by Jill Mansell
‘Mum, I haven’t been home for four months! I’ve got some catching up to do.’
‘Maybe a nice warm coat.’ Blythe could never resist a dig.
When they’d headed back to the car, Lola threaded her way through the narrow back streets of Piccadilly until she reached Regent Street. Oh yes, here they were, the department stores she’d missed so much, with their elegant beauty halls and perfume departments and escalators that led to other floors awash with yet more gorgeous things to lust over…
Better still, here was Kingsley’s.
Lola paused at the entrance, savoring the moment. Department stores were fabulous, but they still came second to bookshops in her heart. Alcudia in Majorca had many things going for it but the sad collection of battered and faded English-language paperbacks on the rickety carousels in the beachfront souvenir shops wasn’t one of them. She craved a proper bookshop like an addict craves a fix. There really wasn’t much that could beat that gorgeous new-book smell, touching the covers and turning the pages of a book whose pages had, just possibly, never been turned before.
And if it was weird to feel like that, well, she just didn’t care. Some people were obsessed with shoes and loved them with a passion. Shoes were fine but you couldn’t stay up all night reading one, could you?
Anyway, it was freezing out here on the pavement; she might as well be naked for all the good her clothes were doing. With a delicious shiver of anticipation Lola plunged into the welcoming warmth of Kingsley’s.
Oh, look at them all. So many books, so little time. All those piles and piles of delicious hardbacks with glossy covers, crying out to be bought and devoured. Lola ran her fingers over them, prolonging the moment and not realizing she had a dopey smile on her face until another customer caught her eye and smiled back.
‘Sorry.’ Several glasses of champagne over lunch had loosened her tongue. ‘I live in Majorca, so it’s been a while since I saw so many books.’
The man’s ears promptly glowed pink. ‘Lucky you. So, um, whereabouts in Majorca?’
‘Alcudia, up on the north side of the island.’
‘I know Alcudia!’ The man, who was middle-aged, blurted out, ‘I go there with my mother every year. We stay in an apartment in the old town. What a coincidence!’
Hmm, not that much of one, seeing as a zillion holidaymakers invaded Alcudia each year, but Lola was touched by his enthusiasm. ‘Well, I work in a restaurant down by the harbor. So if you fancy some great seafood next time you’re there, you’ll have to drop by for a meal.’
The man’s face was by this time so scarlet with excitement that she began to fear for his blood pressure. ‘That sounds most enjoyable. Mother isn’t tremendously keen on seafood, but I daresay chef could whisk her up an omelette as a special favor to you.’ He hesitated. ‘Unless… um, are you very expensive?’
‘Not expensive at all. In fact, very reasonable. And you can ask for anything you like. We’re very obliging,’ Lola assured him with a smile. ‘You’ll have a great time, that’s a promise.’
The man, who clearly didn’t get out much, said eagerly, ‘What’s the name of the place? And whereabouts exactly are you? You’d better give me directions.’
‘I can do better than that.’ Flipping open her silver handbag, Lola fished out one of the restaurant’s business cards and handed it over.
‘Thanks.’ The man beamed. He squirreled it away and checked his watch. ‘It’s a date, then. Gosh, is that the time? I need to get to a cashpoint before—’
‘Excuse me,’ barked a voice behind them, ‘that’s quite enough. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’
Bemused, Lola turned and saw that she was being addressed by a big-boned, grey-haired female member of staff who was positively aquiver with disapproval.
‘I’m sorry, are you speaking to me?’
‘Ha, don’t give me any of your smart talk. Come on, off you go, leave our customers alone.’ The woman stuck out her arm, pointing to the door like a traffic cop. ‘Out, out. We don’t need your sort in here.’
‘What?’ Lola’s mouth dropped open; was the woman completely deranged? Half laughing in disbelief, she turned to the man next to her but he was backing away, petrified.
‘Plying your filthy trade in here, pestering genuine customers,’ the woman went on furiously. ‘It’s disgusting and I won’t have it happening in this shop.’
‘Plying my trade?’ Lola’s eyebrows shot up. ‘What are you talking about? I’m not a prostitute!’
‘Don’t argue with me, young lady. I heard what you were saying to that gentleman. Look at you!’ The woman jabbed an accusing finger at Lola’s skimpy white top, abbreviated lime-green skirt and long bare legs. ‘It’s perfectly clear what you are!’ She turned to the man for back-up. ‘What did you think when you saw her?’
‘Um… well…’ In an agony of embarrassment he stammered, ‘I s-suppose she is r-rather exotically dressed.’
Oh, for crying out loud.
‘I live in Majorca! I just flew back today! I didn’t know it was going to be this cold here! Tell her what we were talking about,’ Lola demanded, but it was too late. Mortified, the man had scurried out of the shop.
‘And you can get out too, before I call the police.’ The woman wore a look of triumph. ‘This is a respectable shop and we don’t need people like you coming in here, reeking of drink and propositioning innocent men.’
Walking out now wasn’t an option; it simply wasn’t in Lola’s nature. If someone said, ‘don’t touch that, it’s hot,’ she had to touch it to discover how hot. If they said, ‘don’t jump off that wall, you’ll hurt yourself,’ she was compelled to jump off the wall to find out just how much it would hurt.
The woman, she now saw from the name badge, was an assistant called Pat.
‘I came in here to buy books and I’ll leave when I’ve bought them.’ Refusing to be intimidated, Lola said coolly, ‘But before I go, I’ll be having a word with your manager.’
Fifteen minutes later she made her way to the till with an armful of books, aware that word of her set-to with Pat had spread around the store. Pat was no longer anywhere in sight. Other members of staff were covertly observing her from a distance. The young lad on the till rang up Lola’s purchases and did his best not to look at her legs.
‘Could I speak to the manager please?’ said Lola.
He nodded, picked up the phone and muttered a few words into it.
Lola waited.
Finally a door at the back opened and a slender woman in her forties emerged.
It was like the gunfight at the OK Corral.
The woman approached Lola and said, ‘I’m so sorry about Pat, she’s just been telling me what happened and I’d like to apologize on behalf of Kingsley’s. The thing is, Pat’s retiring in six weeks and if you make a formal complaint it’ll spoil everything for her.’
‘I—’
‘And I probably shouldn’t be telling you this but she does have a bit of a bee in her bonnet about, um, working girls.’ Lowering her voice to a whisper the woman said, ‘Her husband, you see, ran off with one and Pat was beside herself, especially when she found out she used to be a man. The girl I mean. Not Pat. Poor thing, she was devastated. So that’s why she overreacted. I’m really, really sorry. I’ve had a talk with her and she’ll never do it again.’
‘Well, good,’ said Lola. ‘I’m happy to hear that.’
The manager looked hopeful. ‘So does that mean everything’s OK? You won’t make an official complaint?’
‘No, I won’t.’
‘Oh thank you! Thank you so much.’ She clasped Lola’s hand in gratitude. ‘That’s so good of you. Poor old Pat, I know she shouldn’t have said those dreadful things, but she’s had a tough time and in a way I’m sure you can understand why she’d get upset—’
‘I’m not a prostitute,’ said Lola.
This stopped the manageress in her tracks.
‘Oh!’ Covering her surprise, the woman hastily backtracked. ‘Of course you aren’t! I didn’t mean it to sound like that! Heavens, of course I didn’t think that!’
Lola grinned because an outfit that wouldn’t merit so much as a second glance in Alcudia clearly held other connotations in a London bookshop in chilly November. Maybe the time had come to start modifying her wardrobe.
‘I think you did. Don’t worry about it. And you haven’t asked me yet why I wanted to see you.’
The woman looked flustered. ‘Right. Sorry, I’m in a bit of a muddle now. So why did you want to see me?’
‘This.’ Lola tapped the sign on the counter, identical to the one she’d spotted in the window earlier. ‘It says you have a vacancy for a sales assistant.’
‘We do. To replace Pat when she leaves.’
Better and better.
‘Do you need many qualifications for that?’
‘You need to love books.’
‘I love books,’ said Lola.
The manageress looked stunned. ‘You mean you’re interested? In this job?’
It was clearly an extraordinary request. ‘Sorry, would I not be allowed to work here?’
‘It’s not that! I just thought Pat said you lived abroad.’
Lola smiled at the woman and said, ‘I think it’s time I moved back.’
Chapter 4
Present Day
‘You work where? In a bookies?’
‘In a bookshop.’ Even as she yelled the words above the blaring music, Lola wondered why she was bothering. ‘Kingsley’s. I’m the manager of the Regent Street branch.’
‘God, rather you than me. Books are boring.’ The boy winked and leered over the rim of his beer glass at Lola, evidently convinced of his own irresistibility. He had super-gelled hair and a knowing grin. Having subjected her to a slow, appreciative once-over he said, ‘Nah, you’re having me on. You don’t look like the manager of a bookshop.’
What she could have said in reply to this was, ‘Well, you don’t look like a dickhead, but you clearly are one.’
‘Well, I am,’ Lola said patiently. ‘I promise.’
‘You should be wearing granny glasses and, like, a scuzzy old cardigan or something. And no make-up.’
Lola knew what she should be doing; she should be punching the stupid smirk off his face. Aloud she said, ‘I’m guessing you don’t go into many bookshops.’
‘Me? No way.’ Proudly the boy said, ‘Can’t stand reading, waste of time. Hey, fancy a drink?’
‘No thanks. Can’t stand drinking, waste of time.’
He looked shocked. ‘Really?’
‘Not really. But drinking with you would be a huge waste of time.’ Lola excused herself and made her way over to the bar where Gabe, whose leaving party it was, was chatting to a group of friends from work.
‘Gabe? I’m going to head home.’
He turned, horrified. ‘No! It’s only nine o’clock.’
‘I know. I just feel like an early night.’
‘An early what? Hang on, where’s the real Lola?’ Gabe inspected her face closely. ‘Tell me what you’ve done with her.’
Lola grinned because she was as mystified as he was; she absolutely wasn’t the early night type. Parties were normally her favorite thing.
‘I know it’s weird. Maybe I’m coming down with something. Anyway, you have a great time.’ Reaching up and giving Gabe a hug she said, ‘I’ll knock on your door with tea and Panadol in the morning.’
He looked even more alarmed. ‘Make it tomorrow evening and I might be awake.’
Lola left the bar, shivering as a splatter of icy rain slapped her in the face. If it was raining, the chances of managing to flag down a cab were slim to nil so she set off in the direction of the tube, tugging her cropped velvet jacket around her in an attempt to huddle up against the cold and click-clacking along the pavement in her pink sparkly heels.
It wasn’t as if it was Gabe’s only leaving party; this was just a motley collection of people from the offices where he worked as a chartered surveyor. Had worked there, anyway, for the past four years, although as from today he was out of a job and ready for the adventure of a lifetime in Australia.
Lola made her way down the street, pleased for Gabe but aware of how much she would miss him. When she’d moved back to London seven years ago with the unexpected windfall from the sale of Alex’s business burning a hole in her bank account, she had fallen in love with the third flat she’d visited.
She’d felt a bit like Goldilocks on that eventful day. The first flat, in Camden, had been too small. The second, in Islington, had been larger but too dark and gloomy and had smelled of mushrooms.
Happily, the third had been just right. In fact it had exceeded Lola’s wildest dreams. Radley Road was a pretty street in Notting Hill where the houses were multicolored—like Balamory! Yes!—and number 73 was azure blue and white. On the second floor was Flat 73B, a spacious one-bed apartment with a view from the living room over the street below and windows big enough to let the sun stream in. The kitchen and the bathroom were both tiny but clean. The moment Lola had stood in that flat she’d known she had to have it. It was calling her name.
Never one to take her time and ask sensible probing questions, she had swung round to the estate agent with tears of joy in her eyes, clasped her hands to her chest and exclaimed, ‘It’s perfect. I want to buy it! This is The One!’
Whereas what she should have said was, ‘Hmm, not too bad I suppose. What are the neighbors like?’
But she hadn’t, thereby allowing the super-smooth estate agent to send up a silent prayer of thanks for hopelessly impulsive property buyers everywhere and say jovially, ‘That’s what I like to see, a girl who knows her own mind!’
And Lola, who now knew just how gullible she’d been, had beamed and taken it as a compliment.
But neighbors were an important factor to be taken into consideration, as she had duly discovered on the day she’d moved into Flat 73B. Sharing the second floor, directly across the landing from her, was Flat 73C. Ringing the doorbell that afternoon in order to introduce herself, Lola had been filled with goodwill and happy anticipation.
It had come as something of a shock when the door had been yanked open and a scrawny old man in his eighties had appeared, filled with malevolence and bile.
‘What d’you want? You woke me up.’
Lola exclaimed, ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, I just came to say hello. I’m Lola Malone, your new neighbor!’
‘And?’
‘Um, well, I just moved in across the hall. This afternoon!’
The man eyed her with naked dislike. ‘So I heard, all that bloody racket you made getting your stuff upstairs.’
‘But—’
Too late. He’d already slammed the door in her face.
His name was Eric, Lola later discovered, and while he wouldn’t put up with any noise from her, he wasn’t averse to making plenty himself. He played the trumpet, quite astonishingly badly, at any hour of the day or night. He liked his TV to be on at full blast, possibly so he could carry on listening to it while he was playing his trumpet. He also cooked tripe at least three times a week and the smell permeated Lola’s flat like… well actually, quite a lot like boiled cow’s stomach.
Oh yes, she’d gone and got herself a living, breathing nightmare of a neighbor. Too late, Lola realized why the estate agent, upon handing over the key on completion, had given her that cheery wink and said, ‘Good luck!’
Having respect for one’s elders was all very well, but Eric was a filthy-tempered, cantankerous old stoat who’d done everything in his power to make her life a misery.
But the reign of Eric was over now, the flat had been cleaned up and put on the market, and Lola crossed her fingers, hoping for better luck this time.
And it had worked. She’d got gorgeous Gabe—hooray!—and like magic the quality of her home life had improved out of all recognition, because he was the best neighbor any girl could ask for.
Better still, she hadn’t fancied him one bit.
Gabriel Adams, with his floppy blond hair and lean slouchy body, had been twenty-nine when he’d moved into the flat across the landing from her. And this time he had been the one who’d knocked on Lola’s door to invite her over for a drink on his roof terrace.
Which meant she liked him already.
‘I never even knew there was a roof terrace.’ Lola marveled at the view from the back of the house; it was like discovering a tropical island complete with hula girls in your dusty old broom cupboard.
‘It’s a suntrap.’ Gabe grinned at her. ‘I think I’m going to like it here. Does this T-shirt make me look gay?’
Since it was a vibrant shade of lilac, clearly expensive and quite tight-fitting, Lola said, ‘Well, a bit.’
‘I know, it’s too much. I’m super-tidy and a great cook. I can’t wear this as well.’ Pulling off the T-shirt to reveal an enviably tanned torso, Gabe held it towards her. ‘Do you want it or shall I chuck it away?’
It wasn’t just expensive, Lola discovered. It was Dolce and Gabbana. Liking her new neighbor more and more she said, ‘I’ll have it. Are you sure?’
‘Sure I’m sure. The color’ll suit you. Better than me chucking it in the back of a drawer and never wearing it again.’
Except it wasn’t, because a week later as she was on her way out one evening, Lola bumped into Gabe and his girlfriend on their way in. The girlfriend, who had flashing dark eyes and an arm snaked possessively around Gabe’s waist, stopped dead in her tracks and said, ‘What are you doing wearing my boyfriend’s T-shirt?’