Chapter 8 #2
patrician, public school accent had been subtly overlaid with an East Coast American twang, barely discernible, but essential
to its attractiveness—a finishing touch like a grinding of coarse black pepper on a plate of carbonara or a squeeze of lemon
on an oyster. Far from forensically analyzing what he was saying for scraps of competitive advantage, Jules found herself
gazing at his mouth as he talked, taking in his easy smile and his straight white teeth. In an older man his teeth would have
been too perfect to be real, but on him they spoke of good health and expensive American dentistry.
“...so, I guess I now know that books are my thing,” he finished, with an ultrareasonable smile. “Like I said, it’s absolutely
not personal.”
“That’s good, because when Capelthorne’s goes under after a hundred years in business, it’ll be just grand to know it’s ‘not
personal,’” snapped Jules.
There was a tiny niggle at the back of her mind, though. Intense dislike notwithstanding, why shouldn’t the man come back
home? she admitted to herself. And when he did, why shouldn’t he do the thing he knows best?
Then, determinedly, she stuffed the voice of reason back in its box.
“You’ve got a massive retail space there,” she said crisply.
“That fancy fit-out won’t have been cheap.
You’ve clearly got a significant promotions budget and a team of staff to do your bidding, but all that comes at a cost. Don’t tell me you don’t want, need, and expect to ruin Capelthorne’s as a key part of your business plan. ”
She paused for confirmation, but he dropped his eyes and swirled the last inch of beer around his glass thoughtfully. He made
no reply.
It was all she needed to know.
She continued: “You and I both know you can’t maintain your current level of overhead long term without ensuring you have
a monopoly on the local market. Don’t tell me that you sucking up to the book clubs and the local schools and whatever else
you’ve got planned isn’t absolutely a series of loss leaders with the explicit intention of putting Capelthorne’s out of business
as quickly as possible.”
At that, he looked up, still and dangerous as the seconds ticked by. And then he sighed, put down his empty glass and held
his hands out wide in a you got me gesture.
“It’s true,” he admitted. “My medium-term plan is for Portneath Books to be the only bookshop in town, and I calculate we
will achieve it by Christmas, if not sooner. You’re right, it makes no sense to spend the budget to grab market share at any
cost—not indefinitely—but I can assure you, we will bury Capelthorne’s one way or another. And soon... So why don’t you make it easy for yourself, and your aunt, and throw
in the towel? I’m not in the business of enticing the opposition to spend more money than they have in fighting a hopeless
cause. Capelthorne’s has had a good run. Give in quickly. Don’t make me hurt you more than I need to.”
The easy charm had disappeared now. He locked his blue eyes on to her furious gaze without a flicker of emotion. His expression was unreadable.
“No,” she growled.
And then he smirked, looking away. “There you go again, making it personal. When will you and your family ever learn?”
At that, he turned and walked off, as Jules stared straight ahead, trying not to scream with rage and then, a second later,
trying not to cry. She put her hand on her chest to calm her pounding heart. It was exactly as she had suspected: killing
off Capelthorne’s was baked into his business plan.
Having her suspicions confirmed didn’t make her feel any better.
It took long minutes for her heart to return to a more normal rate. She chucked back the rest of her drink and gathered herself
up. Adrenaline and despair were making her restless, and she had left Freya and the girls to their own devices for long enough
already.
Opening the door to the disco room, the blast of sound it unleashed nearly forced her physically backward. Her headache intensified
immediately, and she found herself pushing through the crowd on the dance floor with her hands clamped over her ears, her
brow knitted in pain.
There was no sign of Freya. The other three girls were in the midst of the sweaty throng, dancing with an abandon that indicated
many drinks had been consumed. Jules bellowed an inquiry into Hattie’s ear. “Loo!” she shouted, pointing, barely skipping
a beat, before returning to writhing suggestively in front of an eager young man who, judging by the way he was thrusting
his crotch at her, seemed extremely keen to take their relationship further.
Jules pushed her way back through the crowd the way she had come, until she got to a line of women disappearing into a black
door marked “Sirens.” She slipped in, muttering apologies and shimmying sideways past the queue, which, as always, was six
times longer than the one coming out of the “Sea Dogs” next door.
Freya was nowhere to be seen.
Looking into the speckled mirror above the basins, she caught the eye of a tall woman in a green sequined jumpsuit who was
adding another layer of black mascara to her sooty eyes.
“Short girl, blond hair?” Green Jumpsuit inquired, as she fluffed her eyelashes expertly.
Jules nodded.
“Went in the cubicle on the end there,” she said, waving her mascara wand in the direction of the last door. “Been in there
awhile now.”
Jules knocked sharply on the door and called out. No reply. She knocked again, and this time, she heard a moan, followed by
the unmistakable sound of someone being sick. Very sick.
“Freya, let me in,” she instructed firmly, and after a significant wait, she heard the lock snick open.
“Oh dear,” Jules said, not without sympathy, as she squeezed into the narrow cubicle. Freya was hanging over the toilet bowl
and groaning.
“I did a sick,” she informed Jules solemnly, straightening up cautiously and then slumping against the wall, defeated. “Think
issa dodgy prawn,” she imparted, her eyes closing and mouth falling open as she slid into a peaceful doze.
“A dodgy prawn masquerading as half a dozen porn star martinis,” suggested Jules, but Freya wasn’t listening. “Oh no, you
don’t,” said Jules urgently, shaking her shoulder. “You can’t go to sleep here.”
“Jussa little nap.” Freya hiccupped, her eyes remaining firmly closed.
Jules looked down at her in despair. She couldn’t leave her to sleep it off on the floor of a grubby nightclub toilet.
Equally, she wasn’t strong enough to carry her out of the building on her own and definitely wouldn’t be able to get her home.
With half an idea of finding a taxi—although she would be surprised if anyone would take them, given the state Freya was in—Jules fought her way back out of the loo and stood, chewing her lip anxiously as she scanned the heaving dance floor for the other three women.
Just as she was wondering whether they had gone upstairs or even left without her, Roman appeared, standing square in front of her and blocking her view.
She tried to dodge around him, but he took hold of her upper arms and leaned in.
For an insane moment, she thought he was going to kiss her.
She got a waft of his aftershave, an intoxicating blend of leather and limes, and tilted her head back, eyes closing in surrender.
“What’s wrong?” he shouted, his lips all but brushing her ear.
Snapping out of her near swoon, for a nanosecond Jules debated telling him to naff off, but she couldn’t let her friend down
just to score a dubious point against her enemy. “It’s Freya,” she yelled.
Roman understood instantly. He pointed to the ladies’ loo with eyebrows raised, and she nodded. The next second, he was in
there, scattering discombobulated women like squawking chickens—a fox in a henhouse. Jules followed right behind. For a long
moment, he looked down at Freya, slumped against the wall and still sleeping peacefully. Then he crouched and gathered her
up, lifting her in his arms with apparent ease. Next thing Jules knew, she was following him up the stairs and out into the
street, as he cradled Freya, her head snuggled comfortably against his shoulder.
Left to trot fussily behind him, with Freya’s bag and coat over her arm, Jules felt like a spare part as he strode—seemingly
barely noticing the weight of Freya’s body—through the darkened streets.
There was a sharp wind assailing them from the sea, and Jules shivered, longing for sleep. She was thankful Freya and Finn’s
flat above the deli was just yards from Capelthorne’s and her own bed.
Roman didn’t say a word as they walked and just stood aside when they reached the door to the deli, so she could reach around and ring the bell for the flat, which she did, being ultra-careful not to brush against him.
His face was neutral and closed, all his former amused charm dispersed, although his expression softened a little when he looked down at Freya, still sleeping peacefully in his arms.
“Sorry, mate,” he said as Finn, in boxers and nothing else, opened the door.
The man is built like a Roman god, thought Jules, staggered at the perfection of Finn’s abs. Then she found herself wondering what sort of state Roman’s abs
were in. Pretty decent, if the exterior was anything to go by.
Roman, in contrast, was not struggling to stay on task. “She’s chucked it all up, so you don’t need to worry,” he told Finn,
“but she’s going to feel terrible in the morning, and serves her right.”
The two men tenderly managed the transfer from Roman’s arms to Finn’s, and then, duty discharged, Roman turned to Jules, looking
stern and bored.
“I assume you can get yourself home without my help?” he said, looking over to the door of Capelthorne’s.
Jules was stung by his patronizing manner.
“You are correct,” she said stiffly, overwhelmingly tempted to add, I bid you good night, sir , and perhaps even snap a salute and/or a heel click, but—let’s face it—he had got her out of a difficult situation, so she settled for saying, “Thank you for helping with Freya. I should have been watching
her more closely.”
“You should have,” he agreed. “Anyhow, I did it for Finn.”
Of course he did.
“I enjoyed our drink,” he ventured.
“I didn’t,” she snapped, turning and walking away.