Читать книгу The Little Bookshop of Lonely Hearts: A feel-good funny romance - Annie Darling - Страница 8

Telling Sam that she was going to take over Bookends and do her utmost to turn it into a profitable business was a doddle, a breeze, a walk in the park, compared to having to tell the staff the latest developments.

‘What happened to you yesterday?’ Verity asked when she arrived for work the next morning, closely followed by Nina, then Tom. ‘You disappeared with the dreaded Sebastian and that was the last we saw of you.’

Nina was in the little kitchen off the back office, but she stuck her head out of the door, kettle in hand and a grin on her face. ‘Did he take liberties with you? Did you slap his face and storm off?’

‘Liberties weren’t taken but I did want to slap his face several times,’ Posy said, as she turned on the till. ‘It was touch and go at one point.’

‘Didn’t he drag you off to see Lavinia’s lawyer?’ Tom looked up from his breakfast panini. ‘Oh God, it’s bad news, isn’t it? Are they selling the shop?’

All three of them wore matching expressions that could be summed up as ‘The end of the world is nigh’, when it wasn’t nigh at all. At least Posy didn’t think it was.

‘No one’s selling the shop.’ Posy gripped the counter tight for moral support, felt the scarred, polished wood firm beneath her fingers. ‘Lavinia’s left the shop to me and I’m not going anywhere.’

Posy paused and waited. She wasn’t sure exactly what she was waiting for; perhaps some heartfelt congratulations, maybe a ‘You go, girl!’ Instead she got silence and three perplexed faces staring back at her. Was there anyone, anywhere, who had even a tiny bit of faith in her? Apart from Lavinia, whose faith in Posy, it seemed, was entirely misguided.

Posy rubbed her hands together nervously. ‘Not that it’s going to be easy, but Sam and I are up for the challenge. Well, Sam’s kind of up for it, anyway. Although I’m … we’re … going to have … There will be changes but, um, good changes. Er, exciting changes.’

‘You’re in charge then? You’re the boss of us?’ It was impossible to know how Verity felt about that – in fact, it was impossible to tell how Verity felt about most things. She was very hard to read, for all that Posy had known her for four years and considered Verity one of her very best friends. Verity was also the assistant manager of Bookends, which meant she stayed in the back office doing the accounts, ordering stock and refusing to interact with anyone coming into the shop to buy a book. She’d been Lavinia’s right-hand woman while Posy had drifted about colonising more space in the shop for her romance novels. Without Verity, Bookends would cease to function within days. Within hours.

‘Boss is such a harsh word,’ Posy said soothingly. ‘Nothing will change. Well, some things will need to change, but I’m not going to turn into a despot and shout, “It’s my way or the highway!” whenever we have a disagreement. I’ll still make tea and stock shelves and go out on a chocolate run.’

‘So is my job safe?’ It was easy to tell what Nina was thinking because Nina was biting her lip and frowning and generally looking as if Posy was about to issue her with her P45 – not that Posy would have had the first clue how to do such a thing. ‘And Tom can still work part-time – or, to be more accurate, whenever he feels like gracing us with his presence? Or is it last in, first out? Which would mean me, because I’ve only been here two years. Though technically, I’ve worked more hours than Tom.’

‘Shut up,’ Tom hissed. ‘Of course, Posy isn’t sacking anyone because Posy’s our friend as well as our new boss. Our sweet, kind, dear friend. And may I say that you’re looking particularly lovely today, Posy.’

‘You can but I’m writing you up for sexual harassment,’ Posy said, and she pretended to write something in her notebook, which was a long-standing shop joke and Tom was always the punchline, so he pretended to scowl and Nina went back into the kitchen to put the kettle on. Only Verity remained standing there, hands on hips.

‘I’m pleased for you, Posy – it would have been awful if you and Sam had been made homeless – but very soon we won’t be able to afford any members of staff, full-time or part-time,’ she added in a whisper, though Tom was more interested in his panini than their conversation. ‘These changes you mentioned, what are they?’

As of now, the changes hadn’t made themselves known to Posy. She needed more time to research and ponder and possibly make some lists, maybe a pie chart too. Then, hopefully, she’d have a big idea, a grand scheme for Bookends, that Posy could present to Verity and the rest of the staff with such passion and conviction that they’d be completely on board too. What could be simpler?

It occurred to Posy, as she tried to avoid looking Verity in the eye, that she wasn’t cut out to be a leader. She wasn’t a follower either, or even a plodder. At least plodders got to their destination eventually. No, Posy was a floater, happy to do her own thing and be swept along with the tide and this was all a bit too much, a bit too soon when she was still reeling from Lavinia’s absence.

‘Like I said, good changes,’ Posy murmured vaguely, though she could feel sweat breaking out on her forehead and her upper lip while at the same time her hands were icy cold. She also had a terrible taste in her mouth, like she’d been licking batteries. It was fear. Big, stinky fear. She pulled up the corners of her mouth in a pitiful excuse for a confident smile. ‘Exciting changes. Very, very exciting. I’m going to need your help, I won’t be able to do it without you.’

Verity nodded. ‘As long as these changes aren’t like the time when you wanted to have the books arranged by colour and not by alphabet,’ she said.

‘But it would have looked pretty,’ Posy protested weakly.

‘God help us.’ Verity shook her head before scuttling off to the back office.

Telling her colleagues that they were now her employees had been more of an ordeal than Posy had anticipated and now she realised that she had their futures to worry about too. This wasn’t only about her and Sam. She didn’t want to be the person who was standing between the Bookends staff and unemployment, possibly destitution.

When she woke up the following morning, Posy felt galvanised into action. At the least, she should probably write a to-do list. Maybe pop to the fancy new Foyles on Charing Cross Road to scope out the competition.

Neither she nor Sam were morning people. They had a house rule that neither of them spoke at breakfast unless it was absolutely necessary. With her eyes half-closed, Posy made Sam toast and scrambled eggs, which he shovelled into his mouth while finishing his history homework. He should have finished it the night before but Posy didn’t have the energy to tell him off about it, not when she was still halfway down her first cup of tea.

Sam dumped his plate and mug in the sink and left for school with a grunt that might have been ‘goodbye’, leaving Posy sitting there, drinking her tea and reading The Pursuit of Love, even though she’d lost count of how many times she’d read it. It always reminded her of Lavinia and what her life might have been like before the war.

Posy cherished this hour when she was still in her pyjamas and befuddled with sleep. It was the one part of the day that was hers and hers alone.

It was a pity that no one had thought to mention it to the person banging on the shop door, ignoring the sign which spelled out very clearly, in the plainest English, that they didn’t open until ten. They weren’t expecting any deliveries either and anyway the drivers knew to come round the back and ring the bell.

Posy put down her cup and book and shuffled down the stairs in her slippers. The closer she got, the louder the banging was. Muttering under her breath, she moved through the shop and as she got nearer to the door, she saw who was responsible for breaching her peace.

‘Stop making all that noise!’ Posy banged on the glass to get his attention. ‘I’m unlocking the door.’

‘My breakfast meeting got cancelled,’ Sebastian informed Posy as he shouldered his way past her. ‘God, Morland, you’re not even dressed yet!’

Technically, Posy was dressed; in pyjama bottoms adorned with Christmas puddings, an old Minecraft T-shirt of Sam’s, and a threadbare cardigan. ‘It’s not even eight thirty, Sebastian. I wasn’t exactly expecting callers.’

‘Is that what you wear to bed?’ He narrowed his eyes, which weren’t puffy with sleep like hers. Posy was sure he could see through her layers to her braless state. She folded her arms. ‘What a thrill-killer.’

‘Shut up! What are you doing here anyway?’ Posy asked, but she was talking to Sebastian’s back. He’d already done a complete circuit of the main room and was heading past the counter.

‘Thought I’d have a proper look around before I make any decisions,’ he called from the stairs. ‘Come on! I haven’t got all day.’

Posy took off after him. ‘What kind of decisions?’ she panted as she took the stairs far too fast for someone who hadn’t finished their first pot of tea. ‘This is my home, you can’t just barge in here without asking.’

Sebastian was currently peering into Sam’s room. ‘Really? Why not? What unspeakable things do you get up to in here? Have you got a man on the premises?’

The last man on the premises had been Tom, when he’d come upstairs to mend a dripping tap. Though he hadn’t mended it so much as looked at it, then at the screwdriver Posy had given him, with a quizzical expression, and shrugged. ‘Just because I’m a man doesn’t mean that I know how to do useful stuff,’ he’d said and gone back downstairs.

The tap still dripped and Sebastian didn’t seem like the sort of man who knew how to do anything useful either. His speciality subjects were being rude and having absolutely no respect for people’s personal boundaries.

‘It’s none of your business what I get up to in my spare time,’ she told him indignantly. ‘I could have a whole football team up here if I wanted.’

Sebastian pulled his head out of Sam’s room, slammed the door and turned to her with a knowing look. ‘Highly unlikely. I think footballers tend to prefer their women in something a little more alluring than sagging pyjama bottoms with turds on them. You really are an odd girl, Morland.’

‘They’re not turds! They’re Christmas puddings! These are my Christmas pyjamas!’ Posy tugged at the offending pyjamas even as she knew she’d never wear them again. First chance she had, she was going to burn them.

‘But it’s February,’ Sebastian pointed out helpfully as he brushed past her into the living room. ‘This place is a fire hazard. Why do you need so many books? Haven’t you got enough of them downstairs?’

Posy followed him into the room. ‘These are for my personal use,’ she said primly, as if she had never, ever read a stock book very carefully so she didn’t crease the spine, then placed it tenderly back on the shelf. ‘Anyway, there’s no such thing as too many books.’

‘Oh, yes there is,’ Sebastian assured her as he strode over to one of the bookshelves set into the alcoves on either side of the fireplace, where the books were triple stacked. ‘I’d say you reached peak book several years ago. There are books everywhere!’ he added in disgust as he made a sharp left turn and sent a pile of novels crashing to the ground. ‘You must be personally responsible for the destruction of at least three rainforests.’

‘I recycle a lot, so I’m sure it all evens out,’ Posy said and as Sebastian was obviously intending to stay there for some time – he was currently switching the main light on and off, though she had no idea why – she decided to leave him to it and make a fresh pot of tea. Not wanting to be thought completely devoid of manners, she asked, ‘Do you want a brew?’

‘Coffee.’ Sebastian stared down at the coffee table where last night’s dinner plates still sat and his beautiful cupid’s bow of a top lip curled. ‘Sumatran beans, if you’ve got them. If not, I’ll have Peruvian.’

‘Does this look like a branch of Starbucks?’

‘No, it doesn’t. If this was a branch of Starbucks, it would have been closed down by Environmental Health months ago.’

‘You can have instant coffee out of a jar – and it’s your lucky day, sweetheart: the Douwe Egberts was on special offer,’ Posy said and she swept out of the living room as grandly as anyone could when they were wearing Christmas pudding pyjamas and bunny face slippers.

She didn’t want to leave Sebastian unattended but anything was better than having to see the sneer etched on his face and listen to him pass judgement on her soft furnishings and lifestyle choices.

Lavinia had had the roof replaced a few years ago after she’d ventured upstairs and seen the bowls and saucepans positioned to catch the various leaks, but the flat hadn’t been redecorated in all the time Posy had lived there. Redecorating would mean having to pack up everything and put it into storage; it didn’t bear thinking about, so Posy never thought about it.

She made a fresh pot of tea and poured Sebastian’s coffee into a Penguin Books The Invisible Man mug – wishful thinking on her part, especially when she discovered that Sebastian wasn’t in the living room any more. With sinking heart, she padded down the hall to find him in her room, lounging on her unmade bed and staring at the pile of clothes heaped on the pale blue Lloyd Loom chair. Or maybe he was staring at the pile of clothes heaped on the floor. Or the clothes spilling out of her open drawers. Or the teetering stacks of books by the bed and under her bedside table and next to her bookcases, which were straining under the weight of yet more books.

It was odd, a whole wide world of odd, to have Sebastian of all people stretched out on her candy-striped sheets in another impeccably cut, verging on obscenely tight suit – this one was light grey tweed, accessorised with sky blue shirt, pocket-square, socks and shoelaces. It had been a long time since she’d had a man on her bed, but it wasn’t as if Sebastian had seduction on his mind, thank God. Not when his attention was riveted on the half-eaten Double Decker, a sticky and congealed tub of Vick’s Vapour Rub and a balled up pair of socks on her bedside table. Posy might just as well have a sign above her bed that said, ‘Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.’

‘Not a word,’ Posy warned him. ‘Or you’ll be wearing this coffee.’

Sebastian held up his hands in mock surrender. ‘Oh, Morland, there are no words.’ He leaned back on his elbows and eyed yesterday’s bra, which was hanging forlornly off one of the knobs of her old-fashioned headboard where Posy had thrown it when she’d got undressed the night before. ‘That’s twice in three days that I’ve seen one of your bras. People will start to talk.’

‘My bras are no concern of yours.’ Posy made a little shooing motion and slopped coffee over an upturned copy of Valley of the Dolls. ‘Come out of here!’

Sebastian bounded off the bed, snatched the mug from her and was out of the room and all set to sweep into the room next door, when he came to a halt. A locked door would do that.

‘What’s in here?’ he demanded.

‘It’s none of your business because you’re not going in there,’ Posy told him. She tried to look stern. ‘Anyway, you can’t just barge into my shop, my home, and start snooping about like you—’

‘Is this where you bury the bodies?’ He rattled the door handle again so forcefully that Posy feared for its safety. She insinuated herself between Sebastian and the door and then wished she hadn’t because now they were nose to nose. Or rather, her nose was somewhere in the vicinity of Sebastian’s chin and she could take great whiffs of him. He smelt heavenly; a heady mixture of mossy forests, warm leather chairs and smoky gentleman’s clubs.

Not only was it quite overwhelming, but Sebastian was in a perfect position to look right down the gaping neckline of her T-shirt. As he opened his mouth to make yet another sarcastic remark, Posy put one hand on the centre of his chest and pushed him back. He was so warm, all bone and muscle and—

‘Careful, now. I think that counts as inappropriate touching,’ he said kindly.

‘You! You’re inappropriate! This is my parents’ room and you’re not going in there.’

Sebastian frowned. ‘Was. Not is. It was your parents’ room. They’ve been dead, what? Five years.’

‘Seven years, as a matter of fact.’ Though actually it was six years, eight months, one week and three days, because the exact date of their … parting was etched on Posy’s heart.

‘Seven years and you’ve got some weird shrine going on in there? How mawkish.’

Posy took a deep breath and tried to exhale through gritted teeth. ‘It’s not mawkish and it’s not a shrine and, again, it’s none of your business.’

Maybe it was a shrine and maybe the shop was too and that was why she was determined to hang on to it for dear life, but she couldn’t tell Sebastian that. He had the emotional intelligence of a goldfish. Not even a goldfish. Posy had heard tales of goldfish pining away after setting up home with another fish who’d then had the misfortune to die. No, Sebastian had the emotional intelligence of a gnat.

‘It’s not a shrine,’ she repeated. ‘I go in there. Vacuum, dust, that kind of thing.’

Sebastian’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Really?’ Those two syllables dripped with scepticism. ‘Are you telling me you possess a vacuum cleaner and, on occasion, actually use it? And you dust?’ Then because he was so much taller and more annoying than her, he reached over Posy’s head to run a finger along the top of the doorframe and held it out for inspection. ‘Look at that! It’s as black as my favourite Alexander McQueen suit.’

It was black. Black with years of accumulated grime and gunk, but who had time to run damp cloths along every nook and crevice? ‘Didn’t someone once say that after three years the dust doesn’t get any worse?’ Posy offered with a weak smile. ‘Anyway, a bit of dirt never hurt anyone. In fact, it helps to build a healthy immune system.’

She was preaching to the choir – she certainly wasn’t preaching to Sebastian, who had suddenly launched himself out of her orbit and was tearing down the stairs, shouting over his shoulder about estate agents and developers. ‘… have to replace all the windows and I’m pretty sure your electrics are about to blow. Whole place is a death-trap. Not worth spending money to bring it up to code when you’re only going to be here for another two years. Probably less than two years. Best you sign it over to me now and we’ll put it on the market as a redevelopment site.’

Posy caught up with Sebastian in the back office and had no choice but to grab his sleeve and yank him back so hard that he shrieked. ‘Not the suit! Don’t ever touch the suit!’

‘Sit down! Now!’ It was a voice she never, ever had to use on Sam, because he was a paragon among teenage boys and wouldn’t dream of doing anything so heinous that she needed to go all Wrath of God on his arse. She’d never used this voice on anyone in her entire life, but she was using it now and it seemed to work because Sebastian immediately dropped down on to the big leather swivel chair, though he swung this way and that with a grin on his face to show that he wasn’t completely cowed.

‘So stern. You remind me of a dominatrix, I once knew,’ he remarked, then lowered his eyes demurely and took a sip of his coffee, though he couldn’t quite hide a grimace as his lips made contact with a beverage that had started life as freeze-dried granules.

Posy shook her head. There was nothing for it but to tell Sebastian her plans for Bookends and do it quickly and, hopefully, painlessly. ‘I’m not signing the shop over,’ she said firmly. ‘It’s up to you what do you with the mews, but Lavinia left Bookends to me and I can manage perfectly well without your help. Did I say help? My mistake. What I meant was interference.’

‘What are you going to do with Bookends then?’ Sebastian asked. He gazed around the office, the one room in the building which was a model of efficiency and organisation – and that was down to Verity. ‘I mean, why on earth would you want to take on a failing business?’

‘It’s not failing!’

Sebastian snorted, rather elegantly, into his coffee. ‘I take it you haven’t seen the books then? If you had, you’d know that it’s losing money hand over fist.’

Those weren’t the kind of books that Posy had any interest in, though now she made a mental note to ask Verity to go through them with her. Or rather, hit the horrible highlights for her. ‘Obviously, I’m going to have to make some drastic changes, but Lavinia left me the shop because she knew what it meant to me and that I’d honour what it meant to her. It’s Lavinia’s legacy.’

‘Do you know how many bookshops have closed in the last five years?’ Sebastian pulled a phone out of an inner pocket of his jacket and held it aloft. ‘Shall I google it? Or leave it to your imagination?’

Posy didn’t have to leave it to her imagination. She already knew. Some people navigated their way around London via public toilets or branches of McDonald’s, but for Posy, London was a collection of bookshops with streets attached to them. They were fast disappearing now and Posy always felt a flicker of fear and foreboding each time she passed a shop where she’d once whiled away many a happy hour browsing the shelves only to find that it was now a coffee shop or a nail bar.

But she also knew that the rise of e-readers and the recession hadn’t killed off the printed word. People still loved to read. They still loved to lose themselves in a world forged from paper and ink. They still bought books and, with the right kind of plan and passion, they’d buy them from Bookends.

‘I don’t care,’ Posy said to Sebastian, though she cared very much. ‘Lavinia left the shop to me, I can do what I want with it.’

‘Yes, but she made me her executor. That means I act in the best interests of the estate.’ Posy wasn’t sure about that. The lawyer – she couldn’t remember his name – had said something about coming to his office to sign a few forms and then Bookends would belong to Posy. Was Sebastian going to contest the will, on the grounds that Lavinia was mentally diminished when she wrote it?

‘Lavinia said I had two years to make a go of things. If you’re determined to force me into giving up and handing over the shop to you, then you’re going against her last wishes. Do you want that on your conscience?’ Posy asked, though she wasn’t entirely sure that appealing to Sebastian’s conscience would work. In any case, Sebastian was on the move again, out of his chair and stalking back into the shop, pausing only to smile wolfishly at Verity as she came through the door.

Verity treated him to her patented dead-eyed stare, which she used to great effect on customers who assumed that because she worked in a bookshop she was there to help them with their bookish needs. Ditto, men who tried to compliment her, buy her a drink or engage her in small talk. It usually had the recipient backing away while apologising profusely, but Sebastian didn’t seem at all fazed. He shrugged, smiled to himself as if to say, ‘Well, you can’t win them all,’ then walked over to the centre table and stopped dead.

Traditionally, the large round table in the middle of the main shop was where they displayed new releases, but yesterday, in her first act as owner, Posy had broken with tradition. She’d bought a bunch of Lavinia’s favourite pale pink roses and placed them in Lavinia’s treasured chipped vase from Woolworths, next to a framed photo of Lavinia and Peregrine standing behind the counter, taken shortly after they got married. Then she’d typed out a notice and printed it on fancy card:

In loving memory of Lavinia Thorndyke, a bookseller to her bones. On this table is a selection of Lavinia’s favourite books; the ones that brought her the greatest joy, that were like old friends. We hope that you may find the same joy, the same friendship.

‘If one cannot enjoy reading a book

over and over again,

there is no use reading it at all.’

Oscar Wilde

By some miracle, Sebastian at last fell silent. He traced the photograph, one long finger caressing the curve of Lavinia’s cheek; a Lavinia frozen in black and white who’d always be young and gay and gazing up at Peregrine with a teasing, loving look.

‘Oh … well, now … that’s very … thoughtful.’ He swallowed around the word, as though it had got stuck in his throat. ‘Sometimes Perry used to tell Lavinia that she loved this shop more than she loved him. Then she’d laugh and say that they were on pretty equal pegging.’

‘Lavinia did love this shop.’ Posy clasped her hands together and tried to compose herself. She needed to be impassioned but in control; it wouldn’t help her cause if she launched into some incoherent, garbled speech. ‘This is more than a shop. It’s part of your history, Sebastian. It was founded by your great-grandmother, Agatha. It survived the war. Everyone from Virginia Woolf to Marilyn Monroe to The Beatles has come through that door. But it’s part of my history too. It’s the only home I’ve ever known. It might not be making money right now, but it has done, it used to, it could again.’ She wasn’t clasping her hands together any more so much as wringing them, but she felt Verity pause to give her shoulder a squeeze as she brushed past the counter on her way back to the office. ‘Is this because Lavinia left the shop to me? Are you angry about that?’

‘Angry?’ Sebastian dropped his usual look of sneering condescension in favour of letting his mouth hang open in disbelief. ‘What? No! History, books, a place covered in dust. What would I want with that? I’m already rich beyond the dreams of avarice anyway.’

‘I just thought …’

‘Look, Posy, we’re veering dangerously close to talking about our feelings. Messy things, feelings. Almost as messy as your flat. Let’s go back to the bit where you explain why you want to commit financial suicide. You might as well light a big bonfire in the yard outside and throw all your money on to it.’ Sebastian cast his eyes to the heavens. It was a good look for him, showing off the lean, corded beauty of his throat.

Posy blinked and tried to pay attention to what Sebastian was saying, but given that he was hell-bent on ringing the death knell for Bookends she didn’t know why she was bothering. ‘… and you’ve got the London Review Bookshop and the big new Foyles around the corner. It’s huge. Then there’s the flagship Waterstones on Piccadilly. It beggars belief, really, why anyone would want to come here. Or buy a book at all. So much easier to download it straight on to an e-reader. Not so dusty either – you should try it, Morland.’

There was no point in explaining to Sebastian how lovely it was to crack open a new book and inhale that wonderful smell. Or the powdery, almost earthy smell of old books. To feel the comforting weight of a novel in your lap, or let the pages dampen and curl as you read in the bath. He wouldn’t get it. She’d have to stick to the facts, lead with her business plan, which was nothing more than a to-do list in an old exercise book and with Verity earwigging from the back office.

‘We can’t compete with the big chain bookshops, I know that,’ she said calmly, though that was about the only thing she did know for certain. ‘But Bookends is about more than selling books, it’s about the experience and expertise we can offer. We don’t sell books like they’re cans of baked beans or bars of soap. We love books, and that comes across in our bookselling.’

‘Not that there’s much selling going on here. Quite the contrary,’ Sebastian said with a smug sniff, as if he knew anything about the subject. ‘Maybe you love books too much, Morland, and that’s why your sales are so shocking. People come in to buy a book and you scare them off by frothing at the mouth as you bang on and on about the new Dan Brown.’

‘I do not froth – and certainly not about Dan Brown,’ Posy said crossly. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. And I do – know what I’m talking about, that is. Which is why Lavinia let me take over the three rooms on the right, to sell romantic fiction.’ Posy didn’t mean to, she was out and proud, but she whispered the last two words and blushed as Sebastian pulled an agonised face as though she’d made his instant coffee with curdled milk. ‘It’s been going really well because I’m passionate about romantic fiction. I doubt there’s another bookseller in London who’s read as many romance novels as I have, and it shows in my sales. I’ve been taking a lot of orders online too, even though our website is really basic. So, FYI our sales for romantic fiction are up by … a lot.’

Posy had wanted to wow Sebastian with percentages and profit margins, but she’d never concerned herself with that side of things. She was, however, an expert on romantic fiction. If she were to go on Mastermind with romantic fiction as her specialist subject, she’d get a clear round every time. OK, she’d come a cropper on the general knowledge, but whatever! The problem with knowledge was that it was too general, too wide, impossible to know everything and …

Oh goodness! Posy had to clutch on to a shelf because she was having an idea. A big idea. A grand scheme. A USP. She’d got it! By God, she’d got it!

‘Are you having a funny turn, Morland?’ Sebastian asked solicitously. ‘I’m not surprised. I’m pretty sure you’ve been inhaling all kinds of poisonous spores from the mould in your flat.’

‘We don’t have mould,’ Posy snapped; she wasn’t about to let Sebastian distract her now. ‘As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted: instead of trying to do everything, compete with the big bookstores, which is a hopeless task, Bookends is going to specialise in one genre. Go niche or go home.’ Posy paused for dramatic effect – and because she couldn’t quite believe what she was going to say next. ‘We’re going to become the only bookshop in Britain, maybe even the world, which specialises in romantic literature. So, what do you think about that? Hey! Did you hear what I just said?’

Posy was talking to Sebastian’s back again. He’d disappeared into the first room and Posy had no choice but to follow. She caught up with him as he began pulling a book from one of the shelves. It was a US import, which was why it had a cover that featured a long-haired piece of beefcake with a rippling six-pack, straddling a woman who was wearing a filmy negligee and showing a lot of leg, as befitted someone who was about to be Seduced by a Scoundrel. Sebastian stared at it in horror then thrust it back in the wrong place.

By the time Posy had restored it to its rightful place, Sebastian had moved on to the classics section of her little romance fiefdom and was waving a copy of Pride and Prejudice around. ‘Boring!’ he proclaimed, which was treason. High treason. Before Posy had time to react he’d moved on to I Capture the Castle. ‘Banal!’ And Tender Is the Night. ‘Facile!’

‘You’re so predictable! You make all these assumptions about romance novels and I bet you’ve never even read one. The whole world revolves around people meeting and falling in love; if it didn’t then, the human race would die out, you silly, ignor— Mpppfffhhhh!’ She got no further because Sebastian had clapped his hand over her mouth.

How she longed to bite his hand. Maybe it would teach Sebastian a lesson about invading her personal space. Getting so close to her that she could feel the heat coming off him. ‘Not another word!’ His eyes flashed, not with anger but amusement, as if this was the most fun he’d had all morning. ‘Stop banging on about romance novels and lurve. I swear I can feel my testicles shrivelling.’

Posy yanked his hand away. ‘I think you can get a cream for that. Try Boots.’

‘Good idea!’ Sebastian was in forward motion again. He flung open the door of the shop, because he couldn’t even open a door, without it turning into a big, dramatic gesture. ‘I’ll be in touch,’ he said with an airy wave of his hand. Then he was gone.

Posy put a hand to her racing heart.

‘Bloody hell! That was bracing.’ Verity had decided it was finally safe to emerge from the back office.

‘I feel like I’ve just run with the bulls at Pamplona.’ Posy’s heart rate was returning to its usual slug-like pace. ‘Thanks for all your support there, Very.’

Verity looked entirely unrepentant. In fact, she even waved a hand too, in a fair approximation of Sebastian’s jaunty farewell. ‘I like to pick my own battles,’ she said. ‘Anyway, it looked like you had things under control.’ She folded her arms. ‘So that’s your big idea: a bookshop that only sells romance?’

Posy nodded. ‘Honestly, you can’t be any more surprised than I am. It’s not a bad idea, though, is it? A one-stop shop for all your romantic fiction needs.’ She bit her lip. ‘I need to figure out the details. Properly. With a flip chart and everything, but until I do, can you keep it between us?’

‘We’re only going to sell romance novels? Nothing else?’ Verity’s voice was flatter than Holland. She looked around the shop. ‘That’s hardly going to fill the entire shop, is it? I mean, I understand about going niche, but isn’t that a bit too niche?’

‘It’s not. It’s really not. People love romantic novels. Here, in the main room, we could have new releases, bestsellers and contemporary fiction. Plus all the classics: Bridget Jones, Jackie Collins and chicklit – though I have major problems with that term. Major.’ Posy moved through the shop, into the room on the left. Now that she’d started to think about it, it was all so obvious. ‘We could have classics in here: Jane Austen, the Brontës, poetry, plays and then in the next room—’

Verity held up her hand. ‘Enough!’

Posy turned to her with a troubled expression. ‘You don’t think it’s a good idea? But you love romance novels, Very! I know exactly what you buy with your staff discount, and even Nina says—’

‘Nina will be in soon. Tom’s coming in this afternoon. We’re going to close an hour early and you’re going to talk us through this plan.’ Verity still didn’t sound as if she thought it was a good plan, but Posy tried not to take it personally. That was Verity’s way. She’d once brushed past Benedict Cumberbatch in the Midnight Bell and didn’t so much as flicker an eyelash, but then she’d had to go to the toilet and breathe into a paper bag because she was hyperventilating. ‘I’ll let you have some money out of petty cash so you can go and buy a flip chart,’ Verity added kindly. ‘After you’ve put the kettle on. And changed out of your pyjamas. What is that on them anyway? Looks like little piles of poo.’

‘They’re Christmas puddings! Can’t you see the sprigs of holly?’ Posy tugged at the offending garment that she was never, ever going to wear again. ‘You put the kettle on. I’m going to have a shower.’