Page 42 of The Battle of the Bookshops
“Damn, that’s good. How?”
Roman tapped the side of his nose. “Sheer talent,” he said. “How did your lunch with your mother go?”
“Oh, good grief.” Jules gulped, remembering.
He laughed when she briefly outlined the conversation about Maggie not wanting Flo to have a boyfriend. “She’s a piece of work, your mum. And what does she feel aboutyouhaving a boyfriend,” Roman asked casually, but his gaze was intense.
“Yeah, she’s not easing up on the whole hating-the-Montbeaus thing,” Jules admitted. “Especially your dad, for some reason.”
“I’m not that keen on him myself, some days.”
“Hmm. Makes me wonder whether she and your dad had a thing back in the day,” ventured Jules. Sandwiches finished, she snuggled into Roman’s arms, her back against his chest. The sun was warm but, in such an exposed spot, the wind was chilly.
“A thing? Yeah, maybe,” agreed Roman, enclosing her in his jacket. “I mean, Dad’s a shit sometimes, and I’m not saying he wasn’t a bit of a player when he was single. And they’re about the same age, so I’m not denying they probably knew each other growing up.”
“Although presumably the families weren’t speaking to each other?” said Jules.
Roman scratched his head. “Yeah, but it’s always the next generation’s job to kick back against stuff like that, isn’t it? Perhaps current ill-feeling is because your mum had a crush on him, and he dismissed her, maybe even took the piss. I can’t see her taking that too well...”
Jules wondered, with a lurch in her chest, whether Roman was suggesting thattheywere just rebelling against the status quo; his idea that her mother was humiliated was all rather uncomfortably like the night of the green silk dress. She even felt an unusual twinge of sympathy for her mother. “Is she even his type, though? I mean... am I even really yours?” she ventured, fishing shamelessly.
“Hmm, I do usually liketallwomen,” Roman mused provocatively.
“Are you saying I’m short?”
“You carry it well, but yeah, you’re petite, let’s be honest.”
“So, the preference is tall blondes, I assume?” she needled him, thinking jealously of lithe, long-limbed Cally.
“Or just maybe my preference is this gorgeous red hair,” he crooned, ignoring her jealousy and twirling a lock around his finger. “Don’t think I’ve ever dated a ginger nut before.”
“It’s titian,” said Jules loftily, but she smiled despite herself.
“Whatever,” murmured Roman, dropping his head to kiss her on the mouth. “I love it,” he said against her lips. The words buzzed thrillingly, and after that—for a long while—Jules wasn’t thinking about anything at all.
“Anyhow, back to business,” said Jules at last. “I was telling my mum about Hay-on-Wye’s literary festival. It’s huge now of course, but it will have started small. You know, we should definitely look at something like that, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, maybe,” he said, smiling at her enthusiasm.
“I mean, not this year,” Jules went on happily. “It’ll take ages to organize well. I was thinking maybe autumn next year? Just a few little things, obviously.”
A shadow crossed Roman’s face. “Yeah, maybe,” he said again, quietly.
“Finished,” said Jules, pressing the “send” button just as Flo reappeared in the office after shutting up the shop.
“Well done, darling,” said Flo. “How many recipients have we got now?”
“More than three hundred,” Jules replied with justifiable satisfaction. It had taken a lot of effort to build their modest e-newsletter list, but the statistics told her it had an impressively high read rate. “That Insta prize draw thing we did was the main driver,” she told Flo. “And we don’t get many unsubscribes either.”
“That’s because your e-newsletters are so interesting,” Flo said warmly. “Is this the one that’s focusing on the book subscription gift service?”
“It is,” said Jules, “and Imogen’s artist in residence in the autumn too. We want people to get it in their schedules.”
The book subscription gift service—Flo’s brainchild—was proving a real hit among well-heeled customers who struggled to think of presents. For a one-off payment of 250 pounds, or a monthly payment of twenty-five, their giftee would get a gift-wrapped book monthly in the post, specifically chosen to reflect their interests. It was amazing, thought Jules, how many husbands of booklovers—because it was mainly men—gratefully handed over the full yearly amount in one hit, which was doing no end of good to their cash flow.
“It’s my favorite job, choosing and wrapping those books,” said Flo. “Which reminds me, that’s on my list for tomorrow. Goodie.”
Each month, on the first of the month, the little office was piled high with cardboard boxes, beautiful wrapping paper and ribbon, and stacks of carefully selected books. Flo had “intel” on each recipient, courtesy of the questionnaire, drafted by Jules, and completed by the purchaser of the subscription. The extensive profile they made the purchaser fill out was just what Flo needed to makeher choice: a nature lover might receive the Royal Horticultural Society desk diary, filled with beautiful botanical color plates; a keen cook and booklover might get the charmingly illustrated and beautifully writtenThe Little Library Yearby Kate Young, full of recipes and writings for the season. And it wasn’t just new books either; a woman who had been a ballerina as a child had recently received a vintage copy of Noel Streatfeild’sBallet Shoesthat Charlie had stumbled across among the books upstairs. The feedback from grateful recipients had been excellent so far, and they were signing up new members at a rate of several a week. Jules had been thrilled to find a way to tap into Flo’s special gift: a knack for choosing the perfect book for each customer. It was at the heart of Capelthorne’s magic.
