Page 17 of The Battle of the Bookshops
“That all sounds delightful, Charlie, and we’d love to help, but—what’s your immediate plan for us?” asked Flo.
“Okay, so...,” Charlie said, settling himself on one of the low toadstool seats in the children’s book section, legs akimbo and elbows on knees, “I was having a bit of a nosy in your secondhand books department the other day.”
“Oh, isthatwhat you were doing,” Aunt Flo exclaimed. “You were up there so long I thought you were taking a nap.”
“Ha! No-o,” Charlie said, grinning. “I’m guessing you maybe don’t have a complete handle on what’s up there?” He paused to look at Aunt Flo and Jules in turn, clearly anxious not to offend. “Like, maybe, a stock list?”
In tandem they shook their heads.A stock list?thought Jules.No chance.
“So, what I would like to do is evaluate and catalog what you’ve got.”
“Thatwouldbe amazing,” admitted Jules. “A great start, but what I was really thinking of doing was flogging off the stock to clear some space up there.” She shot Flo an apologetic glance, asthey hadn’t yet discussed it. “We sell close to zero old books. The space could be put to better use.”
“As in?” Flo inquired.
“I dunno...,” admitted Jules, “but let’s say, for example, Roman isn’t the only one who can shove a café in a bookshop. It’s not rocket science, and it could maybe draw customers in?”
“Hmm. Spillages? Plus sticky, cakey hands all over our pristine books?” mused Aunt Flo. “Not sure. But definitely not ruling it out.”
“Selling stuff off works for me,” said Charlie. “I was just about to say, I’ve been checking up on you—not in a weird way—but I notice you haven’t got an online presence. No one who’s serious about collecting antiquarian books goes around to bookshops anymore—not most of the time anyhow. Obviously, there’s auctions for the significant stuff, but also all the antiquarian sellers have their stock up online these days. Ever heard of BookFinder.com?”
Jules and Aunt Flo shook their heads.
“Basically, it’s eBay for old books,” Charlie explained. “It’s where buyers expect to go these days, and it’s easy to be really specific about what you’re looking for.”
“But not paying you doesn’t seem right,” insisted Aunt Flo.
“Tell you what?” piped up Jules, excited now. “You evaluate and catalog those books”—she jerked her thumb at the ceiling—“and once either Aunt Flo or I have given our agreement, you can put them up on this BookFinder site and keep ten percent of anything you sell. How about that?”
“Deal,” said Charlie instantly, springing athletically to his feet and holding out his hand again, this time for Jules to shake.
Later, Jules found her mind wandering to their conversation with Charlie as she plowed on with the accounts. She was dying to get on with something more exciting, and Charlie’s suggestions had piqued her interest.
The second floor had always been her favorite part of the shop as a child. She could lurk up there undisturbed for hours in a world of her own. No, short of just hiring a skip, they needed Charlie’s time and expertise. It was a stroke of luck at a time when luck was in short supply. And hopefully Charlie knew enough to stop them from accidentally selling a Shakespeare’s First Folio for five quid.
Not that there would be anything as exciting as that up there, she told herself. Jules wasn’t a big believer in karma. If she was, she would be spending even more of her day thinking of the elaborate ways fate could avenge her for the unwelcome presence of Roman Montbeau in her life.
Jules was determined to reject any overtures. She would buy her own coffee in the future, thank you very much.
Jules made Flo scrambled eggs on toast for supper, all the time regretting her promise to join Freya on a girls’ night out after they had eaten. She pulled on the shapeless black dress she had collected from her childhood bedroom in Middlemass the day before. She had cravenly decided to visit in the middle of the day when she knew her mother would be out, and Diana had been available to kindly give her a lift in. It wasn’t that she totally hated spending time with her mum, but Jules was feeling a little down, and, in that mood, she found her mother’s negativity hard to bear. The dusty contents of her old wardrobe had offered up slim pickings, and it was either the frumpy dress or a pair of purple dungarees that she had inexplicably adored fifteen years ago. The red lipstick she had rescued from the bottom of her bag, along with a slick of black mascara, was her only makeup. With her pale, pasty winter skin—she was too busy in the shop to catch the sun—the overall effect was more sulky goth than sophisticated London publisher.
“It’ll do you good,” insisted Aunt Flo as Jules searched for another excuse to bail. “You’re her maid of honor, you can hardly refuse to go on her hen night.”
“It’s not a hen night. The wedding’s not for weeks yet,” grumbled Jules.
In any case, work-obsessed Freya had refused a proper hen night, citing fatigue and difficulty getting a night off from the restaurant. She had made Jules promise faithfully not to organize a surprise one either and had displayed genuine terror that Jules might spring matching slogan T-shirts—let alone fluffy pink deely-bopper head gear or, God forbid, a stripper—on her and her friends. Instead, for old times’ sake, they had agreed on a classic night out on the town, probably ill-advisedly reliving their teenage nights out at the fetid and sticky-floored Rumours nightclub on the quay. This was the location of many Saturday nights. There, en masse, they drank lime and soda with shots of vodka from a smuggled hip flask and bopped sweatily to “Teenage Dirtbag” and “Dancing in the Moonlight” until they were chucked out, worse for wear, in the early hours.
Good times.
Flo was now tucked up in bed, with a cup of tea in hand and a purring Merlin slumped contentedly on her knees. Jules wanted nothing more than to curl up at the end of her bed to chat and idle the evening away. She hovered in the doorway uncertainly.
“Go,” insisted Flo, pointing to the door. “And have a nice time, or you’ll have me to answer to.”
Chapter 8
Freya was in high spirits, hopping up and down excitedly as the little group gathered by the red velvet ropes outside Sails. The women were being observed laconically by a beefy-looking bouncer with a black T-shirt and an earpiece on a curly wire. There was a chill wind blowing along the seafront, and they were all shivering in their “going out” clothes.
Everyone looked more glamorous than Jules.
