAIL SAMANTHA the draft of my novel in a fevered jet-lagged state, barely reading over the last chapters I wrote on the plane when my eyes felt like they were barely attached to my head. I write Sam an apologetic email, telling her The Scam might be terrible and full of plot holes and beg her to be kind.
I have collected my things from work and I am, for the first time in a long time, without any responsibilities or deadlines. I am also exhausted and hormonal and emotionally confused by the recent good sex.
I decide a trip to Bobbi’s bookshop is in order. She’ll have a self-help book that can fix whatever is wrong with me. Or a great novel I can use as distraction. At the very least, I’ll spend money and get a little shopper’s high from that.
The bookshop is in a busy shopping strip, with lots of restaurants and cafes and a few nice clothing and gift shops nearby. It has a beautiful archway over the front doors, and I always feel transported into a better mood when I step inside. The shop is one big, airy room, with white-painted brick walls, tables of new releases up the front, and light timber shelves. The lighting is warm, and the overall effect is cosy and inviting. There are a few rolling ladders attached to the bookshelves, and the lovely blue velvet chair in a corner. At the back of the shop is a smaller room that holds the children’s and young adult books. It has fairies and pixies and goblins painted around the walls, all holding books or reading, which gives it a magical feel (kids adore them), and a colourful, patterned rug on the floor. Bobbi keeps an actual working typewriter in the back that she uses for little reviews that she clips to the shelves, because customers love the old-fashioned look of typewriter-written recommendations.
There’s a stationery and gift section near the counter with a small range of cute literary socks (with words like ‘on my way to the library’ and ‘shhh, I’m reading’ on them), book lights, badges, puzzles, reading glasses and a spinner of gorgeous cards.
The shop is extremely busy when I walk in today, because it’s the last week before Christmas. I squeeze around people to try to get near the nonfiction section, where I end up standing shoulder-to-shoulder with a man who keeps clearing his throat in an unappealing way.
‘Anna!’ Bobbi calls across the shop, grinning at me from the counter. I wave back. I hear her tell a customer, ‘That’s my goddaughter. She is a brilliant writer, I should show you her book,’ and I want to crawl into a corner and hide, but also hug her, because the customer buys it. I need every sale I can get right now. Bobbi is not technically my godmother, but she thinks it’s the easiest way to refer to me, and she is, as she says, ‘spiritually’ my godparent.
I hover in the children’s book room until finally there is a lull.
‘How was the trip, honey?’ Bobbi says, as she types numbers very quickly into a search box on the computer. She can memorise books’ ISBNs like a savant.
‘It was wonderful.’
‘I can’t wait to hear about it at dinner on Friday.’
‘Hayley and I are going to put the pictures into a slideshow presentation for you all, so prepare yourself.’
‘Jean and I love a good slideshow.’
‘There will be fade transitions and special effects and Christmas music.’
‘Even better.’
‘It’s so busy,’ I say, gesturing to the crowded shop.
‘I know. I can’t complain, but I will, because Sasha has just resigned.’
Sasha is Bobbi’s only permanent staff member, a devoted crime reader who was very supportive of my book.
‘Oh no, why?’
‘Her daughter is sick. It’s unexpected, and at first she thought she’d just go up to Queensland temporarily to help with the kids, but now she’s decided to stay permanently.’
‘Oh no, I hope her daughter is okay. What are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know, I don’t know! I’m too busy to think about it. Jean’s niece is working here this week, but she’s got other work lined up for after Christmas.’ Bobbi throws her hands in the air dramatically, and then turns to help a customer, and I walk back to the shelves and stare at K–M fiction. Here it is, my moment. My new direction. The fork in the road. The universe is saying, ‘I will give you one last thing, don’t screw this up, don’t turn your back on this.’ I stand there, pretending to browse, while I gather the courage to actually take the plunge and talk to Bobbi. There’s another lull, and I approach the counter.
‘I could do it,’ I say to Bobbi, trying to look calm and unbothered, rather than nervous.
‘Do what, Anna?’
‘Work here. To replace Sasha.’
‘Oh honey, thank you, but I don’t want you to work on your Christmas break.’
‘I mean, I could do it, now and next year and…ongoing. Work here permanently. I quit my job.’
Bobbi looks startled.
‘You quit your job?’ She presses a hand to her chest.
‘Yes.’
It feels liberating to say it out loud.
‘Does your mother know?’ Bobbi says, her eyes wide.
‘No, she doesn’t know, and yes, she’ll probably freak out.’
‘But why?’
‘I just…didn’t want to do it anymore.’
‘And you want to work here?’
‘Wait. I’ve gone about this the wrong way. Let me start again. I know I don’t have a retail background, but I’m good at wrangling people, and you know I’m well-read and I work hard and I’m reliable and a quick learner and I love talking about books and I love this place more than anything.’
I pause and I feel like I need to add more.
‘And I have solid gift-wrapping skills, you even said that last Christmas. Remember when I did those special bows? You said they had flair.’
Bobbi is the queen of gift wrapping so I have held on to this compliment. Last Christmas I was still struggling with the aftermath of the Joel breakup and watching ‘improve your gift-wrapping’ videos seemed like a positive step, almost a hobby, a way to better myself. I also learned how to fold napkins and write beautiful thank-you notes and do cross-stitch. I have used none of these skills since.
Bobbi is scrutinising me and I smile at her nervously. Do I really, truly want this? I have no idea. I’m still jet-lagged. I got off the plane less than twenty-four hours ago. Impulse decisions aren’t really my forte, and this is my second one in a week. Up until now, I have planned my career progression quite meticulously. My next step was supposed to be management.
‘Darling, I believe you, I think you have the skills to work here. I think you’d be a brilliant bookseller. I just want to make sure this is something you really want.’
My racing thoughts must be showing on my face.
‘It is,’ I say firmly.
‘Did you quit your job to start a career as a bookseller, or did you quit your job and now you’re panicking and you need something for the short term until you get a new marketing job? Because if it’s the latter, that’s fine, just be upfront with me.’
‘It’s neither. I quit my job, and I wasn’t sure what to do next, and I’ve always wanted to work here, and the whole thing seems like perfect timing. Like it’s fate. Meant to be.’
Bobbi purses her lips. She cannot resist a mention of fate. ‘And you know I can only offer part-time work and it’ll be a big pay cut from what you were getting before,’ Bobbi says.
‘Yes,’ I say, trying to be more sure than I really am.
‘Okay, you’re hired,’ she says, and she finally smiles. She claps her hands, grinning. This is classic Bobbi. Once a decision is made, it’s made. No second thoughts.
This is not classic me.
Bobbi comes around the counter and gives me a hug. She has worn the same perfume my whole life, a very subtle floral scent, that always makes me feel relaxed. I inhale it now to soothe my nerves.
‘Thank you,’ I say.
My heart is pounding a little. Is this what I want? Have I done the right thing? Should I go crawling back to Marco? Or update my LinkedIn profile and see what opportunities are out there in January? Rushing into this could be ill-advised, maybe, but it’s too late. My stomach churns.
‘When can you start?’
‘Now? Tomorrow? Whenever you need me.’
‘What about Boxing Day?’
‘Perfect.’
‘You’ll need a plan for how to tell your mother. She won’t like this.’
‘Maybe you could tell her?’ I say. ‘Say you begged me.’
Bobbi smiles. ‘Oh, I don’t think so. She’s going to have plenty to say about it to me as it is.’
‘Is this going to be awkward? Having me work for you?’
Bobbi pauses.
‘No,’ she says. ‘We’re basically family.’
Which is the problem, but I drop it.
It occurs to me that Hayley is possibly also not going to love the idea of me working with her mother. There’s a lot of layers to this, but it’s too late, the train has left the station and is speeding down the tracks—Bobbi is getting her phone to take a selfie of us to mark the occasion.