Studying me for a moment, she nods. “Cheers.”
Gemma heads off into the back to gather her things. I go to the shop front and switch the sign over toclosedand lock the door. It’s late enough that even the Friday evening book browsers have moved on to other things. The beauty of owning a shop is that I set the hours. And the rules, though the truth is that I’m no enforcer and Gemma and everyone else in London knows it.
I head to the back into the small kitchen to put the kettle on. The kettle sits on the old pine sideboard, which has been there since approximately forever. There’s no dancing for me, not my usual scene these days. I’d much rather stay in and enjoy some of the classic introverted activities. Like hiding. And reading. Classical literature? Art books? Tawdry smut? I’m game for anything to stop my relentless brain doing time trial relays inside my skull. Maybe I’ll start one of the trade-ins that were brought in today.
While I wait for the tea to steep, Gemma pokes her head into the pocket-sized kitchen. She’s wearing the most mini of spray-on miniskirts and some vague suggestion of a blouse, a sheer black number over a halter top. She’s put on makeup for the night out, including an enviable shade of lipstick.
And I thought she’d been dressed up to go outbefore. My eyebrows lift.
“What, you’re telling me you were never part of the mesh shirt and thong set, dancing on a speaker?” Gemma asks archly.
I open my mouth and blush something furious. What a horrifying vision. “Oh no. God, no.Please, no.”
She giggles, obviously pleased with my reaction. “You sure you don’t want to come out with us tonight?”
“Never.”
The idea of a dance floor with too-close writhing bodies, strangers, sweat, and too much brash sexuality in my face is something I’m definitely not up for. Not even with Gemma. Probably not even in my first year of uni.
I once went to clubs, to their dazzle and bright, sticky floors and even stickier booths for overpriced drinks. Although never in a mesh shirt, thank God. Even Eli’s influence couldn’t lure me that far. Not his, or anyone else’s.
Gemma gives me a wry smile. “Maybe the pub another night? We haven’t done that in a while.”
“Maybe,” I concede, pouring the tea. “Have fun. Remember, I need you in at noon tomorrow.”
“I’ll be here. Sober, even.”
“Thank heavens for small mercies.”
She grins, something dazzling that would doubtless work on most people. Probably anyone other than me. Blowing a kiss, she heads out, and I lock the door after her.
Taking my tea, I head up the stairs at the back to the bedsit over the shop. It’s crammed with books, usually serving as an extra stockroom and office. Now it’s home. The walls are painted midnight blue, or at least what can be seen of them where they’re not covered by bookcases or prints left by the three generations of Barneses before me that worked here.
I once had a proper home, a flat. Well, Eli and I had a flat together. Now, it’s Eli’s flat with his live-in boyfriend. I better not start the dreary cycle of thoughts on what they could be doing on a Friday night together in our old home. These days, I literally live and breathe books by living in the shop. The good thing about this new arrangement is that there’s no shortage of things to read.
I flop down on the leather sofa jammed between two bookcases under the window. Floor-to-ceiling shelving wraps around the room, heaving with books. Since there’s no more room on the shelves, books are stacked in neat piles in front of them. The low coffee table is full of books too. A small desk in the corner has my old laptop with the shop files, and a wooden crate beneath it is filled with notebooks of half-written poems, a couple of sketchbooks, and art supplies. My cat sleeps on the desk chair on top of the accounts book. In the corner, another sofa lies converted into my bed. As far as sofa beds go, it’s moderately comfortable.
Mum’s been too ill the last couple of years to work. She signed over the shop to me last year. Now, it’s just down to me to run everything. I should catch up on the bookkeeping tonight, but I don’t have the willpower to go through things. The result is always the same: never enough income. Our family business is fading. People want Waterstones or independent mega shop Foyles just down the street. Or even the actual Barnes and Noble, over in America.
If only I’d taken business classes instead of literature. If I had, I might be in better shape or know what to do to turn things around. Instead, I muddle on and hope for the best, for some miracle that I can tell Mum without it being a lie that everything’s fine, that we’ll be all right.
ThatI’llbe all right.
…
Before noon, the shop is full of Saturday morning browsers. The bell on the back of the door chimes as it swings open again. This time, it’s not another wave of tourists coming through, but Eli himself looking all too fresh from a morning run, with windswept golden hair like something out of a health and fitness magazine. Muscular. Tanned. He’s in a white T-shirt and black shorts that leave little to the imagination. Eli’s grin is dazzling and he holds a takeaway tray full of coffees.
I really don’t need this today.
“I come in peace. Here’s proof: coffee from down the street. Charlie says hi.” Eli’s unfazed by my looming grump. I haven’t even said anything yet and he already knows my mood.
“You should warn people ahead of time before you show up looking all…” I wave a hand at him. “You’ll distract the customers.”
Even after everything, I still have eyes. Unfortunately.
Eli beams, clearly loving the idea as he sets the tray down next to the till. “I can only hope.”
“Attention whore. Dare I ask what brings you here?”
