I gulp down more latte in the hopes it’s an elixir of strength. Probably it would have been better if it had been a punk band after all. I’d at least know what to expect.
“I’m running a business—”
“That’s why we’re compensating you for the days you’ll need to be closed.” Alice gives me her best reassuring look. I set my coffee down to rub my temples, a foreboding ache creeping in. “There’s not too much to do today. Painting and moving furniture around, and we’ll load a lorry—that’s what you call trucks, isn’t it—”
“You must keep the books in order,” I say desperately, watching two men nearby picking up books from the shelf and flipping through them. If I had any control in this situation, it’s slipping away, fast. “It’s terribly important. They need to be kept alphabetical—by section.”
“And that’s why we’re taking so many photos. We’ll spend the day getting the set ready and cleaning up. Then tomorrow morning they’ll do a rehearsal and start filming later that day.”
“How many days do you need?”
“It’s hard to say. It depends on how smoothly the filming goes. Up to a week, I’d say. No more than that. I mean, we return to America in two weeks, so it wouldn’t be longer than that. We have a tight schedule to keep.”
“A week!” I stare at her. She can’t be serious. How am I supposed to put up with this nonsense for a week? But…extra money. That would be a good thing, right? What if they tear the place apart, like what happened to my friend Murphy at his cycle shop a few streets over when there was filming two years ago? I struggle with myself.
In the meantime, she rifles through a stack of papers and hands over some to me. “Here’s your NDA to review and sign.”
Clutching the document, I watch as crates are shuffled in with painting supplies, and another set of empty crates where someone starts to box up the cookery section. Unable to bear it, I flee to the kitchen for tea and biscuits for distraction, a rising commotion behind me, and a wild thundering inside my skull.
The rest of the day passes in chaos.
I call Gemma in early to help supervise the filming carnage, her penance for her part in helping unleash this filming hell.
I’m on one side of the shop. She’s on the other by the entry, looking authoritative with her arms folded across her chest like some kind of punk enforcer, a fountain ponytail spilling down over her shoulder. Opposite her is someone from the film’s official security detail, evidently guarding the honor of the film crew. He’s not any sort of defense against the havoc unfolding in my shop right now. Plus, in the unlikely event of a brawl to defend my—or my shop’s—honor, my money’s on Gemma.
Avoiding eye contact with her, he toys with his handheld radio, unleashing the occasional screech of feedback enough to set my teeth on edge.
Maybe in truth everyone needs to be protected from me.
Hour by hour, my shop’s undone. Bookcases are carted out. Other bookcases are tarted up. Props are carted in. Walls are painted. Would my father have approved of aubergine? I chew my lip watching the mint green walls disappear. They’re not allowed to paint the oak bookcases or trim on pain of death.
Warily, I sit sentinel at the front counter for as long as I can while people paint and polish, buff and sand. What would my relatives and the Barneses before me make of such a thing unfolding in the family shop?
They’re closing in on the front counter. There, I defend Blake’s bouquet with the ferocity of a cornered animal like on some wildlife show. I let my guard down for half a moment and someone’s hands are on the arrangement.
“Back off!” I snap as I shove myself protectively in front of the flowers as a human shield. The crew member recoils and slinks off. Pleased, I fold my arms over my chest and stand my ground. Flowers safe, I refuse to move to give them another go until a commotion at the entry catches my attention.
The door is propped open for airflow given the paint fumes, which waft most effectively into my flat and promise a headache later.
“Aubrey!” calls Eli. “Security won’t let me in. I need a safe word. A password. Something!”
The cheek. Rolling my eyes, I get up. And freeze. Shit. The flowers. If he sees the flowers, he’ll have questions, but it’s impossible to hide them. They’re rather large and showy and bright. In the chaos of everything, if I’m lucky he’ll think it’s part of the filming prep, even though the place otherwise resembles a building site at the moment.
“It’s Noble.” I make myself go toward the door. I glance at the actual security guard opposite Gemma. She’s giving Eli stink-eye, something I’m privately very pleased about. “He’s fine. He’s with me—well, adjacent to me, anyway.”
Eli looks stunned as I wave him in when the security guard steps back to let him pass. His mouth hangs open slightly as he takes in the spectacle, and a spectacle it is. There’s people and crates and equipment everywhere. He’s dressed in a suit, and judging by the angle of the sunlight spilling through the front window, he must be on his way home for the day. Which also means that this nonsense has been going on all day and should end soon. Maybe.
“What…” Eli manages, still casting looks around while the crew works industriously. Someone totes in lumber. I don’t want to know.
“Filming. It’s contagious, apparently. Green books are a gateway.” My lips twitch.
He gives me a sharp look, startled. “I had no idea. Jesus. How long has this been going on?”
“Since approximately seven this morning. Give or take a few minutes.”
“You…you…agreed to this? How did you manage this since Saturday?” Eli asks. At last he gazes at me, in disbelief. He loosens his tie, sliding it off and folding it neatly to tuck away into a pocket. He undoes the top button of his pink shirt. He must be sweltering in that lawyer gear.
I chew my lip. “Well, I didn’t agree to this. Not the first time. Gemma did. Allegedly.”
