Chapter 10
Don’t panic, I tell myself as I emerge from Piccadilly Circus Tube station.
On this cool, bright Monday morning I have nothing to fear.
Certainly not Rupert because, as I remind myself now, he is just a man.
An extremely wealthy man who, I suspect, doesn’t really need to run a bookshop – or work at all. But still: he is not the police.
I’m not going to be flung into jail for the alleged misuse of processed cheese, and surely he can’t sack me.
I’ve done nothing wrong, and he has to believe me.
Even if he doesn’t, angry Rupert isn’t actually that scary.
That time I spilt my coffee on the shop floor?
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, Josie!’ But it was like the King swearing – faintly ridiculous. I couldn’t take it seriously at all.
Reassured that all of this will blow over, I turn into the arcade and stride towards the shop.
All curved glass windows and gleaming brass, this is a rarified corner of London of bespoke suits and cufflinks and those proper hankies that poke neatly out of a breast pocket.
‘A pocket square,’ Rupert corrected me once, with a note of bemusement.
Silly Josie has no idea about these things!
I pass the eye-wateringly expensive leather goods shop.
From the cashmere store, one of the sales assistants sees me through the spotless window and waves.
I wave back and smile, then step into the bookshop.
We’re not open yet but, as usual, Rupert is already occupying the huge antique desk that dominates the shop.
‘Hi, Rupert!’ I say cheerily.
He looks up. ‘Morning, Josie.’ Bit of the steely-teacher vibe today. That homework you handed in was disappointing.
‘Like a coffee?’ At least he hasn’t launched straight into the Dairylea incident. Hopefully it’s been laid to rest.
‘If you’re making one,’ he mutters.
Fine, I think as I head to the back room.
As well as being my workspace, it also functions as what we grandly term the ‘kitchen’, consisting of an ancient mini fridge and a flimsy cupboard housing our motley selection of mugs.
All are chunky and ugly apart from the delicate bone china cup with my initial on it, which Rupert gave me last Christmas.
On the shelf below sits a catering tin of his beloved Nescafé granules.
Three years I’ve worked here, and we’re still on the same tin.
From what I’ve gathered, Rupert’s family owns roughly 70 per cent of Berkshire, yet our new shop kettle cost ￡12.
50 (he insisted on the cheapest option I could find).
I put it on to boil, then switch on the printer on my desk.
There’s the ominous hum that happens intermittently, and within minutes its plastic casing is worryingly hot to the touch.
The hum becomes an urgent whine, as if it’s straining on the toilet, and as I set it to work it chews up the paper and shuts down abruptly.
I glare at it, then carry Rupert’s coffee through to the shop, prepared to share my diagnosis.
‘You know how the printer’s been a bit erratic?
’ I say. ‘I think I know what it is.’ He stares at me levelly.
‘Its moods are all over the place,’ I continue, ‘and now it’s hot all of a sudden.
’ I smile, trying to lighten the atmosphere.
‘It must be menopausal! Should we see if there are HRT patches for printers, or maybe a gel—’
‘Josie, could you please sit down for a moment?’ Rupert cuts in, indicating the curvaceous wooden chair tucked in at the other side of his desk.
I frown and pull it out and bob down onto it. ‘What is it?’
‘About this book.’
I bite my upper lip, conscious of my racing heart, and glance around the shop.
There are hundreds of books in here, neatly displayed on open shelves and in highly polished glass cabinets.
But of course I’m fully aware of the book he’s talking about.
‘Rupert,’ I start, ‘I’m sorry it happened but honestly, I have no idea how—’
‘Was it some kind of prank?’ he snaps.
‘A prank?’ I exclaim. ‘You honestly think I’d prank you?’ I stare at him.
A clump of silvery hair springs forward and bounces against his brow, and he shoves it back distractedly. ‘How else could it have got there?’
‘I don’t know!’
He leans forward, looking thunderous, hands clasped together. When I landed this job, I felt so lucky; here was this kindly toff who was prepared to entrust me with his online business. And he did trust me – or so I thought.
‘Our customers are important,’ Rupert announces.
‘Yes, I know!’
‘Excellent service is what we’re all about. That way, they keep coming back—’
‘Yes, but I didn’t—’
‘And that kind of cheese?’ he crows. ‘It’s the kind you have.’
I look down at his desk, taking a moment to absorb his remark. He’s right in that I bring in packed lunches because the prices around here are outrageous. ‘Have you been inspecting my sandwiches?’ I ask.
‘Of course not. I’m just saying—’
‘That’s quite a leap, isn’t it?’ Anger is simmering up in me now, over being judged by my lunch choices and that he thinks I’d do something so pathetic. What motive could I possibly have?
‘Not that much of a leap,’ he says, and that’s when I snap.
I don’t know if it’s about Ravi and the Kapoors, or seeing Shane, or worrying about how to tell Pam and Kamal that we can’t do what their daughter so desperately wanted us to do.
I’m up on my feet now, glaring down at Rupert, my heart banging in my chest. ‘I thought you trusted me!’ I cry.
‘I do. I did. But lately, your mind hasn’t been on the job.’
‘That’s not fair!’ I protest. ‘In what way?’
‘You’ve seemed vague. Distracted…’
‘Well, yes, my oldest friend has died.’
He has the decency to flush deeply. ‘I’m sorry about that,’ he mutters. ‘But I have to say, I’ve been getting the feeling that you don’t love being here, Josie.’
‘I do! Of course I do…’ It’s true. I genuinely enjoy my job, working methodically and helping our customers, despite the malfunctioning printer and the crappy tape dispenser that savaged my finger, which Rupert refuses to replace, despite his wealth.
I saw a ‘pocket square’ just like his in a shop window in Jermyn Street – ‘a welcome splash of colour to your summer outfitting’, the display card said – for ￡95.
Nearly a hundred quid for something to blow your nose on!
‘And there was my umbrella,’ he announces, having recovered his bluster.
Oh, so we’re dragging that up? Two weeks ago, that was. ‘I didn’t want to take your umbrella,’ I remind him.
‘It was pouring with rain.’
‘Yes, but I told you, I hate them—’
‘That’s like saying you hate coats!’
‘Coats don’t blow inside out.’
Rupert groans and shakes his head. ‘Anyway, you left it in Tesco.’
Well, yes. I’d known, as he’d thrust it at me, that it wouldn’t end well.
With a rubbishy telescopic brolly – the kind that collapses to pieces on its first outing – I’d have been fine.
But I was so nervous about being in temporary charge of Rupert’s treasured maple-handed accessory – bought at great expense from a specialist shop that sells only umbrellas and walking canes and ‘shooting sticks’, whatever they are – that I’d lost it somewhere in the shop.
I’d rushed back like a berserk mother who’d left her baby parked in its pram by the meal deal cabinet. But nothing had been handed in.
‘I said I was sorry,’ I murmur, ‘and that you could deduct it from my wages.’
He presses his lips together and regards me stonily. What am I supposed to do now? Get on with our orders, I suppose. Utilise the – I have to say – slick system that I implemented, because when I arrived it was all conducted from a ratty old ledger book, stained with coffee rings.
I turn away, about to head for the back room, when I realise I can’t do it.
I can’t get on with my work as if nothing’s happened, as if he hasn’t accused me of something I didn’t do.
I spin back round and glare at my boss, no longer angry but fuelled by a surge of something else.
Strength – that’s what it is. I think of Pam and Kamal and Dev, and how strong they were, despite being hit by tragedy.
That’s what I need; even the tiniest smidge of their bravery.
Ravi’s letter flashes into my mind. Never mind not having the time nor the money.
Five days, we’re talking. Five days away from Rupert’s big, florid face, not in a far-flung land but in the North of England.
It won’t kill me and Shane to carry out Ravi’s last wish.
Well, it might, but at least we’ll have tried.
‘Erm, Rupert,’ I start, ‘there’s something I wanted to ask you.’
‘Oh? What’s that?’ he asks archly.
‘I’m going to need a bit of time off.’
‘That might have to wait,’ he growls.
‘Just a few days,’ I continue, aware of an eerie calmness settling over me. ‘This thing’s come up. Another trip up north…’ He winces at that. Rupert fears ‘The North’; he believes we eat bread and dripping, and set about one another with clubs.
‘As I said,’ he announces, ‘it might have to—’
‘No, I tell you what,’ I cut in sharply. ‘This actually can’t wait.’
‘Fine! Go then. Just go—’
‘What?’ I stare at him. Is he sacking me? ‘You mean… you want me to go?’ The words seem to float out of my mouth.
‘Yes, I do.’ He picks up his treasured fountain pen with the gold nib. What is he planning to write, I wonder? A letter terminating my contract but requesting instructions for how to get on the printer’s good side?
He can’t do this! I need my job. Trying to quell the rising panic, I replay Lloyd’s consolatory words to me last night: Tell him to stick his job up his arse. We’ll have your other income stream pretty soon. Foot porn, he meant. It’s not porn, babe. It’s just feet!
I take a deep, slow breath and briefly consider fetching my posh china cup from the cupboard. But instead, I study Rupert for a moment, captain of that vast mahogany desk, and I turn and walk out of the shop.