Page 7 of Knotting Hill
She purses her lips and glances over her shoulder. “Well, I wonder if I might impose on you to find out?”
I frown. “You want me to ring her and ask?” I’m not sure that’s the done thing. It’s a bit rude. Mrs Johnson has the right to do whatever the fuck she wants.
“I want you to find out if she went to Rivers & Rivers.” Her gaze goes steely, and I gulp. It is the first time she has ever mentioned my parent’s practice to my face. My heart sinks. So shedidhire me to be involved in some sort of medical espionage against my parents. Signs of the rancid cowbag are showing, to my utter disappointment.
“Uhm,” I stammer, my face going hot and sweaty. “I’m not sure…”
“Just casually, you know. I don’t expect you to go through your parents' files!” She lets out a shrill laugh.
My eyes go wide. I think she is expecting that, wholly and completely.
“If you could go over there and just see?”
I have two options here. Tell her to get knotted, which would lose me a job I really enjoy and need, or do as she asks and fall into the trap of being a spy in my parents' midst.
“Have a think, hmm? And while you do, why don’t you go home and change? You must be very uncomfortable.” She rises and gives me that lovely smile.
“Sure,” I murmur, glad she gave me a minute where I don’t have to answer her. Talk about Sophie’s Choice. Okay, I’m being dramatic, but come on. This isn’t fair.
She is asking the impossible, yet I know she will find a reason to sack me if I don't do this. It might not be today or tomorrow, but I'll be out the second I make even a slight infraction.
She smiles again and leaves the reception area to go to her office, leaving me to pick up my bag and stand up, walking out with a heavy weight on my shoulders, my encounter with JP St. Luc all but forgotten.
Six
Josh
That scent.
Cherries ready to burst as you bite into them.
I can’t help but think now about her nipples. Are they like cherries?
Brushing past the omega as I let her into the coffee shop has spun my head around like crazy. She was beautiful, like a poem about a lazy summer day by the lake.
I step onto Portobello Road, and I’m immediately enchanted. I love the hustle and bustle of the marketplace. The sun shines down brightly, cheering me up a bit.
My bookshop is nestled at the end of the road. Opening the door, I’m immediately wrapped in a comforting atmosphere: the warm, wood-panelled walls, the inviting shelves of books, with titles ranging from the oldest classics to the newest bestsellers.
The shop is already bustling with customers, browsing the shelves and chatting with Elle, my manager. Some are leafing through the stacks of books, no doubt looking for that special one to take home with them. Others are browsing the frontwindow displays of books, some of them from centuries past. There is no theme in here, except books—every kind, from every era. Sometimes I still can’t believe how well it turned out. It was an idea I had back at university and started out on Portobello Road with a market stall, selling second-hand books that I collected from all of my mum’s and gran’s friends.
With a luck that doesn’t usually befall the likes of me, one of Gran’s reading club buddies handed me a rare copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. I had no clue until a collector came ambling past and paused to peruse the stall.
The rest, as they say, is history.
Obviously, I offered the entire fortune the book brought in to Gran’s friend, but she refused it, telling me to use it to follow my dreams. I have never been so touched and grateful for anything in my entire life, and I probably never will be again.
So here I am, making more money than I ever thought possible, down to the kindness of an old lady who will be remembered by me as my Guardian Angel; God bless her soul.
I stand back and take everything in. The walls are lined with books of all ages, sizes, and colours. Paintings of classic authors hang at regular intervals, and the shelves are lined with books from all genres.
The floor is carpeted in a deep red shade. There is muted lighting and lamps, casting a golden light which illuminates the store. A large fireplace stands in one corner, and the mantelpiece is adorned with a collection of items I’ve collected on the market stalls outside: an antique clock, a collection of ceramic figurines, and a tiny wooden boat.
The atmosphere of the store is comforting. Despite being busy, there is a feeling of peace, acceptance, and joy. Everyone is happy to be here, moving around the shop with books in hand, deep in conversation or with a contented smile on their face.
“Hey!” Elle says, a bright smile on her face. “You’re late.”
“I know, sorry,” I murmur, hurrying over and placing my coffee on the counter. “Got waylaid by two arseholes who can’t handle their booze and lack of sleep.”
