Page 8 of The Battle of the Bookshops
Then, like an icy torrent of freezing water, her idle curiosity was replaced with a shock that stole her breath away.
This was no tea shop.
Behind the sparkling acres of sheet glass was a jewel-like display of... books!
There was the vibrant and distinctive cover design of the latest and long-awaited Bruce Telford thriller, she would recognize it anywhere. Everyone in the book industry would. And there, in the huge window on the opposite side of the entrance, was a medley of books that Jules was pretty sure consisted of the latest Costa Book Awards long list, although it was hard to be certain at that distance. Just in case any doubt remained, the final piece of chipboard had been removed to reveal a royal blue name board with a classy, elegant font in white declaring the title: “The Portneath Bookshop.” “ThePortneath Bookshop”? How dare they... Jules gulped with rage, and then, impelled by a huge burst of adrenaline, she was out the door and marching across the road, eyes fixed. She was oblivious to a passing car whose driver bipped his horn in polite protest as he braked to avoid her.
As she reached the pavement on the other side, the door opened to reveal her teen crush and nemesis, Roman Montbeau, apparently not the slightest bit taken aback to see her.
So,hewas behind this. Of course he was.
“Ah, how lovely,” he said affably. “I know the sun’s only just over the yardarm, but come and have a glass of champagne, or Buck’s fizz, if you prefer. Actually, it’s not champers, it’s the sparkling wine from the vineyard up the road, which is even better,” he added confidingly, standing sideways and holding the door open for her. “It’s really very good, you should—”
“I would rather drink poison,” she growled.
Roman smirked. “How very dramatic. Shakespearean even...I’d love to oblige—please don’t think me inhospitable—but I don’t think we’ve got any...” He made a pantomime show of despair and apology.
“Whyaren’t you opening a tea shop?” she demanded.
“Er... because I don’t want to,” he said, scratching his head in a performance of confusion. “Also, from a business perspective, the town doesn’t need another tea shop.”
“‘Er,’” she mimicked, “‘from a business perspective,’ it doesn’t need another bookshop either.” She jerked her thumb over her shoulder at Capelthorne’s but continued to meet his gaze with an unwavering glare, chin jutting in fury.
“Ah, well”—he had the temerity to smile sadly—“there’s always room for a bit of healthy competition. I mean, Capelthorne’s has been going for a while now...”
“Exactly. Yes. It has,” declared Jules, her staccato delivery being mainly due to a strange breathlessness and a hammering heart. “One hundred years, to be precise, and I fully intend it to go for another hundred.” She resisted the urge to pant and double over in an attempt to catch her breath.
“Fighting talk,” he said admiringly, looking her up and down in the most impertinent way. “I look forwardverymuch to doing battle with you. I had assumed I would just be up against the old lady—your aunt, isn’t it?—which wouldn’t have been nearly as fun. Let the best shop win.” He held out his hand for her to shake.
“Ha! It will,” she replied, looking down disgustedly at his hand while keeping her fists firmly balled at her sides.
They glared at each other wordlessly, and in that long moment, Jules saw, with the utmost clarity, there was every reason for the hatred that raged between the two families. She felt it in her DNA.
“Montbeau,” she spat.
“Capelthorne,” he drawled back, mocking, not bothering to contain his mirth.
For long seconds, he grinned, and she fumed, and then—at a loss—Jules spun on her heel and stalked back across the road, feeling his eyes upon her. She took extra care not to give him the pleasure of seeing her slip on the step. Storming into the shop, she vented her fury by slamming the door so hard, a stack of the books she had taken out of the window just before toppled to the floor.
In the brief time she had been gone, Flo had managed to get herself from the office to the counter, where she now sat behind the till.
“Your phone’s been dinging,” Flo said, holding it out to her. She was looking sympathetic at Jules’s distress but weirdly un-furious herself, despite the turn of events.
Jules took the phone and opened it distractedly to see a two-word text from her boss:
You’re fired,it said.
Chapter 4
Still chuckling and shaking his head, Roman went back inside the shop. The team had invited a carefully curated guest list to its opening reception, and the main floor was pleasingly full. It was amazing how many of Portneath’s great and good were prepared to accept a glass of celebratory fizz on a Monday lunchtime—perhaps especially from the Montbeaus, who had a reputation for being lavish and genial hosts.
Roman surveyed the scene with satisfaction. The chatter was rising in volume and was full of bonhomie. The canapés—the most delicious and elegant available in Portneath—were from Freya’s, the newest and hottest eatery in town, just as Roman’s sister, Perdita, had advised him. She had been right. Freya’s impeccably trained service staff were weaving through the guests in their neat slate-gray aprons with wooden boards of canapés balanced on outstretched fingers.
From his vantage point by the door, Roman could see his father, Henry, on the far side of the shop, taking a napkin-wrapped bottle from the serving staff at the bar and working his way around the room, topping up glasses with a clap on the shoulder here and a wave to a crony across the room there. Henry—a handsome and heavyset man in his sixties—oozed charisma and consequence.He was, as Roman frequently dared to tease him, the epitome of white, male, upper-class privilege, despite his fondness for announcing to anyone who would listen he was a self-made man. While a lifetime of wily business decisions had—it was true—done something to fill the Montbeau family coffers, he had made some expensive mistakes too, especially recently. He tended not to mention them, of course. When he became too unbearably puffed up, Roman would point out that the easiest way to make money was to have some, and having a substantial country estate to monetize, plus a little black book filled with rich and aristocratic friends from Eton and Oxford, hadn’t exactly been a disadvantage either.
After more than ten years away, Roman was definitely a little embarrassed by his background. As a teen, surrounded by his posh, braying mates, he had been—well, he was prepared to admit it now—he had been a bit of a dick. These days, he was determined to ensure this was something he and his fatherdidn’thave in common. It had not taken long for him to realize that the privilege of birth counted for nothing in the United States—not in business terms anyhow. Socially, on the other hand, his good looks and British accent had been a gold pass to all the best parties, with dinners and book launches in Manhattan interspersed with weekend trips to Long Island. It had been fun... at first.
Professionally, it had taken several years in the States after graduation, working his way up in blue-chip businesses, for him to learn how to get the best out of his team—and it wasn’t by pulling rank. Far more satisfyingly, he had demonstrated himself to have a genuine gift, and a love, for commerce.
