Page 7 of Book People

This place has always been an escape for me, ever since childhood. My father took it over when my grandfather died and I grew up among the shelves, my toys scattered about on the rugs. I learned to read in this shop, learned all about the world in the pages of these books, and, when my mother died, it was my escape. She loved this place too, just like my great-grandfather did, and it’s for her as well that I want to keep it going.

I need to keep it going.

For the rest of the afternoon, I try to concentrate on yet another festival publicity budget, but I keep being distracted by people in costume all disappearing into Miss Jones’s shop.

At first I think it’s only children, but it’s not. There are adults among them too.

I’m going to have to talk to her, I realise. I’m going to have to make it absolutely clear that she’s not to be involved in my festival in any way. Or sabotage it or subvert it. As she might.

The village grapevine worked overtime when she first arrived here, and not only because she’s the great-granddaughter of the first Kate Jones, who used to own a teashop where the bookshop now is. There was something about a relationship breakup and a redundancy back in London. She’d been doing some kind of corporate job.

She’s probably ambitious – you can’t be in the corporate world for too long before you have to start walking over the backs of people – so I really wouldn’t put it past her to do something to insinuate herself into my festival. I wouldn’t put it past her to organise some kind of sabotage.

So, just before closing, I walk out of Blackwood Books, cross the road and approach Portable Magic.

I’ve never set foot in this shop and I’ve never wanted to. It’s galling that I’m now having to take this step, but it has to be done. She has to know that I will not have her hijacking my festival, not in any way, shape or form.

I step inside and am immediately assailed by a roomful of people all dressed up like cartoon characters. Or superheroes. Or video game characters or something. I can’t tell which it is.

I don’t like it, not any of it. They’re all talking loudly, leaving no space for quiet reading of any kind, and they’re passing around comics and graphic novels indiscriminately. Some kid pulls a toy gun from a holster and pretends to shoot me with it.

I scowl at him and he moves on to shoot his friend instead.

‘Mr Blackwood,’ a feminine voice says. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’

I turn to see Miss Jones standing behind the counter. She’s not wearing her pink skirt any more but a sleek, silver jumpsuit, with knives in holsters strapped to her shapely thighs. She has a black utility belt around her waist.

I tell myself she looks preposterous and do not let my gaze stray from her face.

She raises a golden brow. ‘What brings you to finally darken my door?’

‘I need to talk to you,’ I say.

‘Oh? What about?’

‘The festival.’

Her smile becomes sweet, almost saccharine. ‘What festival? Which one? Oh, the one you didn’t invite me to be a part of?’

I ignore the circus going on around me the way I also ignore her sarcasm, folding my arms and staring at her coldly. Her attention drops briefly to my chest, which is interesting, though not at all welcome. Definitely not.

‘You know which festival I’m talking about, Miss Jones. All the World’s a Page. There’s a reason you weren’t invited and it’s because I want Blackwood Books to be the sole supplier of books for the festival. So I’m here to reiterate that I don’t want you or your bookshop to be involved.’

‘That’s fine,’ she says. ‘I’ve just started planning my own festival. It’ll run concurrently with yours, though of course there’ll be different events and different authors coming.’

A shock of anger pulses through me, so intense that at first I can’t speak.

‘You can’t,’ I finally splutter. ‘A month isn’t long enough to organise an entire festival. Even six months was pushing it.’

She lifts a shoulder. ‘It’s enough time when you have a lot of thirsty readers.’

‘No,’ I say.

‘No?’ She raises both brows this time. ‘I’m sorry, did Wychtree install a dictator while I wasn’t looking? Or maybe appoint you to be the book police? Who died and made you God, Mr Blackwood?’

My jaw is so tight it’s aching. ‘You can’t have a festival at the same time as mine,’ I force out through gritted teeth. ‘The village isn’t big enough.’

She leans forward, both elbows on the counter, looking up at me from beneath her golden lashes. ‘Of course it is. Like I told you before, we cater to different readers. The world is plenty big enough for the both of us and so is this village.’

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