Like clockwork, every day at two o’clock an elderly man wearing a waistcoat and holding a guitar comes in, a worried expression on his face. In thick Greek he speaks, and just like always, I remind him I don’t speak the language. He nods and says in stilted English, ‘Helena, not here?’
‘No, I haven’t seen her. Sorry.’
The more often he stops to ask, the more curious I become. Just who is Helena? Is he intending on serenading her with a guitar song? Did she run away from him? What’s the story?
‘What does she look like?’ I say, but he’s already retreating, probably off to the next place to enquire about Helena’s whereabouts. I really must ask Gran who he is and whether Helena is a figment of his imagination.
My phone beeps with an alert. It’s an email from Phil the executive producer working on the two romance novels in development at Hollywood Films. Hallelujah, he’s not a phone person either. I quickly open it and speed-read.
Dear Evie,
It’s lovely to hear from you. I’m sorry things didn’t work out at Hollywood Films but I’m not surprised. Hank’s been around the block a bit and has a reputation for replacing staff with his own circle of friends. You could reach out to Olympus Media. They’re on the hunt for documentary ideas based on memoirs, adventure stories that kind of thing. I know you prefer romance but it might lead to other things. Email Val and tell him I sent you. Until then, I’ll keep my ear to the ground. Good luck.
Phil
I shoot off a reply and thank him for the tip and for recommending me and assure him I’ll contact Val from Olympus Media. It’s not my ideal role, but like Phil said it could be a stepping stone. The industry can be so closed off, almost impenetrable at times, that it feels like once the door closes I’ll be locked out forever so at this stage any book scout position is better than none.
Once that’s done I send Val an email highlighting my history with Hollywood Films, the two romantic comedies in production with Phil as EP and a brief history about my time in publishing. If I have to binge Olympus documentaries to get a feel for what they produce then I’m happy to do that.
I google Olympus Media. They’re all about high-adrenaline extreme sports, like ice climbing, base jumping and free soloing. Yikes, my heart rate is erratic just picturing those daredevils partaking in such an activity. But I could eke out those memoirs, those travelogues in the hunt for their next documentary star. It might actually be fun since I don’t actually have to do any of the pursuits, I just have to read about them.
Sir Spud trots over to the desk, sniffing the shelves for treats. I scoop him into my arms. There’s nothing quite like a cuddle from a fluffball like Spud. He gives in to it and lolls in my embrace, gazing at me with trusting eyes. ‘Who’s a good boy?’
Sir Spud kicks his legs in answer and I laugh.
‘What’s so funny?’ Roxy traipses in. Today her black hair is windblown and wild like she’s been at the beach. We’ve been texting back and forth about our favourite romance tropes. I’ve given Roxy the friendship seal of approval because A: She texts rather than calls. B: She adores romance novels (I’m willing to overlook her predilection for true crime stories). C: She’s quirky and funny.
‘Sir Spud seems so human sometimes. Like he knows exactly what I’m on about.’ I take a treat from the box and give it to him.
‘You don’t think it’s good old-fashioned bribery? He acts adorable and you give him a treat.’
I shoot her a questioning glance. ‘Are you suggesting Sir Spud is playing me?’ I hold him up and stare into his honey-coloured eyes. ‘Are you hearing this, Spudly?!’
She folds her arms across her chest. ‘I’m suggesting exactly that.’
‘He’s ruled by his stomach but he works for it. Watch this.’ When there’s downtime in the bookshop, I’ve trained Sir Spud who is a fast learner. I place him on the mat. ‘Sit.’ The furry canine duly sits. ‘Drop.’ He lies flat, staring up at me. ‘Play dead.’ He rolls over, closes his eyes with a groan before letting his tongue flop out the side of his mouth.
Roxy hoots. ‘Wow! How did you teach him that?’
‘I had to demonstrate a fair bit. He’s destined for great things, this pooch, eh?’ What I don’t tell Roxy is that a few customers wandered in and caught me acting like a dog, lying on my back, legs and arms folded and my own tongue hanging out of my mouth. I’d had my eyes closed tight playing dead to show Sir Spud what was expected of him. Rookie mistake. I did try and explain myself away, but the customers only spoke Greek so it was quite the conundrum. They left before I could dust myself off and open my translate app. I only hope word doesn’t get around that there’s a crazy woman in the bookshop pretending to be a dog.
I give Sir Spud a treat and he’s up and out the door with a bark.
‘He’s a clever boy.’ Roxy points to a stack of boxes. ‘What’s all this?’
‘New stock! Gran’s order of summer romance novels arrived. Want to help me price and shelve them?’
‘I’d love nothing more.’
We open the boxes of pretty pastel-coloured books and get to work when a young couple wander in. They speak Greek so I get my phone and open the translate app in case I need it. ‘Oh my God,’ Roxy whispers. ‘He’s spoiling her for her birthday.’
‘Buying her a book?’
‘Even better. He’s doing a five-minute book challenge!’
I glance at the couple. She’s hugging him around the hips, gazing adoringly at him while he fiddles with his phone, reading something aloud to the girl. ‘What’s that?’
‘He’s going to set a timer and she has three minutes to familiarise herself with the bookshop and then two minutes to go on a book-buying spree. The rules are: she has to be able to hold them all in her arms. She can’t buy a book she’s already read. If she finds a romance novel set in Santorini she gets another minute added to the timer. If she drops one, she loses it. If she finds one with her first name on the cover – either author or in the title – she gets to put the books she’s holding on the counter and start the challenge over, essentially doubling her time.’
