Page 22 of The Battle of the Bookshops
“Look at all this stuff,” she told Flo delightedly. “Sports memoirs—hardbacks too—and these psychological thriller paperbacks aremostly biggish names...” Jules was plonking stacks of books onto the till counter. “And see this cookbook? This was huge a couple of Christmases ago.”
“Beautiful!” said Flo, picking one up and flicking through it. “Lovely photography. I do adore a good food photo, don’t you?”
“I tell you who would like that,” said Jules slyly. “Your budding master chef gentleman friend, that’s who.”
“I don’t know about ‘gentleman friend,’” said Flo, but Jules didn’t fail to clock her aunt’s secret smile at the thought of him. “How much did we pay for all this, though?” asked Flo anxiously.
“You’d be staggered at how little,” Jules reassured her. “We can afford to sell at really discounted prices and still make a very decent margin. If it would just stop raining, I’ll do a little display outside the shop with prices on those fluorescent star cards we’ve got in the drawer.”
Chapter 10
Despite now being back in her cozy, familiar childhood bedroom up in the flat, Jules’s sleep was disturbed with feverish dreams about a strange man with no face throwing his coat across a puddle for her, trying to entice her into a mysterious car, and then—when she refused—following her as she ran along the beach, getting steadily closer however fast she ran.
She woke up panting, in a panic, to a sore throat and a hacking cough. Her head pounded every time she swallowed, her nose was blocked with what felt like concrete, and her skin felt like it had been sandpapered. She put on her ancient jogging bottoms and a beautifully soft brown cashmere jumper, which Aunt Flo had lent her because she had hardly anything to wear, over the T-shirt she had slept in. The color didn’t suit her, but to be fair, nothing was really going to go with her chalk-white face, blue undereye shadows, and bright pink nose, she thought, looking into the bathroom mirror.
“Itoldyou so,” said Flo, when she set eyes on her.
“Yup, caught my death,” conceded Jules. “Although it’s a well-known fact getting caught in the rain doesn’t actually give you a cold. Only germs do that.”
“You’ve been working too hard, running the shop, looking after me,” fretted Flo. “It’s hardly surprising you’re ill.”
“I’m fine,” insisted Jules, although it came out as “I’b fide.” “It’s just a bit of a cold. I’ll get you settled in the shop, get those remaindered books out, and maybe stay in the office after that, so I don’t infect all the customers.”
“I think you should go to bed,” ventured Flo, but Jules just gave her a stubborn look, spoiling the effect when she got caught out by an enormous sneeze.
There was proper warmth in the sunshine that morning, in contrast to the previous day’s storms, and there were throngs of tourists on the street when Jules went out to set up her books. She kept it simple, just two tables with the books arrange in stacks. One was for paperbacks, with a vibrant orange star-shaped sign announcing “3 for £10.” The other table was for the hardbacks, including a top cricket player’s ghostwritten autobiography and the beautiful cookery books, where customers could choose “2 for £10.” They were fantastic value—all well below the recommended retail price—and perfect for holidaymakers. Everyone read more on holiday, didn’t they? And Aunt Flo always told her women were the ones who bought the novels—not just romance but really grisly crime too—whereas the men were more inclined toward factual books. So, there was something for everyone, thought Jules with satisfaction, pleased that people were stopping to browse even before she had finished setting up.
“Ooh, classy,” came a deep, familiar voice just behind her.
She spun around. It was Roman. Of course.
“I take it you’re being sarcastic,” she said, as coolly as she could.
“No, no, I like the honesty of it,” he said, theatrically wincing atthe fluorescent orange signs, which Jules had affixed to the tables with blue tack. “Simple but effective.” He paused for a beat. “If that’s the market you’re after.”
“Yeah, it is, actually,” said Jules, thoroughly nettled. “We represent excellent value, and there’s nothing the matter with that. Customers can’t all afford your fancy Booker Prize long list, special edition, just released stuff. Although of course we do that too,” she added hastily. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with people wanting to get a bargain,” she snuffled. “You’re a towering snob if you think any different.”
But Roman wasn’t listening. “Are you all right?” he asked. He stooped down to her level, seeking eye contact, his handsome face a picture of concern.
Was he for real?
“Of course I ab—I’b fine,” Jules said, wishing she could pronounce her M’s and staring at the pavement, the shop window, anywhere rather than meet his gaze.
“Youdolook as if you’ve been crying, though.” There was nothing confrontational or teasing in his tone now. It was, for all the world, as if he actually cared. “I mean, it’s definitely not the pressure of the competition?”
Ha. There it was. Jules was almost pleased to be proved right. Roman? Sympathetic? She didn’t think so...
“I’ve got a cold,” she said, glaring at him, acutely aware of her shiny bright red nose and pink-rimmed eyes. “Apart from that, I’b perfectly... perfect.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” he said, and laughed. “Seriously, you need to get back into the warm before it turns into pneumonia.”
Back in the shop, she clasped her hands to her flaming cheeks. Maybe she was running a temperature? But there was no time forthat today; if the displays outside were going to lure the tourists in, she was going to be damned sure she gave them something to catch their eyes on inside of the shop too.
She had put a display stand right in the middle, en route to the till, with local maps, guidebooks, and a short collection of local ghost stories that included a couple of fabulously spooky ones about the ruined castle on the top of the hill. It was a major tourist attraction, and people always came into the shop wanting to know more. There was a unit in the middle with free leaflets from the Tourist Office too, and she was gratified to see people already perusing the books outside and coming in with their choices. Flo was going great guns at the till, chatting with people as she rang their purchases through. Charlie was keeping out of the way upstairs, getting on with loading some used books onto BookFinder.com. Jules felt superfluous, so she went to the bakery for saffron buns and then put the kettle on, bringing Charlie and Flo a cup of tea with a split and buttered bun each to keep them going until lunchtime.
“You look absolutely terrible, darling,” said Flo when Jules delivered her elevenses.
“Thanks,” Jules deadpanned. She did feel awful, though. Even getting a bit chilly collecting the buns had left her aching from head to toe. Roman was right. Damn him.
