I’m evolved enough to recognize this as ‘resistance to change’, but ughhhhhhh, they’re clearly going to wreck the whole thing. I can’t watch it.
From the living room, I can hear the action unfolding as the kettle wobbles into life. A couple are bickering; full of charged barbs that will – very obviously – turn quickly into blistering chemistry. Even without seeing the action, I recognize them as the main characters from the book, Julianna and George. I don’t need to see them to know the actors will be all wrong.
I place therealBook Boyfriend –Too Good to Be True– on the counter. Its shiny plastic cover is warm from my armpit and I stroke it lovingly as the kettle finally boils. I throw a peppermint teabag into my favourite mug and pour in water, ignoring Salma as she shouts from the living room, asking where I’ve gone.
This is an early edition from the mid-noughties. They’ve reprinted it with a new cover since then, and I know there will be another cover released soon, one featuring the two actors yelling at one another on the screen through there. Ican’t stand TV tie-in covers. I get that it’s meant to attract new readers but it only ever puts me off a book.
‘Oh my god!’ Clara is shrieking as she appears in the doorway. ‘You need to come watch this, Jim-Jems, the main guy is sofit,’ she breathes. ‘Come look at him!’ Her eyes are wide, her pupils blackened. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone so good-looking before, he’s all, like’ – she waves her hands enthusiastically – ‘square jaw, black eyes and thick, sandy hair. And theshoulders! They have to be seen to be believed.’
Yuck yuck yuck. I always pictured George in the book as being dark haired and slim.
I sip my too-hot tea and pick up my book, reluctantly following her through to the living room.
On screen, the heroine, Julianna – who is all wrong as predicted – is telling her friends about her terrible date with George. In my lap, I cradleToo Good to Be True, thinking again about the note writer.
Of course it’s a woman. It’s bound to be a woman. She’s Karen with the good hair.
I open the front cover, the plastic lightly squeaking in my hand. Anita used to write the date it was due back on the inside sheet. But that’s considered an old-fashioned way of doing things now. They use an electronic notification system these days. You get a text reminding you when your three-week session with a book is almost up, and a notification when a book you’ve requested comes in. I have a standing request set up forToo Good to Be Truewhenever it’s taken out by someone else.
By the only someone else.
I account for about half the dates listed there in Anita’s handwriting. The other person started checking outToo Good to Be Trueabout a year and a half ago. I wish I knew more of who they are; this other obsessive reader of my favourite book. Ofthiscopy. It’s strange, right? Why would anyone take the same library book out over and over again? What kind of weirdo would… I mean, other thanme, obviously. But I’ve always thought of myself as quite a unique weirdo. And I’ve been checking this book out since I was a kid; why would this person suddenly be interested in it?
Sigh. I just wish I had a name. Karen doesn’t feel right anymore, not now Salma and Clara have tossed everything I thought up in the air.
Are our notes really flirty, like Salma said? And why haven’t we exchanged at least some basic information about ourselves? It’s so frustrating that the answers are at my fingertips. IknowAnita knows exactly who the mysterious note writer is, but she’s obsessively strict about stuff like that. Sometimes she acts like the library is MI5. Hmm, I guess I could ask the other librarian, Mack. But there’s a good chance he’ll tell me to eff off. Ever since he started, he’s been a surly, mean knobhead. I don’t understand why they hired him. After all, shouldn’t librarians be friendly and helpful? Mack just glowers around the room, looking furious whenever anyone asks him anything. I can’t stand guys like him, who think just because they’re good-looking, they can treat people however they want.
But he might tell me something about the otherToo Good to Be Truereader – if only to make me go away?
I pull out the small, lined piece of paper and re-read that very first note, wondering about the person behind it. It’s definitely a woman; it’sgotto be a woman. Maybe the flirty vibe Salma picked up on is because this female note writer thinksI’ma man! Or else I’m just being embarrassingly heteronormative.
Just for fun, I picture a tall man with dark hair scribbling out this note.
And then I picture some cranky old lady who tells racist jokes and tuts about women drivers.
Maybe I don’t want to know the real person behind it. Maybe I want to keep the mystery because – let’s face it – reality never matches up to the fiction. Maybe not knowing is more fun.
I sit up straighter, still ignoring the ongoing nonsense on the screen.
And who cares if it’s a man or a woman! This person is my friend. We talk about books. We share a sense of humour and a passion for romance novels. This is someone I enjoy speaking to and it doesn’t matter what Salma, Harry and Clara all think.
So why do I suddenly feel so freaked out?
Chapter NineCLARA
‘You look intense,’ Jemma comments from my bedroom door. Her hand is half raised awkwardly, as if she’d last-second thought better of knocking. It makes me a little sad. She doesn’t know how to approach me. She cocks her head. ‘Job searching?’
‘Nah,’ I say with a shrug. ‘I’m making a list of things I’d buy if – sorry,when –I win the lottery. I know I need to get a house and stuff, but I don’t want it to be the first thing, y’know. I’m thinking I book a really mega luxury holiday first. To Bali. Then I’ll fly to Dubai, then St Tropez. Or wherever else the celebrities are all going. Then I’m buying a boat off the coast of the South of France.’ I glance up at her unamused expression.
‘St Tropezisoff the coast of the South of France,’ she says, and I grin.
‘That works out well then. I can make arrangements for the superyacht while I’m holidaying there.’ I pause. ‘Oh,and obviously, I’ll give you some! I mean, depending on the amount I win. If it’s £50 million or more, you and Mum can have £500,000 each.’
She steps into the room. ‘What the hell? You have £50 million –or more!– and we only get half a mill from you? That’s so stingy!’
‘Ugh.’ I roll my eyes. ‘Fine, £1 millioneach. Greedy.’ I sit up in bed a little straighter and start deleting a line in my lottery Word doc. ‘But that means I’m not giving any of it to charity. I’ll need a lot to run my mcmega mansion. I hear being rich is expensive.’
‘Nothingto charity? Oh my god, you’re—’ Jemma stomps fully into the room now, looking outraged, then stops. She makes her face blank. ‘What happened to job hunting?’ Her voice is neutral but I can hear something in her tone. Something judgemental.
