Page 13 of The Battle of the Bookshops
“You work too hard,” Flo told her, but a continuation of her gentle telling off was interrupted by the bell announcing a new customer. Jules saw Flo’s face light up in recognition and pleasure and turned to see who it was.
A tall, distinguished-looking man, stooping slightly with age, was smiling shyly at Flo, tipping his hat in old-world greeting. “Good morning,” he said, looking from Jules to Flo diffidently, obviously keen not to impose.
“I’m off,” announced Jules, giving them both a little wave. Even with broken limbs, Flo was more than capable of dealingwith a single customer, especially one she was so obviously pleased to see.
Jules busied herself in the office, and when she next looked up to see how they were getting on, the gentleman had gone.
“Who’s lover boy, then?” she asked cheerfully as Aunt Flo made a distraction of tidying the table by the till, squaring off stacks of books that were already perfectly straight.
“Who? Oh, him?” she said unconvincingly. “Such a nice man. I think he’s a widower; he’s been in a few times, buying recipe books, and we’ve got chatting. Bless him, he was asking for recommendations, starting completely from scratch, so I sold him Delia Smith’sHow to Cook: Book Oneto start with. Had to order it in, of course.”
“I know that one!” said Jules. “It’s got instructions for boiling an egg and a lovely photograph of eggs in a bowl on the cover. Vintage gold, but a bit basic, maybe?”
“Not a bit of it,” Aunt Flo said staunchly. She prided herself on her book recommendations for customers. “He came back in and bought books two and three. Said they were perfect for him.”
“What did he want to buy today?”
“Mastering the Art of French Cookingby Julia Child,” Aunt Flo said with a tiny, smug smile.
Jules gave a low whistle. “Credit to him,” she said. “That’s progress.”
“And he’s gained a few pounds, which suits him. Funny old stick,” Aunt Flo mused. “Wants to chat, or seems to, and then—I don’t know if it’s shyness—he just grabs the book and runs.”
“Ha! He fancies you.”
“Stuff and nonsense,” retorted Flo, but she had a little secret smile that lingered on and off for the rest of the day, Jules noticed.
Flo had never had a man friend in her life—at least she hadn’t in all the years Jules had known her. Could it finally be time? Surely Aunt Flo had no interest in that sort of thing...?
Chapter 6
The best coffee to be had in Portneath was in the little café at the front of Finn’s delicatessen. From around eight thirty, decorous queues would form, often stretching right out the door, and Jules would join them, in search of coffee for herself and her aunt. The main downside to this otherwise extremely civilized habit was that it was part of Roman’s morning routine too. Jules had gotten hypersensitive to choosing her moment, watching covertly from the shop to see if he was already there, lurking in the shadows until the need for caffeine overcame her reticence.
On this particular morning, she had ended up—horror of horrors—standing directly behind him. The one salvation was that he did not appear to know she was there. Even if he turned around, he would probably just look straight over her head, thought Jules. Finally, there was an advantage to being short. It was raining, and the queue had compressed itself, to allow as many coffee disciples in out of the rain as possible, but that meant there was barely an inch between her and Roman’s broad back, clad today in an impeccable sky-blue cotton shirt. It was probably chosen to match his baby-blue eyes, thought Jules, suppressing a snort of contempt. Vanity. Yeah, she could definitely add that to her list of “Reasonsto Loathe and Despise Roman Montbeau.” Not that there was a physical list. Because obviously that would be ridiculous...
“If I hand you these, you won’t throw them at me, will you?” said Roman, turning to face her with a paper cup in each hand.
“W-why would I want to hold your coffee?” Jules stuttered, stifling her shock and trying to sound crushing.
“Because actually it’syourcoffee,” Roman insisted amiably, apparently not noticing her contempt. “Oat milk flat white, and a cappuccino for your aunt?”
“H-how do you know?”
“‘Know thine enemy,’” he replied calmly. “First rule of warfare.”
“Actually, I think it’s ‘Kill or be killed.’”
“Seems a bit extreme,” he commented. “Just for rival bookshops, I mean.”
“Not really,” insisted Jules, but—as if against her volition—her hands were moving toward the cups. She needed that coffee badly. And it was oat milk and everything. A part of her warmed to this tiny gesture of care. She shoved that part down firmly, reminding it that this was indeed her mortal enemy, and Aunt Flo’s.
“Anyhow, I’m a lover, not a fighter,” he went on, pushing the cups into her nerveless hands and, when he was sure she had hold of them, picking up his own. Opening the door, with his arm stretched up high for her to go underneath, he waited for her to go through.
It was as if he were deliberately emphasizing her lack of height, she thought resentfully as she ducked underneath. “You’d better be a booklover then,” she retorted lamely. “Because for me, this is a fight to the death.”
In reply, he just smiled benignly, as if her death threats were nothing but idle chat about the weather. “Have a good day, little Jules,” he told her, raising his coffee cup in salute as he turned away.
Without it being directly discussed, Jules took over all the backroom stuff for the business, allowing Flo to sit out front. Manning the till and chatting to customers was what Flo liked best, although the shop was rarely busy; in fact it was worryingly quiet most of the time. Flo made light of the slow turnover:
