Page 18 of The Battle of the Bookshops
Along with Freya, there were two girls from their old class at school whom Jules didn’t hate but wouldn’t have gone out of her way to reconnect with either. They were both perfectly sweet, expressing awe at the high-flying career Jules no longer had and breathlessly filling her in on the intervening years of jobs, boyfriends, and, in the case of one of them, the acquisition of a husband and a young child. If anything, she was even more giddy than Freya at the prospect of a rare night out.
The final member of their party was Jules’s old foe Hattie, who turned up ten minutes late, wearing the highest heels Jules had ever seen, picking her way in lethal peril across the cobbles. Of course, Hattie would be there. She was Freya’s all-time best mate, the one who was blowing Freya off on her wedding because of her travel plans. Rather than being relieved Jules was going to stepinto her maid of honor shoes, Hattie was looking daggers at her, which seemed a bit much. Jules would have been happy to hand the responsibility over if Hattie had thought it important enough to be around.
It was obviously going to be a mega-fun night, Jules decided, feeling exhausted already. To make it worse, old dynamics quickly reestablished themselves; she had always been cast as Captain Sensible in the group—the one who would make sure everyone got home safely at the end of the night—and it didn’t look like anything much had changed over the years. By consensus, the other women dragged her straight down, past the cocktail bar on the ground floor, to the basement, where the music was playing. It was Noughties Night, and Jules wearily found herself grabbing a table and getting the drinks in, while the other women bopped like it was their last night on earth. The swirling disco lights were blinding, and the music was so loud Jules could feel it through the floor. Her forehead was tightening ominously, and her head was soon thumping out of time with the music. She sat at the table, grinning fixedly and sipping on a gin and tonic. The alcohol was the last thing she wanted, but if she didn’t get at least a little bit drunk, she didn’t think she was going to make it through.
Freya and her posse were all on their third porn star martini by the time Jules bailed on the disco. She didn’t want to upset Freya by leaving altogether, so she yelled her intentions into Freya’s ear and then slipped out and up the stars, the soundproof door closing behind her, cutting the music instantly to a dull thud. She breathed a sigh of relief. Upstairs, the cocktail bar—a welcome several degrees cooler than down below—was filling up fast. By a piece of rare luck, a stool at the bar became vacant just as she pushed her way through the crush, and she slid onto it with gratitude.
Waiting for the barman to notice her, Jules rubbed her temples dejectedly. There had been talk of pizza to end the night, but therewas no way she was going to be able to pry Freya and her mates away from that DJ for at least another couple of hours. Catching sight of herself in the smoked mirror wall, slumped on her stool in her unflattering dress, she determined she looked like a sulky black crow. Her headache had now marshaled itself into a tight band across her forehead, and flashes of light at the edges of her vision promised worse to come.
“I’ll have an espresso martini,” she told the spotty barman when she had his attention at last. Coffee sometimes headed off a full-scale migraine; tonight, she thought, the combination of caffeine and alcohol would either kill or cure.
Released of the obligation to speak to anyone, Jules was soon nursing a cocktail glass and staring fixedly at the little coffee bean floating in its sea of white foam. She was immersed in the problems swirling around her mind. Somehow, over just a couple of months, she had to elevate Capelthorne’s to a state of health sufficient to pay properly for staff, so that Jules could return to what was left of her career and Aunt Flo could start to take things easier—to retire, even—secure in the knowledge that the shop could provide her with a little income.
She would have the flat above the shop too, of course. Jules could never imagine her living anywhere else. The stairs might become an issue. In a historic building—which it was—she wondered if they would even beallowedto install a stairlift, let alone whether they could technically do it. But she was getting ahead of herself. If Aunt Flo got frail enough to need it, the solution would probably be a nursing home, which she would hate. Tears pricked at Jules’s eyes at the very thought of it, let alone worrying about whether she had the funds to pay... First things first: the summer coming up was about getting Capelthorne’s onto a steadier footing, with income matching outgoings at least. Nothing more.
She was busy crunching income and expenditure figures in her head—she had been staring at a dispiriting spreadsheet with them that afternoon—when a large, tanned hand appeared, sliding a fresh espresso martini glass along the bar and into her field of vision. The arm was clad in a crisp, blue-striped cotton shirt with double cuffs and discreet gold cuff links. Recognizing the expensive-looking watch, her eyes scanned quickly up to the face for confirmation, and her heart jumped in her chest.
Roman smiled. He had, she found herself noticing objectively, a devastatingly sexy smile with a dimple on one side of his dark-stubbled jaw. “It’s almost like you’ve got ‘do not disturb’ tattooed on your forehead,” he observed.
“And yet, here you are,” Jules drawled, trying hard to look bored. What must it be like to be as physically attractive and effortlessly charming as Roman? She could only imagine how smoothly his life must run every day, with women fawning, sucking up, blushing—as she was, infuriatingly, doing—in every interaction he ever had with them, from waitress to duchess. And he was rich too. That had to help.Yep, it must be pretty cool being Roman,she thought, her lip twisting with disdain.
“Whoa, that’s quite a crushing look,” he remarked. “I feel sorry for whoever sparked that thought.”
“Don’t,” she retorted. “He doesn’t need your pity.”
Jules drained her drink and looked at the fresh glass suspiciously. She could do with it, but taking gifts from the enemy created a level of cognitive dissonance she wasn’t sure her aching head could tolerate.
“Go on. You know you want to,” he wheedled. “Anyhow, who are you with?” he asked, looking around. “You don’t strike me as a solitary drinker.”
“Some girlfriends,” she told him reluctantly. “And why don’t I look like a solitary drinker? I can drink on my own if I like. A womancan drink on her own. It’s the twenty-first century, if you hadn’t noticed. Who areyouwith anyhow? Although youdolook like a sad, sorry solitary drinker, frankly.”
“Nah, drinking alone’s the thin end of the wedge, I’ve always been told,” he said blithely, raising his pint glass in salute. “It’s a casual thing. I’ve got a few staff members here that I’m buying drinks for, that’s all. Celebrating a good week’s trade.”
Were they indeed? Jules followed his gaze to see an animated group in the corner of the bar, where that annoyingly glamorous blond woman was effortlessly holding court with a story that was eliciting much laughter.Gosh, beautiful and witty. How very bloody marvelous,thought Jules sourly. God, she was turning into a jealous old woman.
“And talking about work,” Roman was continuing, “I’m especially glad we’ve bumped into each other, because I can’t help thinking we’ve got off on the wrong foot.”
“No shit,” said Jules, finding herself automatically reaching for the second martini. Okay, so it was consorting with the enemy, but putting pride—and rage—aside, she was more likely to learn something to her advantage in speaking to him than refusing to.
“So, how is your—what is she to you?—I want to say aunt, but surely great-aunt, no?” he asked, regarding her with a polite smile.
“Great-aunt. She’s brilliant, as you have doubtless seen.”
Roman tilted his head to one side. “Poor lady. At her age injuries as serious as that can have lasting consequences.”
“Oh, she’ll be just fine, don’t you worry,” Jules shot back.
“With you looking after her, I’m sure that’s true.”
Jules decided she had had enough of the polite chitchat. “So, why now? And why a bookshop?” she demanded, leaning back and giving him her best steely look.
He held his hands up in surrender. “I need you to understand, it’s nothing personal, not toward your aunt—sorry, great-aunt—oryou. I have been lucky enough to work for a big publisher in New York for the last eight years. HarperCollins, actually.”
Jules gave him a brief nod of grudging respect.
“I’ve grafted my way around the company,” he went on, “learned a lot about the industry, made some mistakes, established some contacts... but ultimately, I’ve been wanting to come back home, to check in with family and reconnect with old friends.” He shrugged. “Plus, I feel like I’ve gained good experience over there. Enough to make this new endeavor a success? I hope so. I guess time will tell.” He grinned easily at her, his gaze idly ranging over her frumpy dress and back to her face again.
His deep voice was extremely easy on the ear, Jules had to admit, as she watched him talk. What might have been an irritatingly patrician, public school accent had been subtly overlaid with an East Coast American twang, barely discernible, but essential to its attractiveness—a finishing touch like a grinding of coarse black pepper on a plate of carbonara or a squeeze of lemon on an oyster. Far from forensically analyzing what he was saying for scraps of competitive advantage, Jules found herself gazing at his mouth as he talked, taking in his easy smile and his straight white teeth. In an older man his teeth would have been too perfect to be real, but on him they spoke of good health and expensive American dentistry.
