Chapter 3 #2
she would never get another chance if she blew it with her current job. Because it wasn’t just losing that job; it was the impact of losing her foothold within the whole teetering, often toxic edifice of publishing in London. Even
though a tiny voice in her head had been growing ever louder just recently, making her wonder if she still really wanted to
achieve that life goal. Because if not that, then what?
In the end, she was brief and to the point: She hoped her boss would understand, but family pressures required her to spend the next couple of weeks in Portneath. She was very sorry for the in convenience, but she was owed the leave. Perhaps she could even do a bit of work remotely, if that helped?
“I feel terrible about you doing this,” Flo told her over tuna sandwiches and some truly delectable Bakewell tart from Freya’s
when they stopped for lunch.
Jules tried hard to wipe any sign of strain off her face. Clearly, judging by Flo’s expression, she failed.
“No. On reflection, I forbid it,” Flo announced, wiping her mouth with her paper napkin and throwing it decisively onto her
plate. “You must go back. Today. I’ll manage.”
“Not your decision. Anyhow, it’s done,” Jules told her. She glanced at her phone nervously for the hundredth time that day,
but there had been ominous silence so far, even though her boss was famous for firing off email demands during the weekend.
It seemed she was less good at reading incoming ones.
Waking the next morning and remembering her promise to Flo, happiness flooded Jules’s mind, making her smile before she had
even opened her eyes. It was the start of a new week, and a fortnight of freedom stretched before her. Her mood catapulted
her back to the intoxicating mix of excitement she had felt as a child on the first day of the school holidays. Two full weeks
away from London! A proper break from work, her cramped little room in the house share, the grotty, grimy commute, and all
that job stress. Heaven. She stretched extravagantly, trying not to imagine whether her boss had yet read the hopeful, apologetic
email. Surely Caroline would rather Jules did a couple of weeks of working from home than lose her altogether? Now was not the time to lose her job... She tried not to think about it.
Sleepily, Jules watched the sunrise paint pink and orange streaks across the sky and listened to the first hopeful chirps of the dawn chorus getting underway.
The window of the little bedroom under the eaves faced out, not over the high street, but over the little streets behind, with views of the beach and the higgledy-piggledy rows of fishermen’s cottages, painted in ice-cream colors.
It was a crisp and cold late-winter morning, but Jules was toasty in Flo’s high iron bed, with its white linen sheets, a pleasingly heavy layer of silk-edged wool blankets, and topped with a puffy feather quilt.
Jules smoothed the quilt with her fingers.
It was the same one she had snuggled under as a tiny child, when she would slip into her great-aunt’s bed in the early morning for a cuddle and a chance to debate the relative merits of the adventures the day might hold.
Jules stretched again and entertained beguiling thoughts of freshly brewed coffee. Of course, there was going to be no coffee
unless she got up and made it herself. Worse, poor Aunt Flo was completely reliant on her to bring coffee and, being an early
riser, was probably already gasping for some. Galvanized, Jules got up and slipped on yesterday’s clothes. She was grateful
that she had at least grabbed some ancient underwear with dubious elastic and a couple of worn-soft T-shirts she usually wore
in bed from Gamekeeper’s Cottage the previous day. It was lucky there was no one in Portneath she needed to look glamorous
for. Now, there wasn’t even the option of popping across to Bootles for an economy pack of underpants. Hurriedly brushing
her teeth and hair, she splashed her face with cold water, trying to avoid looking too closely at the London pallor she saw
reflected in the mirror.
“You are an absolute darling,” said Flo as Jules handed her a steaming mug. She was sitting up in her narrow bed, hair loosely
flowing down her back, looking effortlessly lithe and elegant. If the winter sunshine slanting through the French doors hadn’t
been illuminating each line and wrinkle, she could have passed for a woman in her forties.
“How old are you, Aunt Flo?” asked Jules, too curious to resist.
“As old as my tongue, and a little older than my teeth,” Flo replied with a chuckle. “Funny question, all of a sudden.” Her
sweet smile made it clear no offense had been caused. “I’m eighty-six, since you ask,” she conceded, giving Jules a sideways
look.
“ How old?” Jules squeaked in shock.
Now Flo laughed out loud. “You’re going to have to tell me whether you’re surprised that I’m so much older than I look or
look so much older than I am.”
“The first one,” explained Jules, somber now. “Definitely the first one, but...” She sipped her coffee thoughtfully.
Flo was rapidly reaching an age where she would need more help regardless of mended broken bones—at least with running a big
shop like this full-time. What support was Jules going to be able to offer from London? Not much. And somehow she didn’t think
her mother was going to be stepping up.
“Time passes whether you like it or not,” Aunt Flo continued briskly. “It’s rubbish getting old, but it’s a darned sight better
than the alternative. You’re here for now at least, and it’s miraculously lovely to have you. Let’s crack on, shall we?”
Jules refused to let Flo get stuck back into her administrative work until she had brought down some porridge with cream and
brown sugar from the flat. Then she helped Flo into the little bathroom and stood anxiously outside while her aunt had what
she called “a jolly good wash.”
They spent a quiet morning, with Jules in the office at the back, sorting through a rather large pile of filing. The shop
was always closed on Sundays and Mondays, giving Flo a belated weekend to recover from what was usually a busy Saturday. Less
so these days.
“Now, my darling, it’s twelve thirty already,” called Flo after a while, “but let’s have lunch later. I’m still full of porridge,
aren’t you?”
“I am, and—you know what?” said Jules, coming through from the office.
“I want to do something more physical for a bit.” She rolled her shoulders, stiff from bending over paperwork.
“How about these windows?” she declared, delving into the cleaning cupboard and reemerging with a spray bottle of vinegar.
“I have taught you well, my child,” said Flo approvingly. “Use newspapers for the final polish. There’s a pile in the office
here, look, on the floor...” She pointed.
Soon Flo was at work on the book orders in the office, and Jules had carefully cleared away the window display that—in March—was
still focused on Christmas, with stacks of potential book presents along with some dusty tinsel. Flo would never have gotten
so behind with that kind of thing in the past, she thought, chewing her lip anxiously. She got on with polishing the insides
of all the little windowpanes with her newspaper and vinegar. It was fiddly but absorbing work. It was when she was mindlessly
polishing the newly clean glass that she noticed the black hoardings from what used to be Bootles had quietly disappeared.
Of course, she thought. It’s the grand opening today.
Hopefully it would be a tea shop. She couldn’t remember how long it had been since she and Flo had bonded over a good cream
tea. They were both great fans of the Devonshire delicacy and made a point of giving marks out of ten on a number of quality
indicators, from the fatness of the scones, to the fruitiness of the jam, to whether the tea shop was mean enough to give
either butter or clotted cream, when obviously the correct provision was both.
Yes, Jules mused as she worked, if it was a new tea shop, she and Aunt Flo would treat themselves to a visit on day one. Perhaps
for a late lunch. Her reading glasses were blurring her long-distance vision too much for her to see what was what, so she
pushed them up onto her head.
Then, like an icy torrent of freezing water, her idle curiosity was replaced with a shock that stole her breath away.
This was no tea shop.
Behind the sparkling acres of sheet glass was a jewel-like display of... books!
There was the vibrant and distinctive cover design of the latest and long-awaited Bruce Telford thriller, she would recognize
it anywhere. Everyone in the book industry would. And there, in the huge window on the opposite side of the entrance, was
a medley of books that Jules was pretty sure consisted of the latest Costa Book Awards long list, although it was hard to
be certain at that distance. Just in case any doubt remained, the final piece of chipboard had been removed to reveal a royal
blue name board with a classy, elegant font in white declaring the title: “The Portneath Bookshop.” “ The Portneath Bookshop”? How dare they... Jules gulped with rage, and then, impelled by a huge burst of adrenaline, she was
out the door and marching across the road, eyes fixed. She was oblivious to a passing car whose driver bipped his horn in
polite protest as he braked to avoid her.
As she reached the pavement on the other side, the door opened to reveal her teen crush and nemesis, Roman Montbeau, apparently
not the slightest bit taken aback to see her.
So, he was behind this. Of course he was.
“Ah, how lovely,” he said affably. “I know the sun’s only just over the yardarm, but come and have a glass of champagne, or
Buck’s fizz, if you prefer. Actually, it’s not champers, it’s the sparkling wine from the vineyard up the road, which is even
better,” he added confidingly, standing sideways and holding the door open for her. “It’s really very good, you should—”
“I would rather drink poison,” she growled.
Roman smirked. “How very dramatic. Shakespearean even... I’d love to oblige—please don’t think me inhospitable—but I don’t think we’ve got any...” He made a pantomime show of despair and apology.
“ Why aren’t you opening a tea shop?” she demanded.
“Er... because I don’t want to,” he said, scratching his head in a performance of confusion. “Also, from a business perspective,
the town doesn’t need another tea shop.”
“‘Er,’” she mimicked, “‘from a business perspective,’ it doesn’t need another bookshop either.” She jerked her thumb over
her shoulder at Capelthorne’s but continued to meet his gaze with an unwavering glare, chin jutting in fury.
“Ah, well”—he had the temerity to smile sadly—“there’s always room for a bit of healthy competition. I mean, Capelthorne’s
has been going for a while now...”
“Exactly. Yes. It has,” declared Jules, her staccato delivery being mainly due to a strange breathlessness and a hammering
heart. “One hundred years, to be precise, and I fully intend it to go for another hundred.” She resisted the urge to pant
and double over in an attempt to catch her breath.
“Fighting talk,” he said admiringly, looking her up and down in the most impertinent way. “I look forward very much to doing battle with you. I had assumed I would just be up against the old lady—your aunt, isn’t it?—which wouldn’t
have been nearly as fun. Let the best shop win.” He held out his hand for her to shake.
“Ha! It will,” she replied, looking down disgustedly at his hand while keeping her fists firmly balled at her sides.
They glared at each other wordlessly, and in that long moment, Jules saw, with the utmost clarity, there was every reason
for the hatred that raged between the two families. She felt it in her DNA.
“Montbeau,” she spat.
“Capelthorne,” he drawled back, mocking, not bothering to contain his mirth.
For long seconds, he grinned, and she fumed, and then—at a loss—Jules spun on her heel and stalked back across the road, feeling his eyes upon her.
She took extra care not to give him the pleasure of seeing her slip on the step.
Storming into the shop, she vented her fury by slamming the door so hard, a stack of the books she had taken out of the window just before toppled to the floor.
In the brief time she had been gone, Flo had managed to get herself from the office to the counter, where she now sat behind
the till.
“Your phone’s been dinging,” Flo said, holding it out to her. She was looking sympathetic at Jules’s distress but weirdly
un-furious herself, despite the turn of events.
Jules took the phone and opened it distractedly to see a two-word text from her boss:
You’re fired, it said.