Chapter 38
‘Well, this is a beauty. You needn’t have gone to the trouble!
But thank you.’ My heart lifts as Rupert admires the fine workmanship, the subtle burgundy pattern and the handle’s graceful curve.
I don’t tell him that opening an umbrella indoors is supposed to be bad luck.
I’m just relieved that he is apparently happy to see me, full of blustered apologies – no, not apologies exactly, just a muddled explanation: ‘…perhaps a bit hasty, Josie. Neither of us were at our best that day… You understand the importance of excellent customer service…’ Which, I suppose, could be interpreted as ‘sorry’ in Rupert’s language.
Having closed and thoroughly caressed the umbrella, he beckons me through to the back room. Here the new printer sits, apparently awaiting my return. ‘I know I’m being silly, but it’s bringing me out in hives…’
I blink at the supposedly baffling object and make us a couple of instant coffees, experiencing a small sense of satisfaction on being reunited with my special cup.
‘Did you make some changes to the ordering system before you left?’ he asks.
Left? I didn’t ‘leave’ – I was pushed! At least I think that’s what happened.
Already, as I explain the basics of how the system works – and is unchanged – I sense his attention wavering.
And when I quickly figure out the printer’s basic functions and run through those with him, I might as well be talking to the tape dispenser.
Rupert is me, I realise, as the teacher droned on about West Yorkshire’s pivotal role in the Industrial Revolution while my mind wandered to more interesting matters.
Such as Shane Calvert sitting a few desks away.
‘Honestly, Rupert,’ I say, snapping him back to attention, ‘it’s all quite simple.’
‘Oh, it’s easy for you!’
I laugh. ‘Why d’you say that?’
‘You’re young, you’re so much better at this kind of thing.’
‘Young,’ I repeat, smirking. Rupert is well educated; he went to some private school in Scotland, and then Cambridge.
Not that I think it makes him better than me.
But he didn’t attend a seventies-built comprehensive, all polystyrene tiles hanging off the classroom ceilings, and that RAAC concrete that apparently caused the entire building to collapse a couple of years ago.
I wonder sometimes if his bluster is an act, a role he enjoys playing.
He is a smart man, obviously – he established this shop, although Charles has expressed amazement that he managed ‘before you came along, Josie.’
And it seems that I’m back. Perhaps – as far as Rupert’s concerned – I never really went away. We get on with our respective tasks, although when lunchtime comes around, something is different. ‘No, I’ll go,’ he insists. ‘What would you like?’
‘Oh no, I’m fine,’ I say quickly.
He fixes me with an avuncular look. ‘My treat. Salmon and cream cheese bagel?’
I stare at him. As I’d only popped in, I haven’t brought a packed lunch. ‘That’d be lovely.’ Maybe we should fall out more often? ‘Thank you,’ I add with a smile.
There’s a flurry of customers while he’s out. A few casual walk-ins who opened the door with a hesitant, ‘Is it all right to just come in and have a look?’
‘Of course,’ I say. In fact, Rupert welcomes anyone, even if he doesn’t give that impression.
He’d hate to be viewed as stuffy and exclusive.
But even after a short break, I can see that the shop’s layout – with his giant desk at the front – is off-putting, and I’m formulating plans to switch things around, to give the whole place an overhaul.
Once I’ve worked through the backlog of orders that he’s allowed to build up, I can do that.
Will he let me? When he dropped by earlier, Charles hinted that he would.
‘I think you can pretty much do anything you want to around here,’ he murmured with a smile.
‘So strike while the iron’s hot.’ I’ll have to be diplomatic, as Rupert likes to think he’s good with the ‘common people’, switching effortlessly from yacking with friends from his gentlemen’s club to a bunch of women down for the weekend from Manchester.
But actually, ‘The North’ scares him. And when he returns with our bagels, and we eat them companionably together at either side of his fancy desk, it becomes apparent that something is causing him no small degree of concern.
That it is, in fact, more alarming to him than the new printer.
‘I’m not sure I even want to go,’ he announces, crumpling up the cream cheese-smeared bag in his fist. ‘It’s not as if I’m an expert in the field.’
I look at him in bewilderment. ‘You’re not an expert on selling high-value art books, in an independent bookshop, in the digital age?’
‘Well, yes, I know a thing or two,’ he blusters, ‘but I’m really not much of a public speaker these days.
’ I go to put on the kettle, and by the time I’ve returned to his desk I’ve just about figured this out.
I know that Rupert belongs to several booksellers’ associations, and that there’s the occasional conference that he likes to swan along to with his pocket square just so.
But it seems that this one is different.
‘What’s really bothering you?’ I ask. ‘It’s not just the thought of giving a talk, is it?’ He never seems short on confidence, and I’ve always imagined he grew up being well-drilled in debating and the like.
‘I just feel a bit rusty, that’s all.’ He shuffles a sheaf of papers on his desk.
‘Rupert…’ I start. ‘Is it because this conference is happening in the North? Is that why you’re so reticent about it?’
‘It’s just an awfully long way to travel,’ he says with a dismissive flap of his hand.
‘Whitby isn’t that far.’
‘It’s far enough!’ He laughs and fondles his glass paperweight.
I glance around the shop, trying to maintain a neutral expression. ‘Do you know anything about Whitby?’ I ask.
‘Only that Dracula came from there.’
I can’t help smirking at that. ‘You do know that Dracula wasn’t real?’
‘Of course I do,’ he splutters. ‘I mean, the people it attracts – that connection with the macabre. I’ve been reading up on it. There’s a whole… goth thing going on up there and I’m not sure how to deal with those sorts of people.’
I stare at him. ‘What, goths?’
‘Yes, you know. Those people.’
‘I don’t think they’d be at the booksellers’ conference,’ I venture, but he waves me away to signal that the conversation is finished.
I turn my attention to smartening up the window display, and have just removed a fat, dead bluebottle as two women breeze in.
Somewhere in their sixties, they launch into a commentary as they browse the books.
This artist behaved despicably to women.
Look at how he objectified his mistress! D’you know what he really got up to?
I turn from the window and one of the women catches my eye. ‘Not much escape from it in here, is there?’ She picks up a coffee table book on Picasso.
‘From what?’ I ask pleasantly.
‘The male gaze.’
I’m not an art history expert like Rupert.
Perhaps I am also a terrible feminist, because at this very moment I crave the male gaze.
Shane’s gaze, to be specific; the way he looked at me when we woke up together in the Love Heart Boudoir.
‘I guess not,’ I say. But as the women leave, I want to cry after them: ‘I want it! I want the male gaze!’
I look at Rupert when they’ve gone, and he laughs. ‘Gosh,’ is all he says.
‘They’re right, though,’ I add, ‘about pretty much all male painters.’
‘Don’t you start!’ He feigns irritation.
I smile, about to return to the back room where a whole load of customer queries awaits me. ‘You know it’s… all right up north, don’t you?’ I add.
‘You would say that. It’s where you’re from!’
I laugh. ‘We don’t bite, you know. Some of us are pretty friendly.’
‘Hmmm, I’m sure.’ There’s a trace of doubt in his voice and I wonder now if this is something he genuinely needs my help with – along with the printer and ordering system.
‘Rupert,’ I say, ‘are you trying to tell me that you’d like me to go up to Whitby with you?’
He tweaks at the tuft of wiry grey hair above his left ear. ‘Of course not. That would be ridiculous.’
I shrug, watching him align his small collection of fountain pens on his desk. ‘I will, if you want me to?’
He looks up, his light blue eyes softening. ‘Would you be able to do that?’
‘I don’t see why not,’ I reply. ‘But what about the shop?’
‘Oh, I can ask Charles to hold the fort for a couple of days. He’s enjoyed helping me out. I don’t imagine it’ll be a problem.’ His shoulders lower, as if in relief. ‘So, if you’re sure, I’d very much appreciate it.’
‘I’m sure,’ I say firmly. ‘In fact, I’d like that very much.’