Page 67 of The Battle of the Bookshops
“Wow,” said Jules promptly, in tones that she hoped showed she was suitably impressed. “And will he be interested in the grimoire?”
Charlie deflated, looking worried. “Dunno,” he said. “If anyone can put a value on it, he can. “But, thing is, when stuff goes into an auction, anything could happen.”
And Aunt Flo still had to be persuaded to sell, Jules reminded herself. For a while she gazed idly out the window, watching the landscape roll past.
“What will you do?” she asked Charlie at last.
“When?”
“When the shop closes at Christmas?”
“Oh, right.” Charlie sighed. “Well, I’ll have finished my thesis by then.” He looked as if he was considering saying something.
“So...?” Jules prompted.
“So, the next step would ideally be an internship with an antiquarian book dealer.”
“So maybe even Sotheby’s?” said Jules, excited. “This guy, Richard what’s-his-name, you should ask today!”
“Ha!” said Charlie humorlessly. “Internships go to nice, well-spoken, privately educated white girls called Arabella who have a mumsie and a doting daddy who will give them money to live in central London because they’re not getting paid. Let’s face it, that’s literally the exact opposite of me.”
“I’m so sorry,” Jules empathized. He wasn’t wrong. Publishing was a little bit the same.
“Sucks to be me, I guess.” He shrugged philosophically.
“We could tell him Charlie’s short for ‘Charlotte,’ maybe?” Jules suggested.
There was a distinctive smell inside the crowded hall: a mixture of wet wool, fresh paint, and an unmistakable overlay of old book—leather, dust, and mildew—that Jules found immensely comforting. It smelled pretty much like the second floor of Capelthorne’s. There was a hum of conversation, punctuated by the clatter of crockery at the refreshments stand.
Charlie was pacing nervously now, barely distracted by the fascinating array of wares: books opened to pages with stunning botanical illustrations, leather-bound matching sets of some venerable age, and even maps, both rolled and framed.
“It’ll be fine,” said Jules reassuringly, noting Charlie’s fidgety demeanor. “Let’s get coffee, it’s my turn this time.”
As soon as they were standing, drinking their execrable coffee, Jules began to wish she had insisted Charlie stick with decaf. He was twitching with nerves, rubbing his hand constantly over his tight-cropped blond curls and fiddling with various facial piercings until Jules longed to slap his hand away.
“When are we meeting this guy?” asked Jules, wondering how long she was going to have to nanny Charlie, possibly to stop him fleeing altogether and escaping back to Portneath on the next train. It seemed to her Charlie’s meeting with the Sotheby’s guy was pretty high stakes but she shared his doubts over the internship.
“Oh, blimey, that’s him,” Charlie hissed, nodding his head in the direction of a stout man with a loud tweed jacket and a red paisley bow tie.
“You’re right, he does look like the issuer of internships to white horsey girls called Lucinda,” muttered Jules. “Come on, hold your nose and dive in. Then we can go and get a stiff drink. I can’t stand much more of this terrible coffee.”
To give credit to Charlie, he pulled himself up to his full height of five foot six, or thereabouts, and strode over to intercept Richard, who was now looking around vaguely.
“Richard Davenport?” declared Charlie shyly as he stuck out his hand.
“Ah, Charlie Adeyemi, I presume,” he said. “We meet at last.”
Charlie nodded, looking as if he had been struck dumb.
“And to whom do I owe the pleasure,” he said, turning to face Jules, who introduced herself briefly.
“Right, so... shall we?” he said, moving rapidly to secure a little table in the café area as it became free, charmingly liberating a third chair from the party sitting at the table next to it.
Charlie visibly relaxed now that the business of the trip was underway. With Richard’s encouragement, he brought out thebooks he had with him one by one, each wrapped for safe transport in acid-free tissue paper.
He presented each book with a brief summary of its status, to which Richard responded with a shrewd, noncommittal look. There was a first edition of Daphne du Maurier’sFrenchman’s Creek—a huge favorite of Jules’s—which Richard cracked a smile at.
“Only the third print run, though,” Charlie admitted.
