Page 19 of The Battle of the Bookshops
“...so, I guess I now know that books are my thing,” he finished, with an ultrareasonable smile. “Like I said, it’s absolutely not personal.”
“That’s good, because when Capelthorne’s goes under after a hundred years in business, it’ll be just grand to know it’s ‘not personal,’” snapped Jules.
There was a tiny niggle at the back of her mind, though. Intense dislike notwithstanding, why shouldn’t the man come back home? she admitted to herself. And when he did, why shouldn’t he do the thing he knows best?
Then, determinedly, she stuffed the voice of reason back in its box. “You’ve got a massive retail space there,” she said crisply. “That fancy fit-out won’t have been cheap. You’ve clearly got a significant promotions budget and a team of staff to do your bidding, but all that comes at a cost. Don’t tell me you don’t want, need, and expect to ruin Capelthorne’s as a key part of your business plan.”
She paused for confirmation, but he dropped his eyes and swirled the last inch of beer around his glass thoughtfully. He made no reply.
It was all she needed to know.
She continued: “You and I both know you can’t maintain your current level of overhead long term without ensuring you have a monopoly on the local market. Don’t tell me that you sucking up to the book clubs and the local schools and whatever else you’ve got planned isn’t absolutely a series of loss leaders with the explicit intention of putting Capelthorne’s out of business as quickly as possible.”
At that, he looked up, still and dangerous as the seconds ticked by. And then he sighed, put down his empty glass and held his hands out wide in ayou got megesture.
“It’s true,” he admitted. “My medium-term plan is for Portneath Books to be the only bookshop in town, and I calculate we will achieve it by Christmas, if not sooner. You’re right, it makes no sense to spend the budget to grab market share at any cost—not indefinitely—but I can assure you, wewillbury Capelthorne’s one way or another. And soon... So why don’t you make it easy for yourself, and your aunt, and throw in the towel? I’m not in the business of enticing the opposition to spend more money than they have in fighting a hopeless cause. Capelthorne’s has had a good run. Give in quickly. Don’t make me hurt you more than I need to.”
The easy charm had disappeared now. He locked his blue eyeson to her furious gaze without a flicker of emotion. His expression was unreadable.
“No,” she growled.
And then he smirked, looking away. “There you go again, making it personal. When will you and your family ever learn?”
At that, he turned and walked off, as Jules stared straight ahead, trying not to scream with rage and then, a second later, trying not to cry. She put her hand on her chest to calm her pounding heart. It was exactly as she had suspected: killing off Capelthorne’s was baked into his business plan.
Having her suspicions confirmed didn’t make her feel any better.
It took long minutes for her heart to return to a more normal rate. She chucked back the rest of her drink and gathered herself up. Adrenaline and despair were making her restless, and she had left Freya and the girls to their own devices for long enough already.
Opening the door to the disco room, the blast of sound it unleashed nearly forced her physically backward. Her headache intensified immediately, and she found herself pushing through the crowd on the dance floor with her hands clamped over her ears, her brow knitted in pain.
There was no sign of Freya. The other three girls were in the midst of the sweaty throng, dancing with an abandon that indicated many drinks had been consumed. Jules bellowed an inquiry into Hattie’s ear. “Loo!” she shouted, pointing, barely skipping a beat, before returning to writhing suggestively in front of an eager young man who, judging by the way he was thrusting his crotch at her, seemed extremely keen to take their relationship further.
Jules pushed her way back through the crowd the way she had come, until she got to a line of women disappearing into a black door marked “Sirens.” She slipped in, muttering apologies and shimmying sideways past the queue, which, as always, was six times longer than the one coming out of the “Sea Dogs” next door.
Freya was nowhere to be seen.
Looking into the speckled mirror above the basins, she caught the eye of a tall woman in a green sequined jumpsuit who was adding another layer of black mascara to her sooty eyes.
“Short girl, blond hair?” Green Jumpsuit inquired, as she fluffed her eyelashes expertly.
Jules nodded.
“Went in the cubicle on the end there,” she said, waving her mascara wand in the direction of the last door. “Been in there awhile now.”
Jules knocked sharply on the door and called out. No reply. She knocked again, and this time, she heard a moan, followed by the unmistakable sound of someone being sick. Very sick.
“Freya, let me in,” she instructed firmly, and after a significant wait, she heard the lock snick open.
“Oh dear,” Jules said, not without sympathy, as she squeezed into the narrow cubicle. Freya was hanging over the toilet bowl and groaning.
“I did a sick,” she informed Jules solemnly, straightening up cautiously and then slumping against the wall, defeated. “Think issa dodgy prawn,” she imparted, her eyes closing and mouth falling open as she slid into a peaceful doze.
“A dodgy prawn masquerading as half a dozen porn star martinis,” suggested Jules, but Freya wasn’t listening. “Oh no, you don’t,” said Jules urgently, shaking her shoulder. “You can’t go to sleep here.”
“Jussa little nap.” Freya hiccupped, her eyes remaining firmly closed.
Jules looked down at her in despair. She couldn’t leave her to sleep it off on the floor of a grubby nightclub toilet. Equally, she wasn’t strong enough to carry her out of the building on her own and definitely wouldn’t be able to get her home. With half anidea of finding a taxi—although she would be surprised if anyone would take them, given the state Freya was in—Jules fought her way back out of the loo and stood, chewing her lip anxiously as she scanned the heaving dance floor for the other three women. Just as she was wondering whether they had gone upstairs or even left without her, Roman appeared, standing square in front of her and blocking her view. She tried to dodge around him, but he took hold of her upper arms and leaned in. For an insane moment, she thought he was going to kiss her. She got a waft of his aftershave, an intoxicating blend of leather and limes, and tilted her head back, eyes closing in surrender.
