Bookshop Girl Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Note From Chloe

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Bookshop Girls Get Busy

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Copyright

  Read on for a Sneak Peek at Paige's Next Adventures …

  Acknowledgements

  Chloe Coles

  Copyright

  Note from Chloe

  I have spent a huge four-finger-Kit-Kat-sized chunk of my life in bookshops. I’ve grown up in them really. I got my first ever bookselling job at the tender age of sixteen, when I still had braces and flat hair and pretended to know about some c’mon-everybody’s-read-it classic or broke out in a cold sweat every time I fumbled around on a keyboard looking up authors I’d never heard of.

  Since then, so much has happened. I’ve made best friends for life and fallen in love and had my heart broken and my braces ripped off. I’ve opened exam results and moved cities and found new bookshops and fallen in love again and worked out that Minstrels are probably my fave snack to scoff behind the till. I’ve graduated and met my childhood heroes and fangirled myself to tears and I have imagined, time and time again, what it would be like to see my very own book on one of the shelves. So I decided to write something.

  Something about a teenage girl working in a bookshop. Something about finding your voice and your people.

  I hope you enjoy it. (And if you don’t, well, just make sure you don’t damage the spine. Booksellers never refund a damaged spine.)

  Chloe x

  I’m running late.

  Not that I’m actually running. I don’t think I’ve ever run in my entire life. Thank God I’ll get to drop PE next year. I reckon I’ve spent most of my education hatching plans to get out of cross-country or swimming. I even claimed to have asthma in Year Six so the teachers would get off my back for ‘not trying’. It was believable enough; the asthmatic girls always outran me anyway.

  So, okay, I’m not running, but I am in a hurry.

  Today is officially my day off work, and it has so far consisted of about twelve slices of toast, a box of Jaffa Cakes, one and a half documentaries on Netflix and a gazillion repeats of The Shangri-La’s Greatest Hits, which inspired two hours of hair and make-up ‘experiments’. Unfortunately Tony, my boss, called me mid-fringe trim. I had him on speaker phone while I concentrated on my ’do, and agreed to trek into work for some announcement or training or something … I just couldn’t seem to get my fringe even and kept snipping away. Now it looks less Bettie Page and more like a nit-recovery hair-hack.

  Here I am, sweating my way up the hill towards town, the evidence of the Great Fringe Assassination sticking to my forehead already. Holly’s house is on the way; I text her to say I’m a lot nearer than I really am. She’ll know I’m late. I’m the one who’s always late. She’s the one who can fit a McDonald’s straw in the gap between her two front teeth.

  Greysworth town centre on a summer’s afternoon. The sights. Everywhere I look I see flipflops smacking onto swollen, cracked heels as they tread past empty shop units. Lads on bikes, riding with no hands and no shirts as they suckle on sports bottles, looking like big, bald babies. I pass a man urinating against the window of M&S. It’s slightly uphill so the pee trickles back down towards him and over his shoes.

  I’m trudging along the main road in the blistering heat when all of a sudden I hear, ‘OI-OIIII!!! NICE ARSE!!!!’

  A white van hurtles past with two rowdy lads inside. The bloke in the passenger seat pokes his head out of the window with his tongue flapping out of his mouth. He looks like an actual dog. I feel my cheeks burn with embarrassment.

  Since I started working at Bennett’s Bookshop two months ago, I’ve made an attempt to read my way through the entire Women’s Studies section and, believe me, I’ve read enough by now to know that men shouting things about my body as I mind my own business is not a compliment; it’s actually street harassment.

  Nice arse. They have no idea.

  It makes my menstrual blood boil to be spoken to like that.

  I’m still seething when I see Holly.

  ‘Hi, Hols. Would you rather suffocate a sexist creep to death with pickled-onion crisp packets or fling a used tampon through the window of his white van of misogyny?’

  ‘Who? What are you talking about?’

  I relay the sorry tale to my bestie as she rolls her eyes and links her arm in mine.

  She groans. ‘What is it with blokes thinking they can do that? It’s so boring. So unoriginal. Don’t they know that we’ve heard it all before? I spent the whole of Year Six being referred to as “Pigeon Tits” by that idiot Charlie Jones and his mates! Remember?!’

  ‘I do remember.’ Throwback to what a pain in the ovaries he was. ‘I remember him singing “Come Fly With Me” at you as he rubbed his nipples through his sweatshirt. Shame that level of creativity seems to be lost on the white-van men of this town.’

  She shakes her head with disgust. ‘Crisps are far too good for that nice-arse loser, especially pickled onion! Soggy tampon for him. Easy.’

  As I smile, I notice Holly’s eyes move up towards my forehead. ‘It looks so, so bad, doesn’t it?!’ I cringe, trying to smooth the hair down with my fingers, like this will somehow magic back some length.

  ‘No, it’s just a lot shorter than usual …’

  ‘I blame whatever’s going on at Bennett’s. Tony interrupted my snipping session.’

  ‘He sounded so stressed out when he called, didn’t he?’

  I laugh. Tony is always stressed. ‘Pffft, what’s new, pussycat?’

  Here we are. Bennett’s Bookshop. The only bookshop this side of Milton Keynes.

  You could be anywhere once you’re in here. When you’re inside you don’t have to know that you’re in crappy old Greysworth. You don’t even have to know that you’re a sixteen-year-old girl with a wonky fringe and occasional acne breakouts; you can just live somebody else’s adventure. You can live in somebody else’s world.

  Bennett’s has this smell: the dustiness of the old wooden shelves and that papery smell of new books. It’s defo in my Top Ten Smells, somewhere with petrol stations and new shoebox smell. It’s cool and dark in here, a proper oasis away from the buzzing metropolis we’ve left outside, and is closing early for ‘staff training purposes’. Me and Holly make our way through the maze of shelves and head upstairs to the staffroom as Maxine politely asks the only customer in the shop to leave.

  ‘Hey, Adam!’ I whisper, as I creep alongside one of my favourite Bennett’s full-timers.

  ‘Hey, sit here.’ He pats the plastic chair pulled up next to him. ‘How are you doing?’

  There’s a paper plate of Mr Kipling Cherry Bakewells untouched on the coffee table. Usually free cakes don’t last seconds around here; what’s wrong with everybody?

  ‘Umm … okay … a little confused …’ I look around for a clue as to why everyone is so tense in here. ‘How are you?’

  He scrunches his nose. ‘I’ll be fine.�
� His eyes are closed as he says it.

  ‘Psssssst!’ Holly squeezes onto the same tiny plastic chair as me and glances at Tony. Like we’re in school and hope the supply teacher won’t notice that we’ve got one buttock per person squashed on to the seat. ‘What’s going on, Adam?’

  ‘I don’t know any more than you do.’ He looks away from us and watches a guy in a suit who nods towards Tony once it’s confirmed that we are all here. He can start.

  ‘Right, as you all know, my name is Mick Morgan. I’m the regional manager for Bennett’s Book’s Midlands branches …’

  I’ve literally never seen this guy in my life before. Ever.

  Glad that thought was just to myself and not out loud. Adam would have literally killed me for using ‘literally’ incorrectly.

  Tony’s arms are folded and he stares at the worn used-to-be-blue carpet. He looks very uncomfortable.

  ‘… I’m afraid I’m here with bad news today. I have a statement from head office that I have to read out to you, so I’ll go through this and then I can try to answer any questions you have at the end …’

  My colleagues shift uneasily in their chairs.

  Holly squeezes my left elbow and Adam exhales.

  ‘As you will know, Bennett’s Greysworth has been underperforming over recent years. Despite the efforts from staff and numerous customer service initiatives directed by head office, Bennett’s Greysworth has failed to improve on budget.’

  Failed. Ouch. This can’t be good.

  ‘With the landlords of the shop keen to demolish and redevelop the property into “multiple state-of-the-art retail units” head office does not see a realistic future for Bennett’s Greysworth in a location that will inevitably become unaffordable. It is with deep regret that I am here to inform you that Bennett’s, Greysworth branch, will be closing.’

  Crap.

  ‘You will receive individual letters explaining how much redundancy pay you are entitled to. You will be asked to work four weeks’ notice and will be granted any time off required for job interviews.’

  Four weeks?! Is that it?!

  Nikki, one of the women who works here full-time, is crying. Her big eyes are watery and the corners of her mouth turn all the way down.

  Adam’s eyes are fixed on his battered-up Vans.

  Maxine glares back at Mick Morgan, who looks very sheepish, and Tony pipes up.

  ‘I’m so, so sorry about this, everybody. I’m so sorry we couldn’t make it work.’

  We couldn’t make it work.

  What about our little bookshop family? Surely this can’t actually happen.

  ‘I don’t like this any more than you lot do. It’s heartbreaking to see another Bennett’s close. Just another casualty of the high street.’ Our regional manager shakes his head. ‘It’s not the nineties any more. People just aren’t buying books in the way they used to.’

  Those words hang in the hot air of the overcrowded staffroom. I look at Tony, who clenches his jaw.

  Tony’s been here the longest. Apparently, Adam told me, he’s approaching his twentieth year here. Which is too crazy for me to get my head around. He’s been here longer than I’ve been alive. So while my milk teeth were falling out at birthday parties in Pizza Hut or The Funky Forest soft play area, Tony was here. While I cut myself shaving my legs for the first time, Tony was here. While I had my braces put on and while I had them ripped off three years later, Tony was here. Demolishing Bennett’s would be like demolishing Tony.

  Yes, he’s perpetually in a foul mood. No, he’s barely spat two words at me since I started working here, but he did give me and Holly jobs, and, who knows, maybe seeing the way ‘bookselling has changed’ has made him the troll he is today.

  ‘I’m going out for a fag,’ Maxine declares as she leaves the staffroom, evidently wounded by Mick’s news.

  ‘I think we could all do with a cuppa,’ Nikki says as she blows her sad nose into an already-cried-in tissue. ‘Who’s up for the Bridge Cafe?’

  Mick looks relieved that it’s his cue to leave and he gathers his stuff at the same time all of us do.

  I look at the gloomy faces around me and I can’t take it any more. I have to say something.

  ‘Well, I think we should stop Bennett’s from closing.’

  Mick Morgan gazes down at me wearily.

  ‘And who are you?’

  ‘I’m Paige.’

  ‘You’re Paige. Paige Turner! When I saw your name on the payroll I thought surely that’s a pseudonym!’

  Okay.

  So, if my life was some cheesy sitcom, this is the bit when I’d click my fingers and everyone in the frame would freeze on the spot. Mick Morgan would be mid-LOL JK at that complete and utter eye-roll of a line and Holly would be stuck cringing at that being the billionth time she’s watched me endure it.

  My name is Paige Turner. It hasn’t always been my name. I don’t really have the cruellest parents in the world. I was born Paige Campbell back when my mum and dad were happily married. Then when I was thirteen they got divorced after Mum found out Dad had been having a six-month affair with some chick he worked with. I obviously took my mum’s side, and changed Campbell to her maiden name – Turner – in solidarity. I know it’s a stupid name, but I did it for my mum and I’d do it again. Even though it means I face the lifetime inevitability of Christmas-cracker-worthy jokes from guys like Mick.

  Our gang of reject booksellers, and Mick, are making our way to the front door of the shop.

  Every town has a Bennett’s. Just like every town has a Shoe Zone or a group of panpipe-playing buskers. If we go, then all this town centre will have left is … discounted shoes and panpipers.

  ‘Really, though, even if it means chaining ourselves to the shutters, they can’t close Bennett’s down.’

  ‘Yes, Paige!’ Holly is behind me, sliding a paper plate of Mr Kipling cakes into her bag.

  Mick Morgan grimaces, like all this talk of action is making him uneasy.

  ‘Someone should do something … We should do something!’ I stomp my foot. I physically put my foot down.

  ‘I guess that someone could be us …’ Adam laughs.

  We answered an online quiz last week that revealed we are BFFs (Best Frolleagues Forevs). Basically that means that we are friends who started off as work colleagues. I was buddied up with him on my first day. We bonded over a mutual love of sixties girl bands as he trained me on the tills and warned me about the weirdest customers I’d encounter. He makes the best playlists and we play them through the ancient speakers when we’re on shifts together.

  ‘What should we do?’

  We gather outside the front of the shop, where Maxine points a manicured nail in the air. ‘I’m calling a Disgruntled Bookseller Meeting! The usual table at The Bridge. I’ll be off to buy more fags first. All are welcome to attend.’ She glides past us all and heads to the corner shop up the road, her straight grey bob disappearing along the high street.

  Mick raises his eyebrows at Tony. ‘Good luck, mate.’

  Tony looks incredibly uncomfortable. It’s pretty obvious to me that they are anything but mates. That if Tony had Facebook (if he was, like, fifty years younger) he wouldn’t even respond to a friend request from Mick.

  ‘Best of luck to all of you. Any questions, drop me an email.’ Mick waves a thick hand in our direction and off he goes.

  I know we shouldn’t shoot the messenger or anything, but I’m defo imagining shooting him with one of those Super Soaker water pistols that have made every summer of my life an older-sister hell. I’m thinking water guns, but I’m pretty sure Tony and possibly Adam are fantasising about real bullets puncturing the back of Mick’s shiny suit.

  We stand around as Tony rolls down the metal shutter. It’s an old shutter, not like the one they have across the road at JD Sports. They just press a button. Tony has to wind this Victorian-style lever thing around until it rolls down. It’s an effort. He’s working up a sweat. Unlit cigarette balancing between
his lips.

  The thought of looking for a new job around here is worrying. Mum was made redundant four months ago and isn’t having any luck finding something new. I need to work so I can save up for uni. I’ll take out a student loan, but from what I’ve heard that will barely cover my rent. I can’t stay here forever; without a job I’ll never afford to escape. As Tony wrestles with the shutter, I glance at the empty shop units along the high street. There’s nothing else here.

  A couple of topless lads stride past and snigger, shirts hanging from the waistbands of their football shorts. One has a particularly bad case of bacne, which isn’t his fault obviously, but people in glass houses and all that. He cups his hands around his mouth and shouts, ‘WAHEEEY, BOOKSHOP TOSSERS!’

  Hilarious. Even Tony laughs. He drops his fag out of his mouth and it lands on the pavement. The really scummy part of the pavement by the shutters that always looks wet, even today when it hasn’t been raining. All eyes are on him to see whether he’ll pick it up and put it back in his mouth. There’s no way I’d eat or smoke anything off this street. The three-second rule does not apply.

  Way too gross.

  It kinda looks like he’s considering it.

  Just then I hear knocking. Banging on glass.

  It’s loud.

  It’s coming from the window.

  There’s someone in the window display, trapped inside the shop.

  ‘Oh Christ, that’s all we need!’ Tony’s ready to explode as he starts frantically winding the shutter back up.

  The lurker moves towards the door and is on the other side of the glass as Tony struggles with the ancient shutter.

  It slowly reveals two feet. Big feet, boy feet, in battered old brogues. They look like they’re dusty and splattered with paint. White paint, fleshy pink paint.