True to his word, Dimitri installs himself at the end of a leather sofa in the reading area, collects a huge, hefty-looking ancient book from the back of the shop and lays it carefully on the table. He spreads his sketchpads and a collection of pencils and charcoal out in front of him.
I’m trying not to look, but the reading area is just a little way down from the counter and the side not surrounded by shelves is facing me, and every so often, he looks up and catches my eyes with a grin. After the third time of being caught staring, I force myself to get on with some actual work because there are only so many times I can tidy the counter.
Customers come and go, but very few of them buy anything. I’m quickly learning that most people only come in to browse. Between them, I get on with restocking the picks-of-the-week table with new choices. I’m not as well read as Robert was – I’m pretty sure he’d read every single book in this shop and more. I tend to favour romantic comedies, recommendations from fellow book lovers and book bloggers I follow online, and whatever must-reads people are talking about on social media.
It feels a bit disingenuous to choose books I haven’t read, but no matter how many thousands of books there are in the shop, if I have to put out ten a week, we’re going to run out of books I’ve read pretty quickly. What a brilliant excuse to read more. And now I get to recommend books to people who actually like books and want to read them. Until now, I’ve talked about books a lot on Twitter and mostly recommend them to my family of non-readers who look at me like I’ve got a giraffe growing out of my elbow when I suggest a book they might enjoy.
Walking between the shelves to search out titles makes me realise how badly organised they are. Or, more specifically, they aren’t. For the first time, I realise that the category labels printed on the front of shelves are meant in the loosest sense only, and while they might once have contained only the books in their own category, now books from all genres have migrated onto every shelf. There is no organisation. There used to be a clear divide between new books bought from publishers and distributors and the second-hand books Robert acquired himself, but now the whole shop seems muddled up, and there are ancient copies of Brontë books shoved in between second-hand car manuals and this year’s horror releases and thriller books. The stacks at the front of the shelves don’t belong to the shelves they’re stacked on, and when I think of a book title at random and try to find it, it proves impossible.
Why have I never noticed this before? I’ve always thought the shop was whimsical and charmingly hotchpotch, and I’ve always come in here to browse and see what I find rather than with anything specific in mind. How am I going to sort this out? With Drake Farrer telling me bookshops everywhere are failing and Robert talking about closure within the year, how am I ever going to make this better? For not the first time, I wonder again if Robert picked the wrong ticket out of that hat. Somehow I have to turn the fortunes of a fading bookshop around. I can’t even get my trousers on the right way round most days.
Choosing the week’s picks turns into a case of walking down the aisles and seeing what jumps out on the shelves, and eventually I settle on a varied selection – a rom com, a thriller, a Stephen King classic, a celeb autobiography, a YA I read and loved last year, an old Shakespeare, and a classic Jane Austen. I pick up a copy or two of each from the shelves as I go over to the prominent display and start removing last week’s picks, stacking them on the counter while I give the table a quick dust and start setting out my new choices.
‘He had that one the week before last,’ Dimitri says without looking up from his sketchbook.
I jump so much that I drop the Stephen King book and it lands directly on my big toe. I hadn’t realised he was watching me while I was trying so hard not to watch him.
‘Oh, thanks,’ I say, even though I’ve gone red at the idea of his eyes on me. ‘I don’t suppose you know if he kept a list or anything, do you?’
‘I doubt it. Robert had a photographic memory and didn’t keep lists for anything.’
‘Except how the book club readers like their tea.’ I wiggle my foot around, trying to surreptitiously shake the pain out of my toe without him noticing.
He looks up and meets my eyes with a laugh. ‘Oh, that’s not a book club. That’s a monthly rugby scrum to see who can eat the most free biscuits and there’s a prize for anyone with the juiciest village gossip. Occasionally they get around to books too.’
He doesn’t strike me as a book club member, and he must notice my puzzled look, because he says, ‘I’ve been working on this book for a while now. You learn a lot from sitting and observing while pretending you’re not listening.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind.’
‘I promise I only use my powers for good, not evil.’ He gives me another wink that makes me feel decidedly flushed and I try to compose myself as I take the Stephen King book back to the shelf and select a copy of The Shining instead, another ‘the book is even better than the movie’ classic.
The shop’s still empty as I start setting my choices out on the table directly opposite the reading area. ‘Do you really come in here every day?’
‘Depends. Will you think I live a sad and lonely existence if I say yes?’
Once again, it makes me smile. ‘No, I’d think you were a sensible and sane person who enjoys being surrounded by lovely books with characters who are much nicer than real people.’
‘Aww. And to think I was worried about meeting the new shop owner in case we didn’t hit it off.’ He looks up and beams at me. ‘I can see that you and I are going to get along well.’
I blush again. Why am I blushing so much around this man? There’s something about him that’s captivating, from his unusual style to the hair that adds a good few inches to his already tall height. His face is naturally smiley and it makes him seem constantly cheerful and approachable.
I lurk at the table for longer than strictly necessary, watching as he works, his forehead furrowed in concentration, chewing his lip as he skims pencil across paper.
‘Are you an illustrator of some sort?’ I ask, feeling stupid because it’s such a daft question. Obviously he’s an illustrator – he’s been sitting there sketching for the past hour. He’s not an astronaut, is he?
‘I’m a children’s book illustrator.’ He hesitates for a second. ‘I suppose I’ve got a nerve to say that because I haven’t had anything published yet, but yeah. I’ve been commissioned to update this gorgeous old book for a modern translation for modern kids. It’s a great set of stories, just macabre enough to appeal to anyone at that awkward age between Disney-style fairy tales and young-adult reads. I saw a gap in the market and a publisher went for it, so here I am.’
I can’t hide how impressed I am. ‘Wow. It sounds really interesting.’
‘Thanks.’ He ducks his head and I get the feeling it’s not quite as simple as he makes it sound.
I don’t want to annoy him with more questions, and I’m glad when a group of three customers come in and start looking around. They’re tourists instead of regulars who know it’s my first day and they treat me like they would any other bookseller. One finds his favourite books and takes shelfies with them, one asks me for thriller recommendations, and one picks up a book she’s seen recommended in a newspaper and asks me if it’s as good as they say it is. She buys it, and her two companions pick a couple of books too. It feels a bit like a whirlwind passing through by the time they leave, the bell above the door jingling behind them.
Dimitri’s looking at me again. ‘It’s none of my business, but you handled that like a true bookseller.’
I blush. Again. The thought of his eyes on me makes me feel all fluttery, and the thought that someone who obviously spends a lot of time here thinks I might not be completely useless at this couples with the joy that for a moment there, I actually felt like a bookseller. I actually felt like I can do this. ‘Thank you. I clearly need to read more and stay on top of the most hyped books of any given week, which I’m not complaining about, obviously.’
‘I would be. The more people tell me to read something and the more something gets talked about, the less I want to read it. I’m stubborn like that.’
‘And then you do read it and it’s amazing and totally lives up to all the hype and you wonder why you put off reading it for so long?’
‘Of course.’ He laughs, his whole face lighting up and making me laugh too.
With customers few and far between, I leave him in peace and walk around the shelves again, trying to formulate some sort of plan. There’s no getting around how much reorganisation they need. I want them in shelves for each category, new books on upper shelves and second-hand books on lower shelves, arranged alphabetically. Robert must’ve used the ancient Greek alphabet to organise his stock because I can’t find a single shelf that makes sense. I also need some sort of stock list that tells me what books are actually here, how many copies of them we have, and what genre each one belongs to. No one could run a business like this without one, not even Robert Paige. I hope.
‘Are you moving into the flat too?’ Dimitri says when the shop’s quiet again.
I nod. ‘Tonight. My sister and her husband are coming to help. Well, if they don’t turn and run at the sight of all my books. I don’t think they quite understand what they’re getting themselves into.’
He laughs again. ‘That’s the main reason I could never move. I’d have to hire sixteen vans just to shift the books.’
We meet each other’s eyes across the shop and he smiles. There’s definitely something about a man who reads and understands a love of books. ‘Do you have family telling you to throw them all out and get them on the Kindle to save space too?’
‘Of course I do. Non-readers don’t understand that some of these books are special. Those old, dog-eared paperbacks were there for me when no one else was. They’re friends.’ He pauses. ‘I mean, not literally. I don’t think they’re actual people and have conversations with them and stuff. Not very often, anyway.’
I giggle, but mainly because he gets it. I keep the books I keep because I love them, because they helped me through times in my life when there was no one else to turn to. When I reread them, I want to read that actual copy – my copy. My friend.
‘I’ve always thought it would be amazing to live in a bookshop. Do you remember that guy who got locked in Waterstones one evening? That would be my idea of heaven.’
He talks with quite a posh English accent, I’m guessing Cambridgeshire or a mix of the Home Counties, and each word sounds polite and refined. I like it. There’s something about the way he speaks that makes it sound like he’s narrating a fairy tale.
A trickle of customers come through all morning, and between serving them and talking books with anyone who’ll listen, I find myself struggling to keep my eyes off Dimitri. True to his earlier word, he’s as quiet as a mute mouse and there’s plenty of room for others to sit down around him, and I like the way he takes such good care of the old book. He turns pages like he’s got white cotton gloves on, and every time he stops for a drink from his flask, he turns completely in the opposite direction to make sure he doesn’t spill anything near the valuable old book.
When the clock ticks past one p.m., he leaves the book on the table and his drawings rolled up in the corner of the sofa, and picks up his lunchbox and flask, and waves as he goes. ‘Just popping out for lunch. Back in a bit.’
Oh God, lunch. I suddenly realise how hungry I am. I was in such a rush this morning that I didn’t think to bring a packed lunch, and I’m used to shift work where you don’t need one, and now, of course, I can’t leave the shop unattended to go out and get something, and there’s nothing upstairs because I haven’t moved in yet. At least Robert was kind enough to leave a box of teabags and some milk in the fridge, but every time I think the shop’s empty enough to run upstairs and make one, another customer comes in.
I wish I’d asked Robert more questions about the practical side of running this business. He used to manage it completely on his own, with no one to cover if he needed to pop out. Did he close the door with a sign saying back in two minutes? Did he risk leaving it unattended? With both the office and stairway doors open, you could probably hear the bell jingle when the door opened …
It’s impossible, anyway. There’s a mum and daughter upstairs in the children’s section, and a man wandering around down here, and a woman comes in and asks me to point her in the direction of the Regency romance section, and I get a bit flustered because I don’t even know if we have a Regency Romance section, and I point her towards the Romances and hope for the best.
‘Don’t go out there, it’s a trap. There are people out there,’ Dimitri says when he comes back in, thankfully managing to stay upright this time. ‘Zero out of ten, would not recommend.’
It makes me smile because I’ve often felt the same way and spend most of my time hibernating in the flat. I find it impossible not to watch the movement of his biceps as he shrugs the bag off his shoulder and goes to sit back down in the corner of the reading area. Of course he looks up and catches me looking, and I’m not sure which one of us blushes harder as he concentrates intently on getting his books back out and I tidy the counter for approximately the fortieth time today. It will win an award for tidiest counter in Britain at this rate.
By half past two, my stomach is actually cramping with hunger, my bottle of water is empty, and my bladder is full. I can’t wait any longer, and for once, Dimitri is the only person in the shop.
‘I’m going to make a cup of tea,’ I announce, and the sudden words in the silence of the shop make him jump so much that his pencil squiggles across his sketchbook, and I feel so guilty that I offer him one too.
‘I’m okay, thanks. Got a flask.’ He pats the lid where it’s standing on the table beside him.
He’s been here for hours. There’s no way that tea’s still at optimum drinking temperature. ‘Is that still warm?’
‘Well …’ He presses the back of his hand against the metal side of the flask. ‘Warmish, I suppose.’
‘This is Britain. There’s not much worse than a cold cup of tea. I’ll get you one. Sugar?’
‘One, please. And thank you. I didn’t want to impose. You’re meant to ignore me and pretend I’m not here.’
Does he have any idea how blue his eyes are? How wide his smile is? He is impossible to ignore.
I falter in the office doorway for a second. Even though he’s the only person here, if I go upstairs, I’m leaving him unattended in the shop.
‘I’ll keep an eye and call you if anyone comes in,’ he says without looking up. ‘It’s no trouble. I did it for Robert all the time.’ He sketches for a few more seconds and then he does look up. ‘And I’ve just realised that means leaving me alone in the shop and you don’t even know me. I’ll go and stand outside so you can lock up and let me in again when you come back.’ He puts his pencil down and goes to get up.
‘No, it’s okay.’ I stop him because the fact he realises that makes me feel a lot more comfortable. ‘You stay. I’ll be right back.’
I turn and go through the office before I can reconsider, propping both doors ajar with their little doorstops that are in the shape of an open book. I’m pretty sure you’re not meant to leave strangers alone in your shop, but there’s something about him that seems infinitely trustworthy, and he clearly knows the shop well and is right at home there. I have no reason to doubt that he regularly watched the shop for Robert too. And if he didn’t, well, what’s he going to do – break into the till and steal my takings? You can barely get into that till when you want to, and I’ve only taken about thirty quid so far today, and if he wants to ransack the place then good luck to him in finding an un-ransacked part to begin with.
Like Robert knew exactly what would happen, he’s also left two plain white mugs and a sugar bowl on the counter in the kitchen, along with the kettle and teabags. I silently thank him for his forethought and wish I’d had some of my own when it came to bringing lunch as I clatter around the kitchen, spilling things because I’m rushing so much.
When I eventually get back downstairs, the shop’s still empty and Dimitri doesn’t look like he’s moved. It feels like I’ve been up there for hours when it’s only been five minutes. I put the mug down on the table near him, at a safe distance not to be spilled on the old book, and go to take my own mug back to the counter, but he stops me. ‘You have to stay and drink it with me now.’ He rifles in his bag, pulls the lid off another Tupperware container and holds it out to me. ‘Cookie?’
I’m so hungry, I nearly burst into tears. And I definitely nearly hug him. Both of which would be Very Bad Things.
The scent of vanilla and chocolate and the buttery biscuit base is so fresh that it’s like the chocolate chunks are still melting, and I snatch a cookie with an embarrassing amount of enthusiasm and inhale it so fast that I forget to taste it. He hasn’t offered a second one, but I grab one anyway and ram it down my throat with my fist, doing a sterling impression of a baby learning to eat for the first time. He probably thinks I’m practising baby-led weaning minus the baby part.
I sigh in relief as the hunger is abated, and realise he’s watching me with an alarmed look on his face. He nudges the container on the table nearer to me, and I gratefully take another cookie, trying to appreciate it this time, rather than swallow it whole and circle the box like a vulture looking for more. Regardless of how hungry I am, they really are amazing cookies. Soft and squidgy, with the perfect amount of gooey chocolate chunks and buttery biscuit. I grab another one as he takes one and nibbles it like a civilised person. ‘You wouldn’t happen to have forgotten lunch, would you?’
‘How did you guess?’ I ask guiltily, forgetting that civilised people don’t speak with their mouths full.
‘Do you want me to go and grab you something? The sandwich deli’s at the other end of the road. It’d be no problem.’
God, that’s so nice. ‘No need. I’m all right now I’ve stuffed approximately thirty-four of your cookies down my throat. My sister’s getting here at five. I’ll text her and tell her to bring sustenance. That’s so lovely of you though. Thanks, Dimitri.’ I feel abnormally touched by his offer. Pure kindness for nothing in return. I didn’t think people like that existed.
‘Call me Dim. Most people do, and they’re rarely talking about my name.’
I’ve only known him a few hours and I can tell he’s anything but dim, but I like his self-deprecating sense of humour. When you’re as accident-prone as I am, you have no option but to laugh at yourself, and I get the feeling he’s the same.
I help myself to another cookie. ‘Did you make these?’
He nods as he takes another one too. ‘This morning. Couldn’t sleep.’
I’m leaning against the edge of the bookshelf that forms the three-sided wall around the reading area, cradling my mug of tea, and when there’s only one cookie left, he holds out the box to me. ‘Go on, take it. It’s amazing to see someone enjoying my baking. I always think the whole point of baking is to share it, and I still keep doing it, even though I don’t have anyone to eat it now.’
I want to ask what that means, who he’s lost, but the bell tinkles as a couple come into the shop, holding hands, both glowing. ‘We’ve just found out we’re pregnant,’ the man says. ‘Have you got What to Expect When You’re Expecting?’
I can’t chew fast enough not to answer them with my mouth full. I make a series of apologetic noises, but before I can splutter cookie crumbs all over them, Dimitri says, ‘Second aisle, fifth shelf from the end, on the right. There’s a good selection of pregnancy and baby books there.’
‘Congratulations,’ I call after them, nearly choking myself on the cookie.
He’s trying and failing not to laugh as he hides his face behind his tea.
‘You know this place well,’ I say when they’ve gone in the direction he sent them and I’ve swallowed. ‘You don’t strike me as a man who spends a lot of time in the pregnancy section …’ I suddenly realise that he could have a wife and six children for all I know.
‘I often think I might be pregnant myself.’ He pats his quite lovely stomach. ‘And the father is Mr Kipling. Or Dr Oetker, or Betty Crocker, or Aunt Bessie, and maybe even Paul Hollywood.’
I burst out laughing so hard that I spill my tea and have to rush over to grab the packet of wet wipes I’d found upstairs from behind the counter and mop it up before it stains the carpet. Scrubbing it puts me at eye level with the dust hidden underneath the shelves where some of the dust bunnies have clearly been reproducing like actual bunnies. ‘I never saw how much Robert was struggling. As a customer, everything seemed normal, but I see it now in every inch of the shop.’
‘That’s exactly what he wanted. He would’ve been devastated to think that any customers saw how much he struggled with stairs, and could barely get up and down to the flat anymore, let alone the children’s section or the sliding ladders.’
And yet, the children’s section is easily the most looked-after place in the shop, and I get the feeling that Dimitri does a bit more than just sketching here. ‘You helped?’
‘If he let me. And not in any official way. Just as a thank-you for letting me use this old book. After the library closed, he welcomed me with open arms, even though I generally just sit here and make a nuisance of myself and can rarely afford to buy anything these days. I’m the type of customer every bookshop dreads.’
He’s not the type of customer I dread. ‘With those cookies, I’m going to roll out a red carpet for you every day. You’re welcome here any time. Even without cookies.’
The almost permanent smile on his face gets wider. ‘So where were you before? I’ve heard you’re not in the book industry.’
‘I was a waitress. I live just under an hour away and worked shifts in the local pub, which was … interesting. Don’t get me wrong, most people were families out for a meal who were all lovely and respectful, but a pub is a pub. You get groups of men who get progressively more lewd with every drink and think leaving a tip entitles them to treat you like a piece of meat, slap your bum, stare at your boobs, and call you four eyes when you get annoyed with them. I mean, four eyes, for God’s sake. No one’s called me that since primary school.’ I readjust my glasses self-consciously. I don’t know why I said all that. I seem incapable of not rambling in front of him.
He pushes his glasses up. ‘No, me neither.’
‘I lost my job on the day of the prize draw. I’ve never had much luck with jobs. I’ve always been fired for stupid reasons, and then the odd time that I have found a job I’m good at and have enjoyed, the company’s gone into liquidation or been bought out.’ I pause, aware I’m still rambling. ‘I just want this to go right. I love books so much, and I love this shop, and what bookworm doesn’t dream of owning their own bookshop? I’m just kind of in the deep end here. I’ve never done anything like this before.’
‘Well, for what it’s worth, I think you’re doing a great job so far.’ He smiles at me and I get lost in smiling back at him for a moment, and then give myself a good shake.
‘I’m not doing any job so far. This shop needs a lot of work, and all I’ve done so far is unlock the door and get bitten by the till.’
‘He didn’t tell you about the 20p.’
‘What?’
‘You have to balance a twenty-pence coin on the inner tray, right in the corner.’ He stands up. ‘Here, I’ll show you.’
I follow him over to the counter where he goes behind it and unlocks the till with no hesitation, clearly having done it before. He pulls it open and takes a twenty-pence piece out of the drawer, and steps back to give me a better view. I lean across the counter on my elbows and watch as he balances the coin so it straddles either side of the lower right-hand corner of the inner tray. ‘You might think it’ll make it unsecure, but it won’t. It still locks safely, but now it’ll catch on the 20p and give you a few precious extra seconds to get your fingers out of the way.’ He pushes the till shut and sure enough, it touches the coin and slows for a second or two before it locks shut. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it.’
‘It’s like that plant in The Little Shop of Horrors. It’s going to start growing with the more blood it gets. It’ll be demanding that Rick Moranis feed it before the week is out.’
‘So you have good taste in films as well as being a book lover …’ He nods approvingly as the pregnant couple reappear from the shelves with What to Expect When You’re Expecting and two other books on pregnancy and babies, and Dimitri and I swap places so I can serve them.
He goes back to the reading area and picks up a pencil while I put their books into one of our branded paper bags and congratulate them again.
When they leave, I turn back to him. ‘Thanks for your help. With the cookies, the pregnancy section, and the till.’
He sips his tea. ‘You’re welcome. Feel free to ask if you need anything. I’m never too busy to talk to you.’
I like the emphasis he puts on the ‘you’. It makes me feel oddly special, which is a nice change because I feel like a mild inconvenience to most people in my life, but I still have to psych myself up to ask the next thing because I don’t want to annoy him or pry into his work. ‘Okay, one more question because it’s been bothering me all day. Where does the giant flea come in? I’ve never heard of a fairy tale with a giant flea in it before.’
He lets out a peal of laughter and pats the sofa beside him. I go over, the leather of the seats soft under my thighs as I sit down, keeping a safe distance between us, and he reaches across me to pull the book closer. ‘This is actually the oldest known collection of fairy tales. It was praised by The Brothers Grimm and Hans Christian Andersen, but it’s much darker than their stories. It features the first known versions of Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, Snow White, and Puss In Boots among others.’
I lean back as he rustles the pages, his long fingers touching them gently, his upper arm brushing my knee where he’s leaning over. ‘Here, this is the giant flea one.’
I look at the pages of tiny text, just one short story in the book of fairy tales, breathing in the smoky, almost chocolatey scent of the ancient book.
‘There’s this king who can’t find a suitor for his daughter, and when his sheep-sized pet flea dies, he hangs its skin up and sets a challenge – whoever can guess what animal the hide came from will get his daughter’s hand in marriage – absolutely certain that no one will guess it was a flea at that size.’
I shift a bit nearer so I can see the book over his shoulder, and his voice is soft and quiet and close to my ear.
‘And then an ogre comes along and identifies it, and the king can’t go back on his word, so the princess is forced into marrying an ogre. A literal ogre, not the nice Shrek-type.’
‘Oh, fun.’
He laughs. ‘But it’s okay in the end because she gets help from a family of half-giants who behead the ogre and take her back to the castle where she gets to marry a prince and live happily ever after.’ He pulls across one of his sketchbooks and flips through it until he finds a pencil drawing of a princess, her white dress covered in red splotches, holding up an ogre’s head with blood dripping from it. ‘That’s what I was thinking of going for, but I’m not sure if it’s too graphic or not. The age group we’re aiming at is too old to be coddled and possibly still too young for quite so much blood.’
‘Are you doing the words as well?’
‘No, that’s someone else’s department. I can’t write for toffee.’
I love how posh he sounds, because it’s the opposite of how he seems. He seems dishevelled and rambly and endearingly clumsy, but his English accent is lovely, the kind of accent that should narrate audiobooks you spend hours listening to.
‘Your drawings are incredible. And so … unusual.’ I struggle to find the right word. The couple I’ve seen so far have got something about them, something magical, whimsical, and special.
‘That’s another way of saying “no wonder you’re thirty-six and haven’t got anything published yet,”’ he says with a laugh.
‘I didn’t mean that at all.’ I can’t tell him that sitting this close to him has made my brain start sounding an alarm, and inside my head is a constant flashing sign saying, Remain calm. All is well. Just because you’re sitting next to a gorgeous man who smells of dark lavender and the fresh wood of newly sharpened pencils, don’t do anything stupid like sneeze on him. And for God’s sake, don’t accidentally spit on him like you did that last guy, and I can’t think of anything other than not dousing him in bodily fluids.
‘Do you do anything else?’ I ask, because I couldn’t help noticing that paints fell out of his bag earlier, along with every other type of art supply imaginable.
‘I’ll try my hand at anything. I take online commissions to pay the bills and build my portfolio. My last job was creating a logo for a vegan marshmallow company. I like creating things on a blank canvas …’ He hesitates like he’s questioning whether to carry on or not. ‘You know the Peter Pan mural upstairs?’
‘Yeah, it’s amazing. I’d never really seen it until this morning, but it’s magical. It’s my favourite part of the whole shop. In fact, when the shop’s closed, I think I might sit up there and read.’
He pushes his bottom lip out and tips his head to the side.
‘You?’ I say in surprise when I realise what he’s saying. ‘You painted that?’
‘Robert had the upstairs redone and it left a blank space on the wall. He commissioned me to paint something literary in the children’s section, so I chose Peter Pan. It’s one of my favourite stories.’
‘Mine too. I mean, the Disney film version. The book itself is a bit dark, but that scene and that quote are so iconic and magical.’ He’s still leaning across me to reach the old book of fairy tales so I nudge my arm against his shoulder. ‘You’re incredibly talented.’
He looks up and we hold each other’s gaze. He mouths a thank-you, and I’m not sure if he was deliberately trying to whisper or if he’s forgotten how to talk, because sitting this close to him is definitely impairing my motor function.
Thankfully the bell jingles to announce the arrival of another customer and I jump up and go back to my position behind the counter because sitting so close to him is a recipe for disaster in more ways than one.
After that, it’s the end of the school day and a steady stream of children and parents start filtering in and drift upstairs, and I listen to little footsteps on the floorboards above me. They’re not here to buy anything – apparently it’s an afterschool reading club run by parents. Yet more people in the shop who aren’t buying anything. Maybe I should rebrand as a library and that would be the way to save Once Upon A Page.
I watch Dimitri pull everything he’s using closer to take up less space, but when children and parents start filling the sofas around him, he starts putting his things back into his bag, closes the old Italian book and takes it back around the corner to the shelf it came from.
I’m distracted by serving someone, and he makes me jump when he appears in the gap behind the counter. He’s still smiling as he leans down so he can whisper instead of shouting over the sounds now filling the bookshop. His glasses slide down his nose and he pushes them back up again. ‘I’m gonna go.’ His hair flops forwards and he has to shake it back. ‘Usually I’d take myself round the back, but if you’re moving in tonight, you don’t need to be turfing me out at five.’
I shouldn’t feel as disappointed as I do. There’s been something nice about him being here today, a sort of reassuring presence that’s made me feel like I’m not alone, and it’s been nice to chat to someone who gets the love of books and doesn’t ridicule me for it, and even though it’s getting on for half past four and Nicole will be here soon, I’d kind of hoped I’d get to chat to him again once this round of customers have gone.
‘Thanks for the cookies and the flowers earlier.’
‘I think I’d better take them with me.’ He nods towards the pitiful daffodils, which are now so limp that their stems have bent over and their shrivelled yellow heads are touching the countertop. ‘Well, it’s the thought that counts, right? And as for baking, what do you like? I’ll bring something else tomorrow. It’s the least I can do.’
I go to protest, but he stops me. ‘Okay, tell me what you don’t like?’
‘Carrots. I hate carrots.’
‘Might reconsider the carrot cake then, although I do tend to agree with you there. Any cake that involves vegetables is not real cake.’ He pushes his glasses up again. ‘See? It’s so much easier to get people to talk about hate than love. Ask anyone about something they love and they’ll umm and ahh, but ask them about something they hate and you get an answer in seconds.’
That’s so sad. Even as I think he must be wrong, I realise that he’s not. People do love complaining.
‘Dimitri?’ I say as he turns to go. ‘I’m not going to perpetuate that. I love coconut. And any form of actual nut – hazelnuts, peanuts, almonds, walnuts, the lot.’
‘Well, coconut and peanut butter are my favourite things in the world. Something else we have in common.’ He lifts an imaginary hat and tips it in my direction. ‘See you tomorrow, Hallie.’
‘See you tomorrow.’ I ignore the little fizzle inside. I have no right to get excited about seeing him, and there’s no way he really comes here every day. I’ve never seen him before. Surely I’d have run into him by now if he’s really here that often?
‘Bye, Heathcliff!’ He plucks the vase of squashed daffodils from the counter and goes out the door just as loaded down as he came in, with an armful of sketchbooks and the flowers held precariously against them. He waves as he walks past the window, and then stops and bends to wiggle his fingers at Heathcliff too, who swims towards the front of his bowl and his mouth movements amp up.
Clearly Dimitri’s attractiveness is not limited to the human species.
Gorgeous baking wizard artists and a sex-crazed goldfish. No wonder Robert’s got a sign up in the office that reads ‘You don’t have to be mad to work here, but it helps’.