Page 73 of The Battle of the Bookshops
With a mug of tea in hand, Jules escaped to her room, which was chilly and faintly dank smelling. The clutter on the dressing table—dried-out bottles of nail varnish, random pens, stubs of lipstick—was unaltered since the last time she was there, except for a mattifying, blurring layer of dust. There was a picture of Liam Gallagher, cut out from a magazine, tucked into the corner of the mirror. She smiled as she pulled it out to examine it more closely. That haughty gaze. Those plump, luscious lips contrasting with the firm jawline. There was definitely something of Roman’s face about those thick brows and the downturned corners of the eyes. Maybe that was it. Maybe Roman was just, facially, Jules’s “type.” Maybe her insistence on having a relationship with him, of all people, a Montbeau, was just some perverse, belated teenage rebellion. It felt like more, but how did she know? How did anyone know? Here was a man who was handsome and well-connected—and rich by any measure... Why on earth would he seriously choose her?
Looking for a distraction from her troublesome thoughts, Jules turned her attention to her overpacked wardrobe, flicking through in vain hope of finding some sartorial treasure.
She really did need to have a clear out. She could never imagine wearing most of the rubbish she had hanging there. There were far too many guilt-inducing fast-fashion dresses—clothes she had bought with her Saturday-job earnings to wear once at Rumour on a Friday night. Armfuls of dresses so poorly made they fell apart on the first wash. Jules started making a pile on the floor as she pulled things out and discarded them. Most of the clothes suitable for office wear were still in the attic of her house share in London, but she had left at home an extensive wardrobe of lounging-aroundclothes: enormous cotton hoodies, endless pairs of jogging pants, some ridiculous fluorescent socks that had seemed like a good idea at the time. There was nothing that could remotely be described as “formal eveningwear.”
“Don’t forget you’ve got a few bits in the spare room,” said Maggie, who had appeared with a peace-offering packet of chocolate biscuits. She was now eating them all herself as she leaned on the frame of the open door, eyeing the growing mountain of rejected clothes.
“Ah, of course,” said Jules with relief. Frustrated by the lack of hanging space in her bedroom closet, she had decanted some dresses into the huge brown Edwardian wardrobe that dominated the box-room Maggie called her “office” because it also had a desk and an ancient PC shoehorned into it.
The green silk dress was the first thing Jules saw.
“Nowthat’sa beautifully made dress,” remarked Maggie, when Jules pulled it out and held it against herself consideringly. “You’d pay a fortune to buy that new.”
She was right, thought Jules, holding the dress up to the light, where it gleamed and shimmered. Aunt Flo, a skilled seamstress, had offered to make the dress for that memorable village hall dance. They had chosen the fabric together: a heavy bottle-green silk shot through with turquoise like a dragonfly’s wing. Jules had stifled her concerns that the outfit would be too grown-up for her and too formal for the occasion because Aunt Flo had been so excited. Predictably, she had stood out at an age where standing out was the last thing she had wanted to do. Which was why the loo paper incident had been so excruciating. Jules sighed. Maybe now she could reframe that memory. Now, that night mattered because it was the night Roman had noticed her for the first time. All those wasted years...
She held the dress up against her body and looked in the mirror.The dark green was perfect against her red hair and pale skin, the turquoise shimmer in the fabric echoed in her extraordinary eyes. With a simple updo, the off-the-shoulder neckline... It would be a knockout. Jules sniffed the fabric experimentally. There was a distinct odor of mothballs.
“You’ve got time to get it dry-cleaned if you get it in today,” observed her mother. “Have you got shoes to go with?”
Jules shook her head.
“Hang on,” said Maggie, disappearing into her own room. She appeared within seconds with a classy-looking pair of black suede heels and a diamante-encrusted black velvet clutch bag.
“Lucky we’re the same shoe size,” she said, handing them over with a hint of reluctance. “Also...” She disappeared again, and Jules heard drawers opening and shutting. “How about these?” She came back holding up a stunning pair of diamante earrings, two flowing rivers of light flashing in the dusk. “Of course, the Montbeau women will be wearing the real thing,” she sniffed, but then visibly stifled her chagrin. “You’ll knock ’em dead,” she added, pasting on a conciliatory smile.
“Thanks, Mum,” Jules responded, giving her a peck on the cheek. She had to hand it to her mother, she was trying.
Very.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been...youknow,” her mother began. She was twiddling the clasp on the little evening bag, avoiding Jules’s gaze. “I mean, I realize I’ve been a crap mother,” she said, with a hint of defiance.
Jules was astonished. Her mother never apologized for anything. Never. It was like a religion: never apologize, never explain. Stubborn, Aunt Flo called it.
“I don’t know about that,” Jules said, discomforted. “I mean, I know you haven’t had it easy. Single parent and all that. AndI’venot been great either. I wasn’t the easiest teenager.”
“You weren’t,” she agreed, meeting Jules’s eyes at last. She smiled, but then the smile dissolved, and Maggie’s mouth trembled. She put up a hand to hide it. “I just wanted to say. When the fire happened... it just made me realize I don’t care who you’re with, what job you do, where you live... I don’t care about any of that. I just want—always wanted—for you to be happy.” Maggie’s eyes were imploring now. “Even if that means being with a Montbeau. Although don’t expect me to be polite to them.”
Jules knew how much it took her mother to say those words. It was as if a splinter, long ago lodged in her flesh—a throbbing pain she had suffered so long she was barely conscious of it anymore—had finally been removed.
“Mum,” she said, putting down the dress and holding out her arms.
Maggie gave a little shrug, but she allowed Jules to wrap her in a hug, and after a moment, she hugged her back.
“I’ll be better,” Maggie briskly told the wardrobe over Jules’s shoulder. “I promise.”
Communication between the auction house and Capelthorne’s was being handled entirely by Charlie, who was, in turn, briefing Flo and Jules on the growing excitement over the grimoire. It seemed the fascination with all things witchy and feminist showed no sign of abating. Several serious—and affluent—collectors had signaled their interest in bidding for it. The auction house’s PR department had even organized a few media interviews with Flo, talking about Capelthorne women and making, Flo insisted, some insanely flattering correlations between her and Bridget Capelthorne as strong, successful businesswomen of their respective eras. As for its possible value, their contacts at the auction house were being circumspect, although the phrase “the sky’s the limit”did pop out in an unguarded moment, Charlie relayed to the other women excitedly.
Flo sensibly held no truck with suggestions that a fortune awaited her. The gradual winding down of the business and selling off of stock continued over the weeks leading up to the sale.
Flo, in the meantime, was making ever firmer plans to rent the vacant flat in the estate, even going so far as to decide what furniture would go there and what would have to be sold, working her way around her little home of so many happy years with colored stickers. Jules had no difficulty imagining why the flat was still unlet, all these weeks on, but Flo was determined to make the best of it, apparently relieved that she had foundanywhereaffordable to live with the move out of the flat above the shop becoming increasingly inevitable.
“But it’s such a darling little place!” Diana was exclaiming plaintively. “Not like that ghastly, gloomy flat you showed me last week.” She shivered theatrically.
Diana had hijacked Flo in the shop, coming over with pastries from Freya’s and a set of printed-out details from the estate agent’s a few doors up. She seemed immune to Flo’s protestations that buying any kind of property was a complete impossibility, let alone this admittedly adorable-looking cottage in Middlemass.
“It’s just up the lane from me and Mungo,” Diana insisted, “and so conveniently located for the village hall. Did I tell you we’ve got Flix in the Stix starting there next month? And I’ve already signed you up for the bridge club. Mungo and I badly need you there. Half the existing members are senile. It’s hard going, I can tell you.”
“Sounds fabulous,” said Flo dryly, studying the brochure. “As for your other point, there is the not inconsiderable matter that this house is on the market for four hundred and twenty thousandpounds! Do Ilooklike a woman with the best part of half a million pounds up my sleeve? Because I’ve got to tell you, I could barely raise fivehundredpounds at the moment.”
