Page 40 of The Battle of the Bookshops
All because he was unable to resist the siren call of pretending that everything was okay, just to spend a little more time in her company before she learned to despise him as much as he despised himself. They would “date,” it had been agreed. They would “hang out.” Nothing heavy. No commitment. Just a few months of fun, over the summer.
And then... she would hate him.
As good as his word, Roman texted Jules to join him and some mates for Friday drinks at the Castle Arms.
She had drafted a “no thanks,” her hand hovering over “send” for ages. Mind you, Jules had been pleasantly surprised to see, at Freya’s wedding, that Roman’s cronies had improved considerably, but teenage Jules, with the loo paper stuck to her heel, cast a long shadow. Plus, she hated walking into pubs on her own, especially the Castle Arms, which was usually packed with rowdy crowds watching football.
In the end, it was Flo who insisted she go. “I’m not afraid to admit it when I’m wrong,” she told Jules. “That young man has risen in my estimation. He may have been in my bad books for opening his shop, but, looking at our accounts, I am proud to say Capelthorne’s is more than up to the competition. And he’s decent and aboveboard about it, I’ll give him that. Now go, child. You’refar too young and beautiful to be spending Friday evening in your pajamas with your head in a book.”
Roman must have briefed his friends as well: Jules could have sworn they were all acting like she had been doing Friday drinks for years. Roman unobtrusively tucked her into his side, his hand casually resting on her waist, as she shyly accepted Gabriel’s offer of a drink. It helped that Jess was there with a warm welcome, a peck on the cheek, and an introduction to her partner, Aiden, whom Jules had seen but not spoken to at the wedding. Gabriel made Imo’s apologies, though, as Ruth was going through a period of not settling well in the evening, and of course Jules didn’t have Freya to banter with, as she and Finn were still on honeymoon.
Predictably the banter was closely centered on Finn and Freya’s wedding, with Ciaran forced to laughingly defend all the Irish aunts and uncles who had entered into celebrations with such brio. The aunt with the green dress, the one who had been so smitten with Roman, had gone missing at the end of the party and had eventually been found in the bowels of the town hall, sleeping off her excesses in a broom cupboard.
“Listen, my auntie Breda is a legend in her own lunchtime,” Ciaran declared to teasing laughter. “Her Saint Patrick’s Day parties have been known to go on for a week,” he told them all proudly. “That woman taught me to drink without making a prat of myself. I will be forever grateful.”
“Shame she didn’t follow her own advice,” Jess told him slyly, but without malice.
“So, how’s the business mogul?” Aiden teased Roman. “Cornering the book trade in Portneath, I expect.”
“He is not,” retorted Jules hotly. “My sales figures were up eight percent year-on-year last week, thank you very much.”
“Respect,” said Aiden, lifting his pint in her direction. “Not just a pretty face.”
“Notevena pretty face,” muttered Jules, blushing, but the conversational ball had moved on, and thank goodness nobody was overtly quizzing her and Roman about whatever this “thing” was between them.
Two Negronis in, and Jules was starting to feel like she was losing her grip on the conversational ball. She found herself standing next to Gabriel, whom she had never once spoken to, because he was so posh and tall and handsome and just generally unapproachable. Making herself look interested as she asked him a series of hopelessly ill-informed questions about his work as a wrought-iron artist, she began to feel exhausted at keeping the conversation afloat. When he turned the tables to ask about the shop, she launched into her pleasure that Imogen was going to be doing the artist-in-residence stint. At this, he looked much more animated, his expression softening as he talked about how proud he was of her. He needed little encouragement, Jules discovered, to bang on about her prowess as an artist, writer, and mother. It was a pleasure watching him be Imogen’s number one fan.
Jules found herself just staring at his mouth—she could barely hear him in the rowdy pub atmosphere—and thinking how lovely it would be to have a man singingherpraises in such a heartfelt way. She tried to picture Roman doing it, but admittedly the raw material wasn’t encouraging. There was only so much praise you can heap on someone who just sells stuff. And that was her, wasn’t it? She had tried to be an editor and had even harbored deeply private dreams about writing her own book one day. Facing facts, she had made no progress with the one and very little with the other. No, she sold books, that was all. There was no marriage on the horizon, no beautiful babies like Ruth, no career progression, and she had even crawled back from herwhole London adventure: nearly nine years of slog, with nothing to show for it. Not much of a catch, she thought sadly, wondering what—if anything—Roman saw in her. Her stomach flipped. Surely, he wasn’t just making out with her to gain some sort of commercial advantage? She went cold.
Feeling the need to focus on Gabriel’s mouth intensely, in an attempt to comprehend what he was saying, Jules sensed the rest of the room fade away. The chatter dimmed to a dull roar, and dark spots started dancing in front of her eyes, crowding in from the edges until she felt she was looking down a dark tunnel.
Cutting through the mists came Roman’s voice, sure and certain: “I need to get Jules to bed,” he announced, triggering a ribald cheer. “Idiots,” he remarked, as he held out Jules’s jacket for her to put it on, then wrapped his arm around her shoulders to lead her out onto the high street.
The door swung shut behind them, and she sucked in the cool evening air like a drowning woman. Then, oblivious to the curiosity of passersby, she doubled forward, her head dropping to her knees. Immediately feeling better, she was grateful for Roman’s silence, his lack of fuss.
Several long seconds later, she straightened gingerly.
“Okay?” he asked.
As the mist cleared, Jules focused on his concerned face. “Yeah, sorry. Felt a bit weird,” she admitted.
“You went white,” he told her. “It was hot in there. And it’s been a long week.”
“I’m good,” she told him briskly. “You go back in.”
“Absolutely not,” he answered, taking her arm and more or less frog-marching her down the street. “You’re going home, and I’m going to make sure you get there safely.”
Huddling discreetly in Capelthorne’s doorway, Roman and Jules shared a tender kiss.
“This was nice,” she said, drawing away at last, resting her hand on his chest. “Your friends are nice.”
“Yeah,” he agreed. “They liked you. So do I. Now, go and get some sleep.”
It felt less like taking her mother out for lunch and more like going to the dentist for a root canal.
Clutching a beautiful bunch of tulips from the florist on the hill, Jules boarded the bus to Middlemass. It was a beautiful spring day, and she was glad she had made a point of booking one of the tables overlooking the garden at the Middlemass Arms. She had left nothing to chance—nothing for her mother to complain about, although Jules was sure she would find something. But that was not the right attitude, she told herself, sitting up straighter. She and Maggie may choose not to see too much of each other, but Maggie was her mother, it was Mother’s Day, and it was—dare she say it?—nice to be away from the shop.
And if she had been gutted to turn down Roman’s alternative suggestion of a walk up to the ruined castle and a picnic at the top, she was a bad daughter to admit it to herself. And she had no complaints; she and Roman had only just spent the evening together after all. Even if it had been with all his mates in tow.
