Bookshop Girl Read online

  ‘Yes, yes, you are. This is Tony Humphreys’ office. He’s not at his desk right now but I can take a message and ask him to get back to you?’ I’d make a brilliant receptionist. I’d wear cute little coords in pastel colours and file my nails between taking calls.

  ‘Right, I’m calling on behalf of the Greysworth Town Council’s Petitions Committee …’

  I slap my free hand over my mouth so stop myself from OMGing out loud and let the lady continue. ‘Now, the contact name we have here is Paige Turner, but we’re not quite sure if that’s a pseudonym or an actual member of staff?’

  LOL!

  ‘It’s me! I’m a real-life member of staff! I’m Paige Turner; it is, unfortunately, my real name.’ I laugh, shaking with anticipation.

  ‘Okay, sorry about that, Paige. My name is Judy, I’m just calling to let you know that we’ve received your petition to protect Bennett’s Bookshop from closure and subsequent demolition …’

  (Pronounced ‘demolitioo‌ooooooooon’, prolonged in the most monotonous drawl.)

  ‘… and in response to the volume of signatures you’ve received we think it’s best to organise a consultation to discuss the future of the premises.’

  ‘Okay, wow! Fantastic!’ I scramble around on Tony’s desk for a biro that actually works. Poised to write down all of the important info.

  ‘So, a meeting will take place next Monday at four o’clock, at Bennett’s.’

  Without looking at the National Geographic calendar on Tony’s wall, I know that next Monday is scheduled to be the day we close for good.

  I scribble as Judy talks. ‘We need your store manager to attend the meeting, where he will be joined by Mick Morgan, regional manager for Bennett’s Bookshops, along with Jeffrey Khan, the landlord of the current premises, and Greg Simmonds, a local politician who has been closely involved with the high-street regeneration scheme.’

  Okay … I make a list of these new names.

  ‘Now, as you are the person who submitted the petition in the first place, you and your supporters will have a chance to voice your issues and concerns, although I have to inform you that it will be the group of people in that meeting who have the authority to work together to reach a decision.’

  ‘Okay, well, thank you so much for getting back to me, Judy. I appreciate it … Bye.’

  I put the phone down and sit back in Tony’s chair.

  This is huge.

  This means that in a few days’ time, the people who want this place to close will all be here together under one roof. Under our roof.

  This means that we have a real chance to make a difference. To take action. Direct action.

  My mind races and my eyes glaze over at something on Tony’s wall.

  I blink and notice that it’s a signed poster for that Hilary Mackintosh novel he raved on about in Holly’s campaign video.

  My fingers slam on the keyboard as I frantically log on to the Bennett’s Greysworth Twitter page.

  I’ve got it.

  We sit round the staffroom coffee table. It’s covered in tea stains. Like some psychotic snail has been snotting around in circles and leaving a shiny film of grot over the pine.

  We’ve just locked up for the night; it’s home time. Usually this is when everybody’s busy fetching their bags and rolling cigarettes and Nikki changes out of her comfy shop-floor shoes.

  I asked the others if they’d stay behind. Only for a little bit. Just while I tell them about something.

  ‘Okay then …’ Tony clears his throat and polishes his fragile glasses on the edge of his shirt. ‘Paige has some kind of announcement to make …’

  My fellow booksellers look concerned.

  Holly looks like she’s accidentally missed an episode of her fave reality show and is struggling to follow who’s slept with who.

  ‘So, earlier today, I took a call while I was in Tony’s office …’

  Adam has folded his copy of the Guardian shut and is listening carefully while I tell them all about the meeting that’ll be happening right here in a matter of days.

  ‘Oh, and so I’m just finding out about this now? Great …’ Tony mutters.

  ‘What I’m saying is we need to try something while we have these people here, something big … a stunt.’

  ‘A stunt?!’

  ‘Okay, okay, hear me out. I really think this could work.’

  Holly leans forward in her chair, her elbows resting on her knees and she smiles. It’s the same smile she flashed at me when we were at primary school and it was my turn to jump in the swimming pool. It’s the same smile as when she poured me a shot of sambuca in her kitchen when her mum and dad were out and I hesitated before burning my stomach with it. It’s the smile she gives me when she’s saying ‘Yes, come on, you’re fine.’

  ‘I think that on Monday, the day of the meeting and the last day of trading, we should stay in the shop.’

  Blinking. So much blinking. And silence.

  ‘We stage a protest and we occupy Bennett’s. We’ll show them that we don’t intend on budging. And we won’t leave, not until they have heard us out and reconsider the plan to demolish this place.’

  ‘A protest? I don’t think so.’ Tony flaps around, tidying the sticky, dated issues of the Bookseller, which have been sitting here splattered by microwave lunches long before I interviewed for this job. His sudden, unprompted attempt to clear them away is his way of wrapping me up. Of shutting me up. Of dismissing my plan altogether.

  My colleagues shuffle uncomfortably in their seats. I try to win the room over. ‘It will be a peaceful protest, I promise.’

  Of course I’ve thought about the alternatives. I’ve fantasised about marching those suits up into the staffroom. Holding the ancient price-sticker gun to their heads. Tying them to wheelie chairs with parcel tape. Gagging them with promotional tote bags while we tell them our objectives. I’ve considered the torture we could inflict by pressing all the buttons on the noisy books from the kids’ section until they go insane and cave in.

  Of course I’ve thought about it but – ‘We need this to work. This is our chance to actually save Bennett’s. So we gather supporters, and we sit in, we come together, in a peaceful, civilised manner, and make sure that we are taken seriously by the powers that be …’

  ‘Oh, come on, Paige,’ Tony grumbles. ‘Absolutely not.’ He picks up the stack of old magazines and dumps them in the recycling bin.

  It feels like everything inside me is bubbling. Like that YouTube video Elliot showed me of American kids performing a high-school prank. They shove mints into bottles of cola and stand back as the whole thing erupts. They watch it fizz and whoosh like a sticky, sugary rocket.

  ‘Sorry, Tony …’ I deliberately want my voice to come out as calm and as even as it possibly can. ‘I’m not asking for your permission. It’s too late …’

  I’m standing up to Tony and it’s a bit scary. Not because he’s particularly ‘scary’, but he’s a grown-up. My boss. It feels risky. I can feel every nerve inside my body twitch.

  The fear of everybody here laughing at me, thinking I’m just a silly girl, can’t stall me now.

  I tell Holly I need to borrow her phone, and with no questions asked she hands it over. I’m tapping at it with my thumbs while my manager sighs impatiently.

  ‘Look, Tony!’

  He squints at the screen. It’s a tweet from Hilary Mackintosh to Bennett’s Greysworth.

  ‘But she’s-she’s my favourite writer …’ he whispers in disbelief.

  ‘And she’s coming here. To Bennett’s. To the protest on Monday.’ I hope this changes Tony’s mind.

  ‘Doesn’t she live miles away … in the Shetlands or something?’

  ‘Yeah, she does. But after I messaged her this afternoon and told her all about the campaign, she’s agreed to travel all that way to come here. She’s doing it to support us, Tony. So say you will too? Please?’

  His face physically changes; it melts from something hard int
o something soft.

  ‘We need you on our side.’

  ‘Hilary Mackintosh? Coming here?!’ His eyes dart around the dingy staffroom, as though he’s seeing the place for the first time. ‘Okay.’

  I clench my fists. Yes!

  Tony nods and scratches his grey head in consideration. ‘Just as long as you promise to keep everything under control …’ he warns.

  ‘Get in!’ Adam’s on his feet punching the hot air.

  ‘You’re a devious genius!’ Holly squeals into my ear, as she flings her arms round my shoulders.

  ‘Let’s occupy Bennett’s!’

  We’re doing this.

  It’s Sunday. I pat my fringe into place as I check my reflection in the glass door to Coleman’s Stationers. I push my way in and hope that Blaine is working today.

  There’s no immediate sign of him. I tunnel my way through the ring binders and fountain pens, the left-handed scissors and pots of Tipp-Ex, to the photocopier at the back of the shop.

  There he is, sitting behind the counter, wearing that uniform, sharpening some pencils.

  I clear my throat and he looks up. ‘Hi.’

  ‘Oh, hey, Paige. How’s it going?’

  ‘Good, thanks.’ I smile. ‘I just need some stuff photocopied actually …’ I start getting my paper in order when he gets up out of his seat and leans forward over the counter.

  ‘Okay.’ His voice is low. He’s whispering to me. ‘So, I’m actually banned from using the copier, but seeing as it’s you and it’s for a good cause … I’m willing to risk an official warning for it.’ That dimple. A puncture in his otherwise perfect face. I want to dive into that dimple head first and live inside it.

  ‘Thanks, I appreciate it!’ It’s all I can cough out at this point. He’s banned! He’s a rule-breaker! A tearaway! A Rebel without a cause! The James Dean of Office and Stationery Supplies. He’s an anarchist.

  ‘So why are you banned from using the photocopier?’ I ask. So bold. Internal pat on the back as I try my hardest to suppress the pure excitement that has taken hold of my whole body.

  ‘Oh, I was using it for my own personal projects.’ He pauses and nods his head. ‘Nudes.’

  Oh dear Lord. I’m stunned into silence. Nudes. Nudity. I just stare. I try really hard not to stare at his body. His body that has the option to be nude.

  I wonder if they were pictures of Naked Sue. Or Correctum.

  The mental image of Correctum’s naked cracked heels momentarily cools me down, until Blaine starts pressing the buttons on the machine and it hums and it comes to life. ‘It was all for artistic purposes, though, I promise. My boss found them and now she thinks I’m some kind of sick deviant.’

  His smile is too wide for his face. It’s blinding.

  I pass the master copies of the flyers and posters across the desk and watch his eyes flash over my hand-drawn type.

  SAVE BENNETT’S DEMO AND OCCUPATION. SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL BOOKSHOP.

  ‘What’s going on then?’

  He looks serious and studies me as I blabber on and on about the sit-in.

  ‘You should come along.’ I try to make it sound casual. Like I’m not bothered either way. Like it’s not the biggest thing I’ve planned since my thirteenth birthday party at the ice rink.

  ‘Okay, sure. I’ll be there.’

  Get in! I’ll be occupying Bennett’s with Beautiful Blaine Henderson by my side. Perfection.

  ‘Hey, come round here.’ He invites me behind the desk, closer to the copier, and to him, and I do not need to be asked twice. ‘So what do you need? Double-sided? One-sided?’

  ‘The posters are one-sided A3 … and for the zines I need double A4 …’

  ‘Oh, you’re making zines? Nice.’

  ‘Thanks.’ The beams of light pass under the lid and as he hunches his shoulders his hair falls into his eyes.

  This is too good to be true. It’s just me and him, held together in this world of fluoro highlighters and poster paints.

  His eyes meet mine and I’m pretty sure I visibly melt in front of him.

  To distract myself I pick up a nearby packet of glittery dolphin stickers and shimmy them in the light.

  ‘These are so cool. I love dolphins.’ I giggle, impressed at what the Coleman’s sticker game has to offer.

  ‘Yeah? Doesn’t everyone love dolphins?’

  I roll my eyes. ‘C’mon! That’s it exactly: everybody loves them, they think they’re so friendly and cute, but a quick Google search can prove what slippery bastards they really are! You know they turn nasty and eat humans, right?’

  ‘Have them. Go on, take them. On the house.’

  ‘Really?’ I hold the shiny dolphins to my heart.

  ‘You can’t have a zine without stickers anyway; it just wouldn’t be right.’

  The copies are ready; they shoot out of the machine, hot off the press.

  I pass him a ten-pound note and he hands me the change. I try to avoid fixating on the brief hand-to-hand contact. ‘So I’ll see you tomorrow, comrade?’

  ‘Yeah.’ A mischievous grin spreads across his face as he says, ‘I’ve got an idea.’

  ‘Really?! What?’

  ‘Just leave it with me.’

  ‘Every little girl dreams of being a princess on her wedding day …’

  ‘Do not!’ I shout at the telly as the intro to another episode of Nightmare Brides zooms past. Mum fast-forwards; we’ve seen this programme so many times that we skip to the dress tantrum. Predictable as it always is. A woman with a lisp squeezes herself into a vile strapless monstrosity.

  ‘Will it be a fairy-tale ending?’

  ‘Doubt it.’ Mum throws a scrunched-up biscuit wrapper towards the screen and we both laugh.

  ‘Are you watching this again?’ Elliot steps into the room carefully carrying a hot mug of tea for Mum. He’s got both hands cupped round its sides and stares into the not-too-milky-please brew like it’s telling his fortune.

  The bride is sobbing over her pratty fiancé’s choice of dress and the three of us tut.

  ‘Jesus!’ The hand-me-down Nokia that Mum donated to me since my beloved iPhone was nicked vibrates and polyphonically bleats full volume.

  ‘I know. Get a grip, love; if you’re this disappointed by him based on his choice of dress, why bother marrying him?’ Mum shakes her head as she sips her tea.

  It’s Alison Weaver from the Chronicle, the human equivalent of a Rich Tea biscuit, confirming that she’ll be at the occupation tomorrow.

  I reply with an old-school smiley face.

  Great! :-)

  Elliot smirks at me. ‘By the way, Paige, Otzi called.’

  ‘What?’ I scowl, because I think he’s taking the mick. ‘Who’s Otzi?’

  ‘Y’know, Otzi the Iceman. He died in the Stone Age. His body was frozen and naturally mummified for thousands of years.’

  I roll my eyes at Mum. ‘Right, so what do you mean he called?’

  ‘He wants you to give him his phone back!’ he howls, pointing to the artefact I type out a reply to Alison on.

  All I can come back with is: ‘Ha ha, very funny.’

  Elliot: one. Paige: nil.

  The three of us turn back to the telly, where the father of the bride is crying. ‘I’ve never felt so proud.’

  Of what? Your daughter marrying someone? Oh, pur-lease. Like a marriage contract to say that she ‘belongs’ to another man is her greatest achievement. This woman is a veterinary surgeon for God’s sake! She’s performed surgery on a cow. They have four stomachs! Her marriage to some loser with a neck tattoo should not be her defining moment.

  I narrow my eyes and think hard about what I’d like my defining moment to be.

  Maybe it will be tomorrow night. The occupation.

  Yeah, I quite like that idea … Paige Turner, High-street Heroine … Saviour of the Written Word …

  ‘I’m gonna run upstairs and pack my bag for tomorrow,’ I explain to my family, before my brother pipes up.


  ‘But you haven’t even seen the reception venue yet!’

  He likes this programme way more than he lets on.

  Cross-legged on my bedroom floor I gather provisions for my Occupation Survival Kit.

  Face wipes: check.

  Eyeliner, hairspray, Party Girl Pink lipstick: check.

  Spare pair of knickers, box of cereal bars: check.

  SAVE BENNETT’S T-shirt: check.

  Pillow and sleeping bag …?

  I delve under my bed for my sleeping bag and pull at the unopened padded envelope I shoved under here the other week. The day that we found out Bennett’s was closing.

  I tear at the brown paper and pull out a shiny new prospectus.

  I trace my fingers over the gold embossing. Cambridge School of Art.

  I slowly flick through the pages, past examples of students’ work, photographs of bright, airy painting studios, of stone turrets and arty lecturers with waxed moustaches. Imagine being allowed to do nothing but draw for three years. Dream. Come. True. I want to dive into that world. I want to live in the insides of this pamphlet.

  I just need to get there. I just need a place on a course. I just need the money. I just need a job.

  I just need everything to work out tomorrow.

  Oh God, I really hope people turn up to the protest.

  It would be pretty embarrassing if nobody bothered to come along.

  What if it’s a complete failure and nobody shows?

  That would be the worst.

  I’d be trapped here forever. In this town. No bright, airy studios. No stone turrets or gold embossing.

  I feel the blood drain from my face and start to panic.

  I climb into bed.

  I lie very still on my back and stare up at the ceiling. It’s a funny texture. Like the meringues they make on Bake Off. I think it’s called Artex.

  I look up at the chalky shadows and spikes and swirls and try to slow down my breathing.

  ‘Please, please, let tomorrow work out,’ I whisper. I have no idea who I’m talking to.

  I roll onto my side and spot the sheet of glittery dolphin stickers Blaine gave me earlier today.