Page 3 of Book People

A shock goes through me. I’d heard it talked about when I worked for James Locke Publishing. It used to be one of the oldest literary festivals in England, beginning in the fifties and running up until the early nineties. ‘Yes, but I thought it was shut down years ago?’

‘It was,’ Mrs Abbot says. ‘But Sebastian decided to revive it this year.’ She gives me a slightly puzzled look. ‘Surely he’stalked to you about it? I’d love it if we could have some more sessions aimed at readers like me.’

I’m trying to pay attention, I really am. But it’s very difficult, due to the sudden uprush of fury coalescing in my veins. Because, no, Sebastian hasn’t talked to me about it. Sebastian never talks to me at all.

So, to sum up: there’s a literary festival happening. A literary festivalheis reviving. A literary festival that is happening in approximately one month and that hedeliberatelyhasn’t told me about. And it has to be deliberate. There’s no other reason he wouldn’t tell the owner of the only other bookshop in the entire village.

My smile might as well have been cut out and pasted on, it feels so stiff. But I manage to keep it there as Mrs Abbot chats a bit more, then pays for her books and I put them in a bag for her. Then I wait for the minute it takes her to leave the shop before I’m striding out myself, banging my door closed and sticking on it the piece of paper I keep to hand that says ‘Back in ten minutes’.

I’m not normally confrontational. I prefer to pour oil on troubled waters. Idon’tcreate the trouble myself. At least, that’s what I spent most of my time doing in my relationship with Jasper. But this is my dream we’re dealing with here, my dream of a successful bookshop, and I will fight to the death anyone who dares to threaten it.

So I stride in an absolute rage, my good thoughts forgotten, straight across the street to Blackwood Books.

It’s a ridiculously picturesque shop. Located in a half-timbered, historic Tudor building, the inside is like something out of Dickens. Old wooden floors and panelled walls. Built-in shelves that look like they’ve been there for centuries. The ceiling is low, with big, exposed beams, and there are enough Persian rugs to carpet the entirety of Persia. There’s even anancient staircase that leads to a second floor, where all the rare books are kept in a special climate-controlled room.

It’s beautiful, but I don’t want him ever to know that I’m jealous of his perfect little bookshop.

What Idowant him to know is that I’m livid.

He’s standing behind the huge, antique oak desk that doubles as his counter, and he’s looking down at the slim, black laptop he’s got open. He doesn’t glance up as I enter. He’s wearing a plain black shirt and black trousers, and has the most affected, hipster-looking glasses in the history of the entire world sitting on the end of his Roman nose.

Even while I’m furious at him, he’s still hot. His profile looks like that of an emperor, though I would literally die if he ever found out that I thought that.

‘Hello? Yes,’ I say, coming to a stop in front of the counter, ‘I need to talk to you.’

He doesn’t look up. ‘I’m a bit busy at the moment,’ he says, with frigid politeness. His voice is deep and I hate that I find it sexy.

I ignore his busyness. ‘It’s about the festival. The festivalyoudidn’t tell me about.’

‘The festival is a literary event,’ he says, sounding absolutely insufferable. Then he deigns to lift his gaze from his laptop screen, staring at me coldly through his rimless glasses. The lenses make his amazing blue eyes even more amazing. ‘It’s got nothing to do with you.’

He said that. He really said that. The . . .audacity.

My fury is growing, sitting in my stomach like acid, but I’m not going to be rude like him. I’m better than that. I’m going to take the higher ground, I decide, and continue my offensive by being aggressively pleasant.

I try a smile, though I’m pretty sure it’s turned into a feral grimace. ‘I am a bookshop owner. In case you didn’t know. Andsince this is a book festival, I’d say it has a little bit to do with me.’

His eyes glitter behind his glasses, and for a long moment he just stares at me. And for a second I think I can see those sparks again and it makes my heart give an odd little jump. Then, slowly, he raises his hands and, with deliberate precision, takes his glasses off, folding them up carefully and laying them down on the counter, the epitome of a very important man graciously granting a poor idiot a couple of moments of his precious time. ‘It’s not that kind of festival,’ he says, as if explaining to a child. ‘As I said, it’s aliteraryfestival.’

‘Books are literature,’ I snap.

‘Not all books,’ he says, patiently.

Of all the . . . Anger grabs me around the throat and for a second I’m so furious I can’t speak. Ever since I opened, he’s ignored all my gestures of friendship, all my attempts to get to know him, and he’s rebuffed every single olive branch I’ve tried to extend. He’s even been passive-aggressive with his window displays. He clearly thinks he’s better than me, and now he’s trying to cut me out of a festival that could very well be good for both of us.

‘Give me a reason,’ I demand, my pleasantness slipping through my fingers no matter how hard I try to hang on to it. ‘Just one reason why you didn’t tell me about this festival.’

‘I believe I just did.’

‘No, the real reason.’

‘Thatwasthe real reason.’

‘It wasn’t.’ I glare at him. ‘You deliberately didn’t tell me.’

He lets out a breath and shifts on his feet, as if he’s got more important high-brow things to do. ‘Why would I do that?’

‘Because you’re an insufferable snob,’ I say, before I can think better of it.

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