The customer places a copy of The Handmaid’s Tale on the counter and I rush back to serve her, which distracts me from Dimitri and his intricate knowledge of this shop.
‘Thanks for your help,’ the customer says, turning to direct the words towards Dimitri too. ‘My friend says the TV show is utterly gripping but I refuse to watch any adaptations without reading the book first.’
Dimitri gradually shifts closer to the counter as she starts talking about films versus books and various adaptations. She’s clearly under the impression that we both work here because she keeps turning to involve him in the conversation too.
When she leaves, he starts rifling through my small selection of mermaid books that are piled on the counter waiting to be positioned in the window. ‘There are more in the children’s and YA section. I’ll go and have a look.’
When he comes back downstairs with another four books in his hands, I’m still staring at the empty shelf. I’ve put some of the clear Perspex stands in, but the bare shelf looks dull and boring in comparison to the amazing artwork on the glass. ‘You don’t know if Robert had any props or decorations, do you? I’ve had a look round the office but all I can find is a box of Christmas decorations. You wouldn’t expect Christmas decorations to have a sell-by date, but these ones have definitely passed it.’
‘And they would, of course, be just the thing for a mermaid-themed May window. Nothing says “spring days” like tinsel and mistletoe.’
His deadpan sarcasm makes me laugh as I take the books and thank him for finding them.
‘And no. I think there’s an autumn garland to match that manky old spring one knocking about somewhere, but Robert was never big on windows. He worked on the basis of trying to take care of existing customers rather than attempting to attract new ones. He thought word of mouth was his biggest draw.’
‘Why can’t I do both?’
‘You can. This place needs to be invigorated and re-energised. You seem full of energy and, er, vigoration … vigoratedness? As you can tell, I rock at the English language.’
I can’t help laughing at him. ‘Well, I can honestly say no one’s ever told me that before.’
He laughs too, and our gazes stay locked until he shakes his head and points through the window. ‘There’s a little craft shop down the street that used to do things like shells for about a pound per bag. You could always nip down and have a look.’
‘I can’t leave the shop,’ I say, only just starting to realise how limiting it is to be alone here. ‘And you can guarantee that they have the same opening hours as us so I won’t be able to go after we close.’
‘I don’t mind keeping an eye on things while you nip out for a minute, but I also understand that you don’t know me or trust me and won’t be offended if you say no.’
I quickly weigh up my options. On one hand, he’s right, I don’t know him or trust him, and there’s got to be something in the mythical rulebook of owning a shop that says leaving said shop in the care of a stranger is a terrible idea, but on the other hand, he’s lovely. And he’s a baker. There’s something about people who bake that makes them seem like inherently good people. Why do people bake if not for the sole purpose of making other people happy and creating something that will bring others joy? He’s been nothing but kind and helpful, and he obviously knows the shop extraordinarily well.
‘That’d be great, thanks.’ I take a tenner out of the till, feeling like I’m stealing even though using the takings to buy things for the shop is okay, and go out the door before I can reconsider.
The pavements are bustling with tourists as I walk down the cobbled road, dodging dogs on leads who have stopped to chew up biscuits they’ve been given by shop owners or to lap from the water bowls outside. One of my favourite things about Buntingorden has always been how dog-friendly it is. I pass the flower shop, the antiques shop, the souvenir shop, the toy shop, and the retro sweet shop, before I come to a little craft shop I’ve walked past many times but never been in.
Inside I spot the bags of shells that look like they’ve come straight off a beach and grab two. I take a bag of smooth grey pebbles too, and on my way to the till, I see packets of crepe paper and grab one in a dark blue ocean-like colour, and quickly pay and walk back to Once Upon A Page, wanting to leave Dimitri alone for as little time as possible.
When I get back he’s behind the counter where I left him, and he looks up from flipping through one of the mermaid books I’d left out.
‘That doesn’t look like your usual reading matter,’ I say, nodding to the iridescent pink cover as he closes it.
‘I used to read this to Dani.’ There’s something off in his voice, like he’s trying to hold back a wobble, and the smile that’s been on his face almost permanently since I met him is missing. ‘My sister,’ he clarifies as he stands up straight and shakes his head. ‘But that was a long time ago. What did you get?’
I show him my haul as I take it across to the window and dump it all on the sill. ‘Did you sell anything?’
‘One copy of The Da Vinci Code. You went out at exactly the right moment because the guy wanted to talk, talk, talk about Illuminati conspiracy theories. You owe me one for fielding that.’ The smile he gives me doesn’t look anywhere near as wide as his usual smile, and his fingers are still rubbing over the embossed cover of the mermaid book.
I think I owe him a bit more than one. He’s been ridiculously helpful. ‘Thanks, Dimitri.’
‘You’re welcome.’ He pushes the pink book underneath the stack and comes out from behind the counter, and this time when he looks up and grins at me, he’s his usual smiley self. ‘Can I help?’
‘Don’t you have ogres to draw?’
He glances towards the reading area and then back at me. ‘Ah, this is much more fun. My giant fleas can wait.’
A customer chooses that moment to walk past and is unable to hold in a snort of laughter when he overhears, which sets both Dimitri and I off too as he helplessly tries to explain the context.
I lay the blue crepe paper out so it covers the shelf, set the pebbles at the front underneath the window, crumple more paper into balls and line them up behind the pebbles to create a wave. Or not. When I go outside to see what it looks like, it looks like crumpled paper. I wrinkle my nose as I peer in, trying to work out the best way to arrange it or if it’s a daft idea and should be scrapped immediately.
As I stand there trying to figure out the best thing to do, Dimitri appears in the window brandishing a stick of glue and a paintbrush with white paint on it. I watch as he glues a few of my paper balls together and arranges them across the pebbles. He starts dabbing white watercolours at key areas of the paper balls and when he’s finished, it does kind of look like a wave crashing onto the beach. If you have a good imagination.
When I go back inside, he carries on painting and rearranging while I set out shells on the shelf and put some of the Perspex stands into position, saving a shaded space for Heathcliff.
‘What are you up to tonight?’ Dimitri asks as we stand side by side at the window, arranging the children’s mermaid books around Heathcliff’s bowl and putting the YA and adult ones higher up on the stands to separate them. ‘More moving in?’
‘No, I’m going to open the accounting software on that pitifully old PC and do the thing that business people call balancing the books. All my stuff is here now. I can unpack boxes at any time, but I really need to tackle the shop’s finances so I know exactly what I’m dealing with.’
I don’t tell him about Robert’s words when we signed the paperwork, or Drake Farrer’s visit yesterday and how much he spooked me with his talk of failing bookshops and dying high streets, and how he made it seem like common knowledge that Once Upon A Page is on its last legs and it’s only a matter of time until it goes under. I can’t let that happen, and I can’t begin trying to prevent it unless I know exactly what I’m dealing with.
‘And I thought my night of tea, toast, and reading was boring.’
&nbs
p; Tea, toast, and reading sounds a lot better than the type of books I’ve got to face. ‘This is the terrifying part. Selling books, talking about books, rearranging books in windows … Ooh, ordering new books from distributors and publishers …’ I get momentarily sidetracked by the idea of budgets and shiny new stock. ‘That’s the fun part. But I have no idea about the business side of things. I need to know what kind of position we’re in. I’ve already got vultures sniffing round the door; I need to know if there’s any flesh left for them to rip off our carcass.’
‘That’s a remarkably macabre metaphor.’
‘Well, not everyone can be as endlessly cheerful as you.’
‘Ah, thank you. I think there’s very little to be miserable about in a bookshop.’
I can’t help smiling at him. ‘I think you might be one of the greatest philosophers of our time. What other pearls of wisdom are you hiding?’
‘There is no day that cannot be improved by a jar of Nutella and a spoon.’ He thinks for a moment. ‘And if in doubt – Jaffa Cakes.’
I burst out laughing and he grins. ‘It’s okay, you can use them as inspirational wall quotes if you want, I won’t mind.’
I leave him displaying the books in the window when a non-buying customer stops on her way out and compliments it. ‘It’s nice to see someone making use of that window. My daughter loves all things mermaid. I’m going to bring her by at the weekend to have a look.’
I thank her, and as she leaves, Dimitri hands her one of the display shells. ‘Here, take her a shell as a reminder.’
The lady grins as she looks between me and him and then tucks it into her bag. ‘Thank you, she’ll love that.’
‘Sorry, I’ve just realised I’m giving away your display pieces without asking,’ Dimitri says as the bell jingles behind her.
‘Are you kidding? That was really sweet of you. She might come back and actually buy something now. And you’ve just painted me the best window this shop has ever seen – you can do whatever you like. Take money from the till and bathe in it if you want. Although it would be a very shallow bath, and very unhygienic …’
He cuts me off by laughing. ‘I love this place. It’s a privilege to sit here and work every day. The least I can do is scribble a bit of chalk on your window occasionally. This is a special little shop. It doesn’t feel like work here, it feels like home.’
He’s definitely got a point there.
Chapter 5
Usually the universe is not on my side. Usually the universe is on the opposite of my side, especially when it comes to things like rain on the day I’ve forgotten my umbrella, the wonky table in a restaurant, or the wobbly legged trolley in the supermarket, but today, after the horrendous look at the shop’s accounts last night, Once Upon A Page is sent an exceptionally busy day, like the retail gods of Buntingorden are smiling down upon us.
A group of ladies come in the morning and attack the Catherine Cookson and Sagas shelf, and then in the afternoon, a coach load of tourists on a Cotswolds sightseeing trip are sent off their coach at the top of the high street and picked up again two hours later after they’ve browsed every shop on the street.
According to the accounts I looked through last night, this is the busiest day Once Upon A Page has seen in years, and another 365 days like this might be my only chance of getting back into the black, money wise.
Dimitri was around this morning but he quickly disappeared when the group of ladies recommissioned the reading area as a gossip station. He went out for lunch and returned with a sandwich for me too but I barely had time to thank him for it before more people asked questions and wanted serving. This afternoon, in the midst of the tourists, I saw him pick up his things and go to return his book, but I had so many queries and customers that I missed him leaving, and I feel ridiculously sad at not getting to say goodbye.
The mermaid display has been decimated by people spotting the books from outside and coming in to buy them, and I haven’t had a chance to find any replacements yet. It’s only my third day in this job, but by the time the last customer leaves at ten past five, I can’t shut the door behind her quickly enough. Buntingorden is a traditional little town. We’ve got no late opening hours and there’s still a law against Sunday trading, so every shop on the street opens at nine and closes at five with no exceptions, and it’s not unusual for some to close for lunch as well.
I lean against the door and try to get my breath back. I didn’t even realise that bookshops had days as busy as this, and while I’m not complaining in terms of money taken especially after that look at the accounts last night, it does make me wonder how Robert ever coped. And the day doesn’t end here. I want to go upstairs, flop down on the bed and sleep for a hundred years or until a handsome prince wakes me up, but I have to tidy up the chaos left by so many customers, restock the window display and the picks-of-the-week table, and if all the customer queries and questions I’ve been unable to answer today have taught me anything, it’s that I desperately need to do a stock take and rearrange every shelf so they reflect the categories that are actually written on them.
The group of old ladies kept bringing car manuals and war memoirs and DIY how-to books up to the counter and saying, ‘These shouldn’t be in with the Sagas, love.’ They were trying to be helpful, but now I have two piles of books behind the counter and no idea of where they’re supposed to go.
I run upstairs to make myself a restorative cup of tea, quickly tidy up the window display and restock the picks-of-the-week table, which is going down fast, and then I face the shelves.
The past two nights have been a bit hectic after closing time – Monday with Nicole and Bobby turning up, and then yesterday I had to learn how to cash-up at the end of the day, balance the money in the till against the receipts, and attempt to make head or tail of Robert’s accounting software. I’ve got so caught up in banking that it’s easy to forget I’m doing something that’s always been my biggest dream.
This is my dream job, no matter how much work it needs. Books have always been my escape from daily life and now they are my daily life, and it makes me want to skip around the shop and sing ‘I Have Confidence’ like Julie Andrews running down the lane in The Sound of Music. This is my chance to turn it into the bookshop of my dreams, like starting from scratch with a blank palette. And no matter how convinced I am that something is going to go wrong, I have to throw my all into this. Opportunities like this are rarer than once in a lifetime, and I’ll regret it forever if I don’t give it everything, even if it does fail. Usually I hold back because I’m sure things will go wrong, but I can’t with this. It’s a new start.
‘I own a bookshop,’ I say to myself as I climb the ladder to the top shelf of the autobiographies section, full of dusty hardbacks that no one ever buys because the paperback has come out since and includes an extra chapter, or the Kindle version is 99p, whereas Robert was expecting to get £12.99 for even the most z-list of celebs’ ghost-written ramblings. This is the sort of thing that can go – at least to the new sale section I’m creating to free up valuable shelf space. I lean my body weight on the ladder as I start piling the heavy books into my arms, feeling old and out of touch because I’ve never even heard of half these celebrities.
‘If it’s taken you this long to realise …’
I scream at the unexpected voice in the empty shop and jump so much that I fall off the ladder, clinging to the sides and trying to lower myself down with all the grace of an octopus on an ice rink as the books go clattering to the floor. I quickly assess myself for injuries – just pride this time, thankfully – and despite the shock, I can’t help smiling when I see who it is. I knew he’d have made a point of saying goodbye, no matter how busy it was. My heart is pounding with the shock of his sudden appearance and how good he looks even as the sight of his ever-present smile loosens something in my chest. He’s wearing a long-sleeved teal T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and there’s a silvery-grey tie around his neck, loosely
knotted at mid-chest for presumably decorative purposes only because a business tie doesn’t go with the casual top at all. He has a lightness about him, a joy that makes things seem brighter than they are.
‘First rule of working in a bookshop – always check for strays before you close up.’ He bends down and collects up the dropped books, choking on the dust they’ve released. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.’
‘It’s all right, I should have known to stay away from ladders.’ I hold my arms out for the stack of books he’s picked up. ‘What were you doing back there? Hiding?’
‘I didn’t realise the time. I don’t wear a watch, I can’t see the clock from back there, and I could hear you chatting to customers. It didn’t occur to me that it was so late until it all went quiet.’
I don’t know why I asked him that – what do I think he’s doing? Hiding for nefarious purposes? The words nefarious and Dimitri don’t belong in the same sentence – he’s the smiliest, chattiest, furthest thing you could get from nefarious.
‘You were saying you own a bookshop?’
I’m so glad he overheard me talking to myself. Luckily I didn’t get as far as the inspirational pep talk I was about to give myself. ‘No, I mean, I really own it. I’m not looking after it while Robert’s away. I’m not taking care of it until he comes back. It’s not ‘our’ shop – it’s actually mine. And if I want to keep it then things have got to change. I might not know much about selling books, but I do know something about loving books, and this – .’ I indicate the shop around me – ‘is not a book lover’s paradise. Look at the state of these shelves.’
Dimitri’s eyes follow the hand I throw out towards the shelf in front of me, nearly dropping the pile of autobiographies again.
‘I think quirky was Robert’s choice of words.’
‘Chaos would be mine. Unmitigated disaster would be a close second.’
‘Some words do spring to mind.’
‘Which ones?’
He mulls it over carefully. ‘Piss-up, brewery, organise.’
The Little Bookshop of Love Stories Page 9