I kind of appreciate that he doesn’t make it out to be all flowers and rose petals. I know he’s always worked extremely hard in this shop. It seems like he’s dedicated half his life to it. I only hope I can be worthy of the gift he’s giving me.
‘I’m not going to lie to you, Hallie,’ he continues. ‘The shop isn’t in the best financial position. There have been a few … shall we say, lean years? I’ve feared closure more than once, but Once Upon A Page has always managed to bounce back, and I believe it will again, but it needs someone new at the helm, someone to reinvigorate it.’
Reinvigorate it? Me? I do the opposite of invigorating things. There are straw-stuffed scarecrows standing in fields that are better at invigorating things than me. ‘How bad?’ I swallow hard.
‘You need customers. Lots of them. Something to pull people in. This is a busy little street and plenty of folks walk past, but I mostly rely on my few regular and loyal customers. Without something to breathe life back into this shop … I think we’ll be lucky to see Once Upon A Page still open by the end of the year.’
Flipping heck. I knew the shop had been quiet when I’d come in lately, but I’d always blamed it on the time of day because my hours can be quite odd around my shifts at the pub.
‘But if I thought that would faze you, I don’t think your ticket would’ve come out of that hat.’
I gulp. It does faze me. He’s not just giving me a bookshop – he’s giving me a bookshop I have to save. Or lose in a matter of months, thereby wiping out a legacy that goes back 150 years.
‘There’s still time to back out, Hallie …’ he offers gently, holding out a pen.
I take it and twist it in my hands, turning it over and over between my palms. ‘No.’ I push down my fears. This is the most amazing thing that’s ever happened to me. It’s inconceivable to think of walking away because it’ll be a challenge. Maybe a challenge is what I need. My life needs reinvigorating too. Maybe me and the bookshop can reinvigorate each other. ‘I love this place. No matter what it takes, it’s not going under on my watch.’
‘I knew you’d say that.’ He signs some of the papers and hands them to me, getting up to go and fiddle with something at the counter and giving me time to scan through the documents. Title deeds and Land Registry transfer of ownership forms. I try to read them but most of the words go right over my head, and I sign the dotted lines he’s pointed out anyway.
‘Congratulations.’ He sits back down and clinks his mug against mine in a toast. ‘You’re the new owner of Once Upon A Page. How does it feel?’
‘Like I could do with a few books on how to run an ailing bookshop?’
He laughs as the bell above the door jingles the arrival of a customer. Buntingorden is always active. We’re in a designated Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty, and tourists love the quaint charm of the high street. People come for holidays in the hills of the surrounding area, the scenery is beautiful, there are plenty of rivers and lakes that make popular holiday spots, and the walks are endless and loved by locals and tourists alike.
The customer comes over and asks if Robert’s got a book I’ve never heard of, and he thinks for a moment and then directs him to aisle seven and tells him to look on the third shelf along at the bottom, and I can’t help but be impressed that he could know that without looking it up on whatever stock system he uses.
He must notice because he laughs again. ‘When you’ve worked here for over forty years, you’ll know the place like a well-read book too … I’ll leave you the basic instructions, but I don’t want to tell you what to do. This is your bookshop now. I want you to put your stamp on it and do things your way. It’s survived for so many years because new people do fresh things and keep it up to date. Your generation understand what people want better than this old fogey does. You can do whatever you want to make sure it stays here for centuries more.’
It makes me feel a bit teary again as he sorts out the paperwork, keeps what he has to file with his solicitor and gives me the relevant documents that I need. I get the feeling he’s been preparing for this day for a long time.
He disappears into the shelves and hobbles back with a book from the Nineties about how to succeed in retail and gives it to me as a present because it’s the closest thing he’s got to ‘How To Run A Bookshop’, a fictional book that I really wish existed.
He hands it to me with an aged grin. ‘I hope the old place brings you as much happiness as it’s brought me, Hallie. I have a sneaking suspicion it will.’
It makes me feel more excited than I’ve ever been before and more nervous too. Everything in my life has always gone wrong and I can’t help worrying that this is destined to be the same. It’s more than I ever dreamed of and I don’t know how I can ever be worthy of continuing the sprinkling of magic this shop brings to our little corner of the world.
Chapter 2
I still can’t believe it’s mine as I stand in front of the door with the keys in my hand at 8.30 a.m. on a Monday morning two weeks later.
Robert moved out over the weekend and is hopefully safely ensconced on the Cornish sands by now. I came over on Saturday evening to collect the keys and see if I could help, but he had half the village over to cheer him on his way, helping to pack up boxes and load them into a van that one of his friends had hired to drive him down to Cornwall.
Now the flat’s empty, Nicole and Bobby are bringing both their cars and helping me to move in tonight after work, although I do wonder if we’re going to need at least a month and a fleet of double-decker buses just to shift my books. Mum’s already been trying to make me get rid of some, in between squealing, ‘Ooh, you’ll be just down the road! I can pop in and see you every day! Have you visited that lovely man in the souvenir shop yet? He’s single, you know …’
Single men in souvenir shops and moving closer to my mother than strictly necessary aside, I can’t help the fizzle of delight as I look up at the building in front of me. The same sandstone bricks as the rest of the street, with it’s greyish-blue door and matching fascia above the window frame with ‘Once Upon A Page’ etched in a fairy-tale-esque font and ‘Home to 30,000 books … and counting!’ printed in solid letters underneath. It’s detached on the left, and the staircase up to the roof terrace is to the right with heavy chains crossing its entrance and a big ‘Keep Out’ sign blocking it off, while the boards covering the windows of the empty shop next to it stare hollowly back at me.
I put the key into the lock and push open the door of my very own bookshop. The bell tinkles to itself, and once I’m inside, I lock up behind me. Half an hour to get myself sorted before opening time. I could’ve done with longer but the bus was late. Obviously. Buses are always late on the days you most need them to be on time. I put my shoulder bag on the counter and breathe in the smell for a moment, looking at the darkened shelves of all those books, untouched by customers for over twenty-four hours since the shop closed on Saturday night.
When I live here, I’m going to sneak down in the middle of the night and stand silently in a corner to see what happens to the books when the lights go off. It’s impossible to believe they stay still, their stories silent inside until someone else picks them up. It would be much more believable to think that they toddle off and go to visit their friends on other shelves, sharing their stories with each other when humans think the world is dark.
I give myself a shake and silently remind myself that I am a thirty-five-year-old woman and I should have outgrown fantasies about inanimate objects coming to life at least thirty years ago.
I go to find the light switches inside the office door and flood the shop with light, almost positive that I see a book sidle itself back into a shelf out of the corner of my ey— Oh come on, not the goldfish.
Any movement I saw came from the window display, where Robert’s goldfish is still swimming around in its bowl. I crouch down and gently tap my fingertip against the side, and it swims into a castle at the bottom of the tank, only one eye visible t
hrough a window as it peers out at me.
Oh no. How could he have forgotten his fish? And to me, of all people. I don’t drive, so I have visions of hours on a coach with the goldfish bowl on my lap to return it to Robert in Cornwall. As if the bookshop wasn’t enough responsibility, now I’ve got to keep a fish alive too until we can arrange a way of returning it. Keeping things alive is not my strong suit. I don’t know the first thing about fish, other than it couldn’t have had anything to eat since Saturday, and after a search that involves running upstairs to the flat and tearing apart the kitchen, I eventually find a tub of goldfish food in the office drawer and sprinkle a few flakes into the oversized bowl. I stand back to watch the orange fish wiggle to the surface and gobble it up. ‘I don’t even know your name, Fishy.’
I try to get my breathing back under control from the mad rush to find goldfish food, well aware that my forehead must be glistening and not in a good way, and my hair has definitely got a touch of the frazzle about it. I try to smooth it down as I glance at the clock on the wall above the stairs, visible from both floors. 8.58 a.m. How much worse can it get than a late bus and a forgotten fish on your first day? I’ve had no time to find whatever instructions Robert was going to leave me and no time to get myself sorted and ready for the day ahead. I’d intended to have a walk around and refamiliarise myself with the bookshelves in case anyone asks where something is. I’ve only ever browsed before, never with the intention of being able to answer queries from customers.
I haven’t even had a cup of tea, and if I run up to the flat and make one now, I won’t open on time. I weigh up the options and then decide I’d better open the shop, and tomorrow, I’ll bring the kettle downstairs to the office. God knows how Robert managed here on his own with no one to take over when he had to pop to the loo or have a cuppa.
The sign on the door is a wooden book with its pages open and the words ‘open’ and ‘closed’ etched on either side in burnt calligraphy, and the second I flip it around from closed to open, a man appears.
At first I have a horrible feeling he might be the bloke from the souvenir shop that my mum has somehow bribed to corner me and introduce himself when I can’t get away, but his suit looks like it cost more than a yacht and the gelled-back hair doesn’t scream souvenir shop.
Well, this is a good sign. Nine a.m. and customers are already appearing.
I pull the door open with a beam. ‘Good morning! You’re eager. Are you looking for something specific?’
‘Indeed I am.’ He gives me a smile that shows off predatory-looking teeth and I immediately feel uneasy. ‘Your shop.’
‘This shop?’
‘Drake Farrer, of Farrer and Sons property developers.’ He hands me a business card and walks across to the counter, pushing my bag aside as he places his shiny briefcase down and unlocks it with a snicking sound. ‘I own the empty shop next door. My company intend to buy this shop too and knock the pair of them down to make way for a new leisure centre.’
I rush after him. ‘The shop isn’t for sale.’
‘No, the shop wasn’t for sale. Now it’s under new management, it’s your choice what to do with it. And I advise that it’s for sale.’
‘You advise? I didn’t ask for your advice.’ I go in behind the counter like it might give me some authority. Who does this man think he is? I give his briefcase a pointedly annoyed look as I take my bag off the counter and uncover a bullet-point list in Robert’s spidery handwriting. Instructions for using the till.
Drake Farrer looks at it with a sneer on his face, like it clearly demonstrates how inexperienced I am. ‘Rumour has it that you’re not a bookseller by trade, and I’m sure you know as well as I do that bookshops are failing at a rate of a thousand knots in these days of Internet giants and discount superstores. All bricks-and-mortar properties are in trouble, and just like you, plenty of the shops on this high street are only clinging on by a thread. My father and I work together at Farrer and Sons to take over failing shops and make them into something better, and save the owners all that nasty business of going into administration when their businesses inevitably fail. Just like I did with that bakery next door. Bought them out at the last moment, just as they were teetering on the edge of bankruptcy. A lot of other businesses around here are in the same position, yours included.’
‘The business isn’t failing.’ I cross my arms and push myself up to stand taller even though I haven’t had a chance to look at the state of the shop’s finances for myself yet. From what Robert said, it almost certainly is failing, but I’m not about to let this condescending man know that.
He shrugs. ‘If it’s not now, it soon will be. Especially with a non-bookseller in charge. Good thing I’m here to help you.’
He is not here to help me. ‘Men like you exist only to help themselves.’
‘The dear old fogey warned you about me, then?’
‘No. Not a word. You warned me about yourself the moment you swept in and decided you had a right to buy my shop.’ Calling it my shop buoys my confidence and I stand taller.
‘All right, maybe we got off on the wrong foot. My apologies. I must’ve got overexcited to see someone new and pioneering at the helm who might be open to fresh ideas and new approaches.’
That makes me sound like Christopher Columbus, but the only thing I’d like to see him approach is the door on his way out of it.
‘I don’t think you’ve realised who I am,’ he says before I have a chance to direct him that way. ‘I’m not just your friendly local property developer – I’m also your neighbour. As the owner of that ex-bakery next door, I share access to your ugly, unsafe, and probably condemned roof terrace.’ He points behind him, towards the set of stairs outside and the empty shop to the right.
‘Robert didn’t say anything about sharing ownership.’
‘Well, you know Robert, always keen on burying his head in the sand, especially when it comes to money troubles. The roof terrace is half mine and the access is shared. You can’t do anything up there without my permission.’ His tone of voice leaves me in no doubt that his permission will not be given freely. He pulls some paper from his briefcase, a photocopy of another title deed, and I take it and read it, nodding occasionally like I understand a word that’s written on it.
‘I had no plans for it.’ I try to hold my nerve under his sharp gaze. I haven’t even seen the roof terrace, let alone made any plans for it, but the idea of sharing it with him makes a shiver creep down my spine. I put the sheet of paper down on top of Robert’s instructions, mainly to hide ‘how to unjam the till’ from his searching eyes. I get the feeling he’s looking around for a weakness he can home in on.
He waves a hand across his shoulder without taking his beady eyes off me. ‘I’m also in discussions with several other shop owners about acquiring their shops. We’re looking to modernise and update this tacky old street, and Mr Paige has been a thorn in my side from the very first moment I approached him with my ideas, a real old stick-in-the-mud. But you – you’re fresh and innovative. You’re not stuck in the old traditions like that silly old fool was.’
His hair really is unnaturally shiny where it’s slicked back against his head. Like someone’s tipped chocolate mirror glaze on him by accident on The Great British Bake Off.
‘With your shop and mine flattened, picture a shiny new leisure complex in this space. The tourists will love it. We’re going to have a big swimming pool, a multi-screen cinema, yoga classes, a spa, all sorts of acupuncture and hot stone massages and all that trendy stuff hipsters love.’
Acupuncture? Well, having needles pushed into my skin definitely seems preferable to talking to him for much longer. ‘The majority of people who live around here are elderly. What do they want with a cinema and leisure complex?’
‘Well, they have leisure time, don’t they? They watch films, don’t they? We’ll make sure the speakers are hearing-aid friendly and between you and me, there are a few folks around here who could do with a goo
d shower, if you know what I mean.’ He waves a hand with neatly trimmed and filed nails in front of his face like there’s a whiff in the air, and it would almost be funny if he wasn’t so patronising.
‘I’m making you an offer you can’t refuse.’ He whisks another sheet of paper from his briefcase and waves it in front of me. ‘Thirty thousand for the building. I don’t even want the contents. You can keep all your silly books and relocate elsewhere. That’s more than enough to buy another property if you’re so committed to the bookshop, and if you’re not, then congratulations, you’ve just won the lottery. Thirty grand in your pocket for doing absolutely nothing. That’s an impressive rate of return on the thirty quid you paid for your raffle ticket.’
The fact he knows how much the tickets were makes me even more uneasy, and I have no doubt that he’s one of the ‘highest bidders’ that Robert did warn me about. ‘Once Upon A Page wouldn’t be Once Upon A Page if it was anywhere else. This isn’t about the money. I’m sorry, Drake, was it?’ I purposely pretend I’ve forgotten his Mallard-like name, even though I get the feeling that Drake Farrer is a name many people on this street are all too familiar with. ‘The shop isn’t for sale, and it never will be.’
‘Ah, the old “this shop has always been given as a gift and its legacy must live on forever” line?’
I glare at him.
‘All it takes is one forward-thinking person to be brave and change that ridiculous, outdated concept and think realistically about the future. This isn’t about the shop. It’s about you. Thirty grand in your bank account for, what, two minutes of work you’ve done this morning? You could use that to do something you’ve always wanted to do. Go travelling, see the world … The old boy wouldn’t even have to know.’
The Little Bookshop of Love Stories Page 3