Page 4 of Book People

He merely extends an arm and looks down at the heavy watch around his wrist. ‘Is that all you have to say? I’ve got some orders to process and they need to be done fairly quickly.’

‘So you’re really going to stick with being an arse? I’ve tried to introduce myself for the past two months and all you do is ignore me.’

‘I’m sorry, I’ve been very—’

‘Yes,’ I interrupt. ‘You’ve been very busy. I heard you the first fifty million times you said it. But what I really want to know is why you can’t even have a conversation with me?’

This time something sparks in his eyes. ‘Are we having a conversation? Or are you just here to harangue me?’

‘I wouldn’t harangue you if you hadn’t been ignoring me.’

‘Why would I ignore you?’ This time his tone is slightly less measured and slightly more impatient.

‘I don’t know,youtell me.’

For a moment we glare angrily at each other, tension filling the space.

Then, finally, he says, ‘I’ve spent the last six months putting this festival together and it’s opening next month. It’s too late to do anything about it now.’

He sounds just a little bit smug, making me want to smack him. It would feelsogood to really lose my temper . . .

But, no, I’ve left anger behind me. I’ve left tension and stress and grief and bloodymenback in London, and they’re not following me here, they’re just not.

So instead I take a deep, silent breath and let the tension go. Then I smile at him, very,verysweetly. ‘That’s what you think,’ I say.

Then I turn and, with extreme deliberation, I stroll out.

Chapter Two

You were such an angry little thing. A real termagant. Did I ever tell you how much I liked that?

H

SEBASTIAN

I do not like Kate Jones.

I do not like Kate Jones.

I do not like Kate Jones.

I have to say it to myself three times as a calming mechanism, because otherwise I’m going to charge out of the shop door after her to continue our argument, and that would be a very stupid thing to do.

I don’t want her to know how angry she makes me. I don’t want her to know how she gets under my skin. Like a splinter of glass you can’t see to pull out, slowly working its way deeper and deeper, hurting like a bastard.

Instead, I watch her through my front window as she strolls casually across the road, the hem of her frothy pink skirt lifting in the light breeze, revealing a flash of pale thigh.

She’s ridiculous. She dresses like a Barbie doll, not a bookseller. Every gesture she makes is over-exaggerated and it’s the same with her expressions, every emotion on her face writ large enough for everyone to see.

I can’t stand how open she is.

I donotlike her.

So I have no idea why I can’t take my eyes off her.

I donotlike that either.

She walks with a confident swing of her hips, approaching that ridiculous space that I refuse to call a bookshop. Her hair is long and gathered into a low ponytail at the nape of her neck, spilling down her back in a fluffy golden cloud. She’s wearing little pink sandals that match her pink dress and she looks like the Sugar Plum Fairy. Sparkling and sweet, a delicious confection. Light and airy, without substance.

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