Page 84 of Book People

Yet even as the thought of her leaving passes through my head, an acid fury gathers inside me at the prospect. Again, mostly at myself and my complete inability to actually feel casual towards her. My emotions used to be much more controllable, much more ignorable, before she came, and now she’s here . . .

Christ. I need to start thinking about something else.

I step back from the computer and pace restlessly over to the poetry section, threading through the knots of people still standing around after the reading. Augusta Heroine – tall, regal, tattooed and pierced – is talking to local poet Jim Macalister – late sixties, bushy-haired, wearing a tatty pullover full of holes. Jim is telling her about his modest success with his bird poetry while she listens intently.

I go to the shelves, ostensibly to check titles, though I don’t need to. I know exactly what’s on my shelves. But I can’t pace around like a beast on a chain when there are customers filling the shop.

I fussily rearrange the books and grit my teeth, wishing I’d never crossed the road that night and gone into Portable Magic. Never gone upstairs to her flat. Never kissed her senseless in the first place. Because if I’d never done any of those things, I’d never have to consider the relationship I’m in with her, and how it’s driving me round the bend, because all I want is more.

More of her. More of us together. More time to explore what we have and what the future might look like and—

Fuck. I can’t start thinking like that. She’s been through far too much already in the past year, and she doesn’t need me demanding things from her that she can’t give. Not that I want to anyway, no matter what my heart is telling me.

Idon’twant more.

What I want is to stay in my bookshop, ordering stock and talking to customers and looking at reviews and redoing the front window. Reading.

That’s all my life has been so far and that’s what it will be in the future and I’m fine with that. More than fine. It’s all I ever wanted.

Maybe that’s what I should tell her. Maybe I need her to know that she shouldn’t concern herself with me and whatever ourrelationship is. That she can take that editing job and leave, go back to London.

Better she does that now, while things aren’t serious between us, rather than later when it’s more . . . difficult. Because they all leave in the end, the women in my family. They can’t live with the Blackwood men, because, quite frankly, the Blackwood men never deserve them.

Sebastian left his Kate to the mercy of a man who abused her and then shirked his responsibility by diving into a river. My grandfather’s commitment to gambling got in the way of him being a good husband to his wife and she left. Then there’s Dad, who never much liked the bookshop either and decided to take up drinking instead.

I’m no different. I haven’t had a relationship with a woman at all beyond a couple of days, let alone a serious one, and this casual business is doing my head in. Anything more will be a fucking disaster.

I pace back to the counter and check my newsletter sign-up list yet again. Another name. Excellent.

At that moment, a small golden-haired whirlwind comes charging into the shop and rushes up to the counter.

It’s Kate. She’s pink-cheeked, her hair up in a hasty, untidy knot on the top of her head, golden strands falling down all over the place. She’s wearing some ridiculous rainbow of a dress that she must have borrowed from the Wychtree Dramatic Society’s wardrobe – the thing has underskirts, for God’s sake – and she looks like she’s about to have a panic attack.

I’m surprised to see her. She should be getting ready to open the doors at Portable Magic for Lisa’s signing, which is in exactly twenty-five minutes.

‘Shouldn’t you—’ I begin.

‘There are no books!’ she bursts out. ‘None! They didn’t arrive. Lisa’s going to be here in ten minutes and there are no books for her to sign.’

I frown at her. ‘You only found out about thisnow?’

‘I had so many boxes arrive from the supply company,’ Kate says furiously. ‘And there’s only me unloading and unpacking them, and I followed the shipment ofColoursup twice and theysaidthey’d get them to me by this morning at the very latest.’ She throws out a dramatic hand. ‘But they’re not. Fucking. Here.’

She is beside herself and I get it. It happens sometimes. You organise an author signing, and then the books don’t turn up, and the author is left sitting at a table with nothing to sign. Uncomfortable and awkward for the author and financially devastating for the bookshop, especially if the author signing is a big name.

I glance out the window at the already massive queue that’s formed outside Portable Magic. A lot of people. A lot of people who will want to buy signed copies of the global smash-hit book by Lisa Underwood.

Except there are no books to buy, which means Kate will miss out on a lot of money.

‘Fuck, indeed,’ I say, pithily and to the point.

Kate blinks rapidly. ‘I don’t know what to do. I’ve got two copies on the shelves but nothing out the back, and she’ll be here at any minute, and this is a disaster. A total disaster!’

I don’t blame her for panicking. She’s only been running a bookshop for two months, not to mention throwing herself headfirst into helping me plan and run a literary festival. And when I had a small fit about James Wyatt pulling out, she helped me get a new headliner. So the least I can do is help her, and, luckily, I’ve been in this situation before, so I know exactly what to do.

‘It’s fine,’ I say, projecting as much calm as I can. ‘I have my stock out the back, so you can use that.’ Lisa agreed to do a second signing at the end of the festival because of the demand, and it’s going to be held here. I got my stock from a different supplier and it’s already been delivered.

Kate is still breathing fast. ‘But what about you? Won’t you need—’

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