My previous car, a battered old Fiesta, had spectacularly failed its MOT — I think the precise term used by the mechanic was ‘death trap’. I spent the subsequent days searching in vain for a replacement within my shoestring budget. On the third day, I left the house to find the Fiat outside, adorned with a giant red bow. Karl, who had supposedly left for work ten minutes prior, was standing proudly next to it with the passenger door open, and he invited me to sit inside.
Still confused, on Karl’s suggestion I opened the glove box, where I discovered the ownership documents, in my name. If that wasn’t surprise enough, I also found a small box containing an engagement ring. As I turned to Karl, he was already down on one knee and the question was subsequently popped. Of course I said yes. How could I not?
It later transpired that a week prior to his proposal, Karl had actually won ten thousand pounds on a lottery scratch card. I did ask him if the proposal would still have materialised without his windfall. He claimed it would, although I suspect my ring might have sparkled with cubic zirconia, rather than diamonds. And I dread to think what sort of shitty car I’d now be driving around in.
With that thought in mind, I clamber into the Fiat and give the dashboard an appreciative pat.
I set off for work in surprisingly good spirits for a Monday morning, and ten minutes later I pull into a parking bay behind a shop — my shop, to be precise.
I left university in 2003 with a degree in English and little idea what to do with it. I considered, and quickly dismissed, careers in teaching, journalism, and advertising; the three main paths usually taken by English graduates. I sought my mother’s advice and she imparted a pearl of wisdom my father had offered her — if you do a job you love, you’ll never work again.
By early 2004, I had decided what I was going to do with my future. I wanted to create a legacy from my father’s wisdom, and money, so I decided to launch Baxter’s Books. The venture sucked half of my father’s inheritance money from my bank account.
I remember the day the shop opened as if it were yesterday. Such excitement, such enthusiasm. Unfortunately, both were tainted by naivety.
Back then, the shelves were stocked with thousands of new books and the smell of fresh print was divine. For a few years, my dream of owning a book shop was every bit as wonderful as I had hoped.
Then, Internet shopping became a thing.
If that wasn’t bad enough, some genius then decided we no longer needed physical books, and a raft of digital e-readers hit the market.
By 2011, the till was starting to gather cobwebs and I was forced to let all but one member of staff go. Ten months later, she was also made redundant and I was forced to run the shop solo. It was impossible to compete with online stores so I had to make a radical change to my business model. I had to clear my dwindling stock of new books and replace them with second-hand stock.
The smell in the shop changed from divine to desperate.
Six years on and I’m just about able to pay myself a half-decent wage. Some days I still love it. Most days it definitely feels like work.
2
Baxter’s Books sits in a row of six shops, located in a back street on the edge of the town centre. Three of the shops stand empty, and have done for some time. Besides my shop, there’s also a newsagent and a tanning salon. The three of us, clinging on.
On the plus side, the rent is cheap.
I get out of the car and fumble around in my bag for the shop keys. Despite checking they were there only ten minutes ago, I panic after barely a second of searching. I don’t know why I panic. If I have forgotten the shop keys, what difference will it make if I have to return home to fetch them, and subsequently open twenty minutes late? It’s not as though there will be a queue of customers waiting impatiently at the front door.
I locate the keys and breathe a pointless sigh of relief. I undo the lock on the sturdy rear door and tug it open.
The rear half of the building is divided into two rooms: a staffroom for when I actually had staff, and a large stockroom for when I actually had stock worth storing. A door leads from the staffroom into the main shop.
I hang my coat and bag in the staffroom, put the kettle on, and head into the shop to unlock the front door. There’s no queue.
Before I took possession of the shop, it was formerly a high end boutique so I didn’t need to spend too much on fixtures and fittings. There was already a custom-made counter, and the stripped wooden floorboards were stained and polished. I had all the walls painted in terracotta red and my mother’s second husband, Stanley, fitted shelving across three of the walls. There used to be four tables in the centre of the space, back when I had piles of lovely new books worthy of display. Those tables now sit idle in the stockroom.
With the door unlocked and the ‘open’ sign displayed, I duck below the counter and turn on a CD player which pipes music through speakers embedded in the ceiling. The system was installed by the previous tenants but I guess they left in a hurry and forgot to take it with them. Their loss was my gain. Back in the shop’s heyday, we mainly played contemporary jazz to provide a more sophisticated ambience. I’m above such pretensions these days and throw an Adele CD into the slot.
I head back into the staffroom, make a cup of tea, and return to the shop. I take up position behind the counter and gaze across the empty shop — just me, Adele, and thousands of dog-eared books.
It’s nearly eleven o’clock before the first customer enters; a man close to pension age, conservatively dressed in a fawn sweater and brown slacks. He flits from shelf to shelf, plucking books in a seemingly random manner. He inspects each book for a few seconds before returning it to the shelf.
He repeats this process for almost an hour, retaining just two paperbacks. I’m not sure why, but marathon browsers have become my bête noire, and my annoyance slowly simmers.
“Excuse me, sir,” I call across the shop. ”Were you looking for something in particular?”
The man turns to face me. “No. I think I’m done here, thank you,” he replies.
He wanders across to the counter and hands over the two paperbacks.
“That’ll be one pound fifty, please,” I say, as I drop the books into a paper bag.
He rummages through the pockets of his jacket and pulls out a small leather pouch. He inspects the contents and looks up at me.
“Would you take a pound?”
“You want to haggle over two seventy five pence paperbacks?” I reply incredulously.
“Every little helps,” he squeaks.
Give me strength.
“Look, sir. Would you wander into a branch of Waterstones and ask for a third off the latest John Grisham novel?”
“I’m not really keen on Grisham,” he replies.
“You’re missing my point,” I sigh. “But, tell you what. Why don’t we call it a pound-fifty and I’ll throw in a free mystery novel? What do you say?”
He perks up. “Oh, okay. That would be most agreeable. Thank you.”
He plucks the correct change from his pouch and places it on the counter. I swipe the coins in one hand and scan the barcodes with the other. I drop the coins into the till and slam it shut.
“Let me get your free mystery book.”
I reach below the counter, pull out a copy of Fifty Shades of Grey, and hand it to him.
“Enjoy.”
He eyes the book with some level of disdain.
“What is this?” he asks.
“Erotic fiction. It’s very popular.”
The man is about to complain but I step from behind the counter and usher him towards the door.
“Have a nice afternoon, sir. Do call in again.”
I nudge him out of the door, and as he wanders away, I allow myself a satisfied smile. I’ve managed to rid myself of a tight-fisted customer and another copy of Fifty Shades of Grey — only ninety six more copies to go.
The busiest part of the day is usually around lunchtime. Today is not a good one thou
gh, and I only sell a few dozen paperbacks. By three o’clock the shop is empty so I take the opportunity to check the day’s takings on the till — a shade over twenty pounds.
In view of the rent, rates, and utility bills, which have to be paid before I am, my hourly rate of pay sits way below the legal minimum wage. Selling used paperbacks is not a sustainable business model.
Almost on cue, the door swings open. A balding, middle-aged man in a grey cardigan and black jeans barges in, carrying a large cardboard box.
“Afternoon, Beth,” Eric pants, clearly struggling with the box. “Got some stock for you.”
I glance at the box and inwardly groan. This is what my business has descended to — buying boxes of second-hand books from charity shops for a tenner each.
Eric volunteers for a muscular dystrophy charity and delivers their cast-offs once a week. They usually only want glossy, hardback books on their shelves so everything else gets boxed and sent my way. I have no idea what’s in the box, nor can I cherry-pick the contents. It’s a lottery, but the only sustainable way of securing regular stock for the shop.
However, it does occasionally pay dividends if I stumble across a first edition or a collectible book. Without those occasional finds, the business would have folded by now. The downside is that I end up with multiple copies of the most popular books, hence the vast pile of Fifty Shades of Grey I’m struggling to offload.
“Thanks, Eric. Just drop it down here please,” I reply, pointing at a space on the floor by the counter.
Eric staggers over and gratefully drops the box to the floor. I pull a tenner from the till and hand it over to him.
“Cheers, Beth. Got time for a cuppa?” he asks, while staring at my tits.
“Sorry, Eric. As much as I’d love to, I’ve got a lot of stock to sort. Another time?”
He beams a lecherous smile. “Of course. Another time.”
Eric leaves, but his pungent aftershave decides to hang around a while longer.
As I contemplate whether to dig into the box of literary dirge, or make another cup of tea, the front door opens again.
A woman walks in. I’d guess she’s possibly in her mid-twenties, but her face has a hard edge, courtesy of some aggressive contouring.
As she strides over to the counter, I’m slightly taken aback by her attire. I don’t like to generalise, but she doesn’t look the bookish type: short red skirt, three-inch heels, leather jacket, and far too much nine-karat.
“Can I help?” I ask.
She looks me up and down. “You own this place?”
“I do.”
“I’m looking for a book,” she declares.
Thank Christ she isn’t looking for a job.
“Okay. Was there a particular book you’re looking for?”
She pulls a scrap of paper from her pocket and studies it for a second or two.
“It’s called, Lies in Plain Sight.”
“Can’t say I’ve heard of it. Let me check on the computer.”
I step back behind the counter and conduct a search with our rudimentary stock software. No results.
“Sorry. It doesn’t look like we have it in stock, but I might be able to order it in for you.”
“Yeah, alright. Do that.”
I search my supplier’s website and find two books with similar titles.
“Do you know the name of the author?” I ask.
“K Patterson.”
“K Patterson?” I parrot.
“That’s what I said. Want me to spell it?”
“No, no. I know how to spell it,” I splutter. “You threw me for a moment. Coincidentally, it’s also my fiancé’s first initial and surname.”
“Fascinating.”
Sarcastic cow.
“Give me a moment and I’ll check.”
Neither author is called Patterson.
“Sorry. I can’t find any book with that title and author.”
“Maybe I got the author’s name wrong,” she says. “What are the other authors called?”
I list the names of the two authors: Shorter, and Davies.
“Order the one by Davies then,” she says.
“Okay. I’ll need the ten pounds payment up front.”
She pulls a purse from the inside of her jacket and extracts a ten pound note, which she slaps on the counter. I ring the sale through the till and give her a receipt.
“If I can take a name and phone number, I’ll call you when it comes in,” I say.
“Can’t give you a number as I’m changing my phone at the moment. I’ll call in next week.”
“Can I at least take your name then?”
“Dakota.”
I’d have bet my bottom dollar her name was something trashy like Britney or Destiny.
“That’s an unusual name. Did you know the Dakota people are part of the native Sioux tribe, in North America?”
“Ugh?”
“Forget it. I’ll see you next week.”
“Yeah, you will,” she replies with a smirk.
She turns on her three-inch heels and sashays out of the shop.
By the time the door closes, I’ve made my mind up about Dakota — I don’t like her, not one bit.
The rest of the afternoon delivers just four more customers to my door; two of whom spend a few pounds each. By closing time, the till reports sales to the tune of £27.25. Not my finest day.
I consider sorting through Eric’s box, but a lack of motivation puts paid to that idea. Besides, it will give me something constructive to do tomorrow.
I lock up and make my way home with thoughts of the tight-fisted pensioner and Dakota still summoning irritation. I do wonder if I’ve reached that time of life where I’m just inherently cranky and less tolerant. Nearly thirteen years of dealing with the public is enough to test anyone’s patience.
Deep down I know that’s not really the reason for my annoyance. On the whole, most of my customers are lovely, and the occasional troublesome customer comes with the territory. No, deep down I’d rather not be selling books — I’d rather be writing them.
Sadly, I can’t.
When my thirtieth birthday arrived, I decided I was going to be a novelist. With mind-boggling naivety, I sat down with my laptop and waited for the prose to flow.
I’m still waiting, and last week I started novel number eighteen.
That might suggest there are seventeen prior novels. There aren’t. There are seventeen novels I’ve started and abandoned, ranging in length from a dozen pages to a handful of chapters. Even when I have managed to put down a few thousand words, I inevitably run out of inspiration and the story rambles listlessly towards a dead end.
Such is my frustration, I have given my collection of failed novels a name — the short and the shit. And every time I start, and give up, it breaks my heart just a little more.
I’m told it could be writer’s block but I don’t think so. A block suggests there is something there to be blocked. I suffer from writer’s void, in that I have a head full of nothing.
Karl thinks it could be because I’m such a ravenous reader, and my mind is so crowded with other people’s stories I can’t find my own. Maybe he’s right, or maybe I just don’t have that creative spark or vivid imagination required to pen a novel.
What I do know is that I’ve taken on a whole new appreciation of books I once labelled as trash. No matter how much I might have once sniffed at their writing, those authors put their words down and told their story. They found a willing publisher, and readers prepared to pay for their work. My scorn is now envy.
I did originally wonder if my sheltered life was to blame for my lack of inspiration. I’ve never really done anything of note or been on any epic adventure. I know I’m being disingenuous though; there are plenty of published authors who’ve led lives more uninspiring than mine, but still created masterful works.
Stephen King walked straight out of university into fatherhood, and worked a series of low paid jobs while writ
ing Carrie.
John Steinbeck was married and running an ultimately unsuccessful manufacturing business when he wrote the first of his sixteen novels.
Joanne Rowling was a single mother, living on state benefits, when she penned the first Harry Potter novel.
Extraordinary stories crafted from ordinary lives.
I guess you’ve either got it or you haven’t. I’m struggling to accept that perhaps I don’t have it.
So, for the foreseeable future I will continue to run my book shop, taunted by the thousands of bound reminders that I can’t do what I really want to do.
3
I step through the front door to an empty house. I was so focused on dissecting my day I completely forgot Karl said he would be late home from work. I decide to take advantage of the calm and head up to the bathroom.
I light half-a-dozen scented candles and drop a lavender bath bomb into the tub.
Ten minutes later, I ease myself in and close my eyes. If there’s a better feeling than sinking into a hot bath, I’ve yet to experience it.
Ever the optimist, and fuelled by nothing more than blind determination, I turn my attention to ideas for my eighteenth novel. Ideas drift into my mind before being quickly dismissed, each one more preposterous than the last.
A divorcee’s harrowing legal battle for custody of her cat? Tears For Mr Mittens.
Awful.
A desperate child trying to escape the shackles of his middle-class upbringing, and his battle with kale addiction? The Hell of Highgate.
Stupid.
A woman who embarks on a brief, but steamy affair within a small, suburban accountancy practice. Thirty Nights with Nigel: Sexy Excel.
Dumb.
What the hell is wrong with me? I am an intelligent woman with a first class honours degree in English. Why is my head full of this mush?
Not even the soothing scent of lavender can temper my annoyance.
I get out of the bath, slip into my pyjamas, and head down to the kitchen. I rethink my dinner plans and knock up a cheese omelette which I pick at while watching TV in the cosy confines of my lounge.
A movie trailer during the ad break grabs my attention — Fifty Shades Darker, based upon the book by E. L. James; the follow-up to my literary nemesis, Fifty Shades of Grey. The release of a new movie might actually be a good thing, and help to reduce the mountain of Ms James’s books in the shop. I make a mental note to put a display in the window tomorrow. There must be somebody left in the country who hasn’t read it.
Who Sent Clement? Page 2