EXT: THE DUSTY BOOKSHELF—WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 12, 7:30 P.M.
EVIE stands in front of a bookshop. The window frames are painted midnight blue. A wooden sign hangs above the door in matching blue with silver lettering, declaring it THE DUSTY BOOKSHELF. There are Christmas lights in the window display, flashing languidly on and off, illuminating the books. EVIE’s nose is bright pink. Her braided hair pokes out from beneath her thick green woolen hat as she peers into the shop.
It is a truth universally acknowledged that the moment the words “What’s the worst that can happen?” are uttered, a dozen possibilities pop into existence. Yet, as I stood outside the Dusty Bookshelf, on a side street in Peckham, those were the words I repeated to myself.
I’d gotten the time and details from Jane, who hadn’t known what this month’s book was but promised the group would be an absolute hotbed of romance! When I’d asked her what kind of books they read she’d told me, “Fantasy, mostly. You know, werewolves and whatnot.” I hoped that meant horror and sci-fi too, because I was at least familiar with those as film genres.
As I stood in front of the window of the warmly lit shop, my stomach tipped like a funfair ride heading over a drop. Assistant drinks aside, it had been a while since I’d done anything social without Ricky by my side. How did I end up with an introvert? He’d smile, vowing to stick by me all night.
I steeled myself. I had to do this. It had been over three weeks, and the only thing I’d managed to get out of NOB was requests for more meet-cutes. My only consolation was that he was insisting I was helping him to write. I just wished I could believe him.
I pushed the door open.
Inside, a woman sat reading behind a till at a desk that groaned beneath a pile of books. The place was beautiful. Wooden shelves were crammed with books old and new, fairy lights had been wound around the rafters, and the furniture was mismatched, with lamps in every conceivable nook and cranny.
“Hi,” I said hesitantly.
The woman took a second to finish her page before looking up at me. “We’re closed,” she said.
“I’m here for the book group.” The woman leaned back in her chair and took off her glasses to appraise me.
“Well,” she said after a pause, “it takes all sorts. Follow me.”
Flustered, I trailed behind her, trying to keep track of her bobbing bun as we zigzagged between shelves until we must have been at the very back of the shop. The shelves gave way to a small, book-lined space filled with people, a variety of chairs, and an old stained table bearing wine. Oh, thank God.
“One of yours,” the woman announced, and then left me there.
There was a tall black woman in long red boots near the table, perhaps a few years older than me. “White or red?” she asked. She sounded American.
Nerves had hold of my tongue.
“I’m Steph,” she added.
“Evie.”
She pushed a glass of white into my hands. “Drink this, it always helps the first time.”
“I like to think of it as social lubrication!” A man stepped out from behind her. Steph gave him an affectionate look and a glass of red. He was slight and neat-looking, midsixties, with a knitted vest top over a short-sleeved shirt. “Gabe,” he said. “What brings you to our little corner of the world?”
“Somehow our notice keeps getting removed from the window,” Steph added. “Though someone keeps putting it back.” Gabe grinned.
“People can be weirdly snobbish about genre fiction,” I said.
“You should try writing it. Whenever I explain what I do for a living, people act like I’ve grown an extra head,” said Steph.
“How fitting,” I said, and was rewarded by Steph’s red-lipped smile. I wanted to ask her more about what she was working on, but a woman with thick corn-colored hair clinked her pink nails against her glass and indicated for us all to take our seats.
“Welcome, my fellow explorers.” Her gaze alighted on me. “Oh, I do love seeing a new member.”
A few titters as people turned to look at me. I beetrooted on the spot.
There was a pause in which I realized slightly too late that that was my cue to introduce myself. “Evie!” I shouted in a misguided bid to compensate for the delay.
“Welcome Evie! I’m Meagan. We can’t wait to hear what you thought of December’s book choice.” This was absolutely the moment any normal person would speak up and admit that they hadn’t had time to find out what the book was, never mind read it. However, my friends had insisted I follow one rule while doing the meet-cutes: no taking a backseat in my own movie. Meaning: I had to take part in the book discussion, even though I hadn’t read the book.
As I looked around at the faces in the circle, my heart started to drop. Of the dozen people there, there was one man. Gabe. I’d come here assuming most science fiction and fantasy fans were men, but clearly I was wrong.
A throat cleared behind us, and Meagan beamed. “Come in, come in.” We turned to see a latecomer. It was a man who was about my age.
The curious looks everyone gave him told me he was a first-timer too. He unwound his scarf and took off his hat to reveal a shock of thick ash-blond hair. Oh, hello.
Newly Arrived Potential Love Interest had the kind of stubble that said “not arrogant about my appearance” yet also “edgy enough to be sexy,” and wore super-cute round tortoiseshell glasses. Just like Ricky. I nudged the thought away, and the pang that came with it.
Meagan pulled a chair in next to her and gestured to it. “Tom, take a seat. I was so pleased to get your email about joining us today. Everyone, say hi to Tom.” I was definitely not alone in eyeing him. We all chorused a hello, some of us louder and far more obvious than others.
Tom smiled as he passed me. Despite definitely not doing this for love, there was nothing wrong with finding him attractive.
“So, the first question is for one of our new members. Evie.” Thanks, Meagan. “Are you new to the genre?”
At least we’d started with an easy one. I cleared my throat, trying to sound confident. “I used to read it more when I was younger.” Steph’s eyebrows shot up. “Not that I ever grew out of it,” I added hastily. I was relieved to see a few smiles at this. “It’s just that it’s hard to find time to read these days.”
A few of the women nodded in agreement.
Meagan beamed. “Thank you, Evie. What did everyone think of the book? Amanda?”
She looked to a woman in a crisp trouser suit.
“Far better than last month’s choice,” Amanda replied. “The feminist subgenre holds no interest for me. Give me a real man anytime. No offense to your writing, Steph.”
“By ‘real men,’ I assume you mean the kind who need a compliant woman to validate the size of their—”
“Now, ladies, we all have our specialist interests,” interrupted Meagan. “Remember what we say?” Everyone except Tom and me joined in with her next words.
“There’s a subgenre for everyone.”
He caught my eye and smiled, which sent a welcome thrill down to my toes. Steady on, Evie.
“Evie, what’s yours? Don’t feel embarrassed, there are no wrong answers here.”
Oh, God. I thought back to everything I knew about genre fiction. I knew only film genres, so picked the one I felt safest with. “Horror,” I said. There were so many great female writers: Kathryn Bigelow. Karen Walton. Diablo Cody. “The scarier, the better.”
A few mouths dropped open. I guess even among open-minded genre fans, horror was still looked down on.
Meagan was nodding slowly, a frown dimpling her forehead. “Like I said, you’re among friends, you’ll find no judgment here.” This last part seemed to be aimed at the room, and some of the ladies shrugged as if acquiescing.
I relaxed. Another question down. If the next person to answer revealed a bit about the damn book, I’d have half a chance.
“Evie.” Good Lord, this was torture. Was she doing it on purpose? Surely it was Tom’s turn at some point. I felt like I’d somehow been rumbled and she was determined to get me to admit it. But how on earth could she possibly know? “Sorry, we will get on to everyone else, but I’d just love to know what you thought about that scene between the pirate and his stepmother.”
At least now I had some details. “Well,” I said, stretching out the moment to give myself more time to think. Insightful yet vague. I could do this. I drank more wine. “I found it very moving.”
She tilted her head. “Even the scene where they dueled belowdecks?”
I hesitated, but now that I’d stated my opinion, I had to stand by it or it would look weird. “Especially then.”
“And when his sister joined them?”
“It was a bold choice, but I thought the writer handled it very well.”
“And the climax?”
“Very satisfying.”
“Really got the juices flowing.” This from an older woman with stylishly large glasses and a blunt-cut fringe. “A real highlight.”
But Meagan wasn’t done with me. “Thank you, Heather, but I think we’d all love to know Evie’s favorite scene.”
I fanned my face, the room seeming uncomfortably hot, and Steph jumped in. “Personally, the one with Princess Esmerelda and the pirate king on the treasure island was smoking—”
Meagan held up a hand. “Thanks, but it’s Evie’s turn to speak.”
“That was mine too.” I gave Steph a grateful smile and decided to hazard a safe guess. “Especially when they finally found out where the treasure was buried.”
For some reason, Heather cackled at that. “It certainly surprised Esmerelda to find it there,” she said.
I looked around the room. Am I missing something?
“And what did you make of Esmerelda?” Meagan asked me.
Damn it, Meagan! I became determined not to let her beat me. Giving critical feedback was the part of my job I loved most. “I found her incredibly relatable. It was refreshing to see a female character handled with such emotional intelligence. I haven’t seen two more kindred souls since Jane Eyre and Mr. Rochester.” I felt a little burst of triumph. Take that, Meagan!
Tom seemed to be suppressing a smile and Steph had the strangest expression on her face.
Meagan, at last, managed to speak. “Thank you, Evie, for that . . . unique insight into the dragon princess.” Wait, dragon?
“Gabe, we all know you’re fond of the dueling scenes—what’s your take?”
He rubbed his hands together and put one slim finger next to his chin in thought. I took a sip of wine, glad of the reprieve. “I have to say, when the pirate king and Esmerelda finally got their cocks out”—I coughed as the wine went down the wrong way—“I thought it couldn’t get any better. Then when it was revealed that dragons have two cocks, the book went straight into my top ten!” There was the sound of a book dropping, and the bookseller who’d been returning it to its shelf gaped at us before pulling her cardigan around herself and hurrying off.
“Now, Gabe. You know we like to keep things less blue here out of respect for our neighbors.” Meagan eyed the retreating bookseller. “Remember to substitute the more colorful words.”
“Fine, fine. So, I thought the dueling scene where Esmerelda’s second wand shot flavored sparks was absolutely smashing. It was the single most exotic thing I’d ever read.”
I returned my empty glass to the table, fighting the urge to grab my coat and run with every fiber of my being. If there was the slightest chance I could salvage any part of this evening by speaking to Tom, then I had to try.
Tom was browsing the bookshelves. I had to hope he’d see the funny side. There had definitely been moments when we’d caught each other’s eye.
Before I could get to him, Steph appeared in front of me and topped up my wine. “Sorry about Meagan—she sussed you out from the start, didn’t she? She’s just a stickler for making sure we’ve all read the book. Sometimes people just turn up for the free wine.”
“Imagine that!” said Heather, appearing with two glasses.
“She was kind of right in my case,” I said, still thrumming with embarrassment. “I can’t really blame her for being annoyed.”
The other members—I now realized why there had been titters at the word—were chatting, but I spied a few of them glancing our way.
“Don’t worry about them. You aren’t the first person to wander accidentally into a Banging Books session,” said Heather.
“I guess the clue is in the name.” I had been foolish to think any book group Jane recommended could be anything but exotic in nature.
“When you called the climax ‘very satisfying,’” snorted Heather, the large beads of her necklace catching in the light.
Despite my lingering embarrassment, I found myself laughing too.
“The look on your face when you finally realized!” said Steph, wiping at her eyes.
As our laughter gradually subsided, I asked, “What was the book called?”
“Taken by Dragons: A Jolly Rogerer Adventure.”
We lost it again.
“Why did you join us?” Steph asked.
I blushed. “It’s going to sound silly, but . . . to meet someone.”
“Oh, honey,” Steph said, following my gaze to Tom. “Then what are you still talking to us for?”
I stood next to Tom, pretending to look at the books.
“So, that was . . .” said Tom, in a soft London accent.
“It was definitely a first,” I replied.
We smiled at each other. His teeth were slightly crooked at the front.
“I didn’t quite know what to expect when I arrived,” he admitted.
“Fewer wands,” I said.
“You didn’t read the book, did you?”
“Do you think anyone noticed?” I joked.
“There’s always next time,” he replied.
“Will you be back?” I was genuinely curious.
“Maybe,” he nodded. “Would you come again?”
“Maybe,” I echoed with a smile. “A part of me is a little curious to read the book.”
“I really hope you like it.”
“Why’s that?” I asked.
We were interrupted by Meagan calling everyone’s attention to her. “Thanks again for coming, everybody.” Laughter, which I now understood. “We didn’t want to say anything at the beginning in case it stymied the conversation, but I am thrilled to say that the author himself, Mr. T. Mingle, has been with us all evening. He’s here to answer all your burning questions.”
I looked at Tom in alarm while everyone gathered around us. “It’s okay,” he said as I was elbowed farther back by eager members. “Even my girlfriend thinks it’s weird. I’ve lost count of the number of wands I’ve been asked to put my signature on.”