Bookshop Girl Read online

  We shout over the music to tell classmates about the online petition and happy-clap as they get it to load on their phone screens and sign up. We sit around a plate of cocktail sausages, elbows leaning on a paper tablecloth, as we listen to a detailed and gripping account of how Hannah Matthews lost her virginity during the hols. We gush over Netflix box-set binges, run our fingers through new haircuts and hiccup uncontrollably because of all the peach vodka. We’re girls, at a party and we’re happy. In this crappy room in this crappy pub in this crappy town, we’re together and we’re having a flipping ball.

  This is not good. It’s Sunday and I’m covering Adam’s day off so it’s just me here on the first floor. I really don’t feel like working when my only company for the day will be the mother of all hangovers.

  I just want to curl up by the graffiti behind the counter. My head is pounding. And my teeth are fuzzy. And I feel hot and cold all at the same time.

  Oh, I’m so sweaty. This is grim. If I wanted to go for Binge Round Two right now I could. I could just wring out my clothes and drink the sweat. I’m pretty sure that the alcohol volume of my sweat would be enough to get drunk on all over again. I really don’t want to do that by the way. In fact, I don’t want to drink ever again. That’s it. Paige Turner is going sober at the tender age of sixteen. I can’t let another drop of peach vodka touch these lips.

  No.

  Oh God.

  I’m on my hands and knees behind the till.

  I’m going to vom.

  On all fours.

  Right here. Right now.

  I can’t make it upstairs to the loo.

  I panic and grab a small carrier bag.

  A large! I need a large!

  What if someone sees me?

  The shop floor is dead and the security cameras haven’t worked the whole time I’ve worked here so just go for it.

  Oh God.

  No.

  ‘Paige? Are you okay?’

  I scramble to my feet.

  Blaine!

  Beautiful art school activist Blaine is back! He’s come back to see me again!

  ‘Hi! Hello, Blaine!’ I’m very aware of the sweaty film glistening on my upper lip. I can see it. I can see it shine.

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Yeah, good than—’ I feel something rise in my throat and swallow it back down.

  My eyes are streaming. I just blink. Blink it away.

  I stand there trying not to make any sudden movements as he runs his fingers through his hair and asks how the petition is going. I feel like he’s finding excuses to talk to me but I can’t be sure. Is he really this interested in the campaign to save Bennett’s? Or is he interested in me? I wonder as I stand holding the bag I was nearly sick into.

  ‘The petition? I’ll just have a look online …’ I tap on the keyboard and log in to the Make a Change site, thankful that I have something to do, something to distract me from just staring, mouth open, at Blaine’s face when he’s so near.

  ‘Wow!’ The signatures are really adding up. We’re already near the halfway mark. ‘It’s going really well!’ I beam and my stomach happy-flips, rather than hangover-flips.

  ‘You’ve signed up, right?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh, yeah. Did it straight away.’

  ‘Amazeballs.’ Did I really just – Yep, I really did say that.

  He nods, and some lad walks over, interrupting this special moment, and asks if I have a bin, so that I can dump his empty cup. I say yes (as if I’m some kind of slave) and take it, even though the waft of strawberry milkshake makes me gag all over again.

  Back to Blaine. ‘Okay, cool. Well, I’ll let you get back to work. See you round.’

  ‘Will you be at life drawing on Tuesday?’ I ask, praying that the desperation to have him there isn’t too obvious.

  He nods and walks over to the Art section. I watch as he runs his index finger along the spines of the books and pulls one from the shelf. Dreamy.

  Suddenly there’s a woman standing at the till with a book in her hands. She wants to pay.

  ‘Hi,’ I say in her direction but I don’t take my eyes off Blaine. On the Customer Service Performance Charts head office made us fill out a few weeks back, I’d get a red light for this. Tony would not be pleased.

  ‘That’s seven ninety-nine, please.’ I invite the lady to tap her card, but she insists on using chip and PIN. She’s telling me some Tolstoy-length saga about why she doesn’t trust contactless payment. Not now, love; I don’t want to lose him.

  There’s so much more I could say, starting with ‘I don’t usually say “amazeballs” by the way. In fact, I’ve never said it before in my life, until about five minutes ago.’

  Nope.

  I’ll keep that to myself.

  The lady across the counter punches her PIN into the machine as Dreamboy Blaine hunches over a book of Lucian Freud portraits. Of course he’s a Lucien Freud fan.

  Holding the weight of the book in one hand, he raises the other to his mouth. He turns the pages with such care. Oh, to be those pages. He looks so thoughtful. He looks so beautiful. Then he looks at me.

  This transaction takes an eternity to go through the till. I wait impatiently for the receipt to print out. I’m telepathically willing it to hurry the eff up.

  Finally I have it in my hand and pass it over to the customer, while keeping an eye on you-know-who.

  ‘Love you.’ It just spills out of my mouth. My eyes snap back to the lady who’s paying.

  ‘Sorry, I mean, thank you.’ Then I laugh hysterically. Too loudly. If he didn’t hear me declare my undying love to him then he’s defo heard me now. ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you!’

  ‘Oh! We’ve only just met, sweetheart!’ I’m glad she finds it funny. I pretend I do too but I can feel my face burning. My cheeks are melting. I fumble around for a carrier bag. Oh God, kill me now!

  ‘Oh no, don’t worry, love. I’ve got a bag here. Save the environment and all that.’ Stop! Stop talking. I want to die. She takes her sweet time putting her paperback into her Tesco bag for life and then winks at me before trotting off, still chuckling to herself.

  Now what do I do? I must look like a huge embarrassing rash of a human. I look up and he’s on his way out. He’s walking, pretty quickly, towards the stairs to leave.

  I’ve blown it by being a complete stalker love fiend.

  I look to Cardboard Mary Berry for some emotional support, but she’s rubbish. Her little raisin of a face just stares blankly back at me.

  ‘PAIGE!’

  It’s Holly, striding over to the counter. Looking one hundred per cent fresher than she did last time I saw her. She obviously got a few extra hours of sleep and a shower while I’ve been here ruining my life. ‘OMG, have you SEEN the petition?! It’s amazing! And it’s addictive! I’ve been watching it all morning, those signatures are really stacking up!’

  ‘Hey, what are you doing here?’

  ‘Oh, well, it’s nice to see you too!’

  I laugh. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s just today has been horrific.’

  ‘You poor thing, having to be here after last night.’ She strokes my arm.

  I make her stop. ‘Hols, Hols, he was just in here –’

  ‘Who?!’

  ‘Blaine! The boy from Posers. The one, you know!’

  ‘Oh my God! He cannot keep away!’

  ‘Well, I doubt he’ll ever be back here.’

  ‘What happened?!’

  There aren’t many customers around and I feel it’s necessary to re-enact the whole thing. Holly has to play the part of Blaine so I force her to stand right where he was, just minutes ago. Next to that now sacred shelf.

  ‘LOVE YOU!’ I say it loud ’n’ clear at the top of my voice and she trumpet-laughs.

  Hanging off the shelf, shaking her head in disbelief for what feels like a year, she straightens up and says, ‘What book was he reading?’

  ‘Some Lucian Freud one. Hang on. I’ll show you.�
�� I stomp round the desk, frustrated that I’ve just lost this perfect boy, and push past Holly to pick up the Lucian Freud book.

  ‘That’s so weird …’ I whisper as I scan the shelves. ‘I can’t find it. I’m sure I didn’t see him leave with it.’ Maybe he paid for it at the till downstairs, too freaked out by my declaration of love to speak to me ever again. I bend to check the lower shelves and all the blood rushes to my head. ‘Who knows?! Please just tell me this shift is nearly over.’

  We trudge along the grass away from the ice-cream van. It’s the one parked up by the swings in the park. MIND THAT CHILD and Donald Ducks and Little Mermaids that are all slightly out of proportion, with eyes too close together, painted on its sides. I’m on the look out for a spot that isn’t too muddy, or directly in the sun because I’m a Serious Burner.

  This heatwave is still at large and I’m still wearing all black everything. Turns out that opaque tights in the height of summer are not at all practical. It probably doesn’t look as chic as I hoped it would, when I was getting ready and listening to a mix of French girl bands from the sixties that Holly had made me. I’m a sweaty mess. I’m ready for this ice cream. I need a proper cool-down.

  ‘How many of these d’you reckon you need to eat to get pissed?’ Holly slurs between slurps on her lager ’n’ lime lolly.

  ‘I probably wouldn’t need many to be fair …’ I admit as I chomp on my chocolate flake and it crumbles all over my dress. ‘What’s the point in calling this a ninety-nine? Like, when did they ever only cost 99p? This was £1.20.’

  ‘Probably in 1999.’

  ‘It’s not the nineties any more, guys!’ My impression of Mick Morgan from Bennett’s head office makes Holly choke on the melty lager ice in her mouth.

  ‘Speaking of Mick …’ I pull my notebook out of my bag and root around for a pen, while trying to stop the ice cream from melting all the way down my arm, with my tongue. ‘What’s next for the Save Bennett’s campaign?’

  ‘We’ve got, what, about six hundred signatures so far? That’s sw-eeeeeet!’

  ‘Yes! And we have to keep it going … I reckon we’ve everybody we know, friends and family … We just have to spread it even further …’

  I eventually find my biro and chuck it on the grass, concentrating on this ice cream. Nibbling round the top edge of the cone. My teeth making marks in the Mr Whippy.

  ‘Maybe we should make a blog or a website or something?’ She shrugs. ‘Like, we could post updates about the campaign on there, and have articles written by us lot, and supporters of the petition …’

  ‘Oooooh, yeah! Like, “I’m saving Bennett’s because …”!’ Cartoon light bulbs and fairy lights and neon signs are buzzing with ideas inside my head.

  ‘We could make videos!’ Videos are Holly’s Thing. Right now, most of her creative talent is spent on hilarious video montages of her cat Blossom that she uploads onto YouTube. I’m her number-one fan and only subscriber.

  I’m chomping the end of the ice-cream cone as fast as I can, so I can write ideas down as she talks. It’s so dry that it hurts as I swallow but I don’t even care.

  ‘We could record really short and snappy videos of us lot, and customers, saying something about Bennett’s …’ Holly continues, digging the wooden lolly stick into the ground to make a pattern. ‘Why they want to keep us open … the title of the best book they bought from us …’

  ‘Such a good idea! Then we can share it on Facebook, and Twitter, and add it to the petition page …’

  ‘Yes!’ She claps with excitement. ‘Let’s tell everybody what we want! Let’s shout it from the rooftops!’ She’s yelling and the women in the distance with pushchairs scowl in our direction.

  ‘We need to direct the link to authors and other bookshops and book-y people …’

  ‘We’re so on it, Paige!’ She chucks the lolly stick and lies on her back, head resting on her arms and soaks up the sun.

  ‘We have to get Mr Abbott on one of our videos.’ Holly smiles with her eyes closed, still lying in the sunshine. ‘He’s a Bennett’s legend.’

  ‘That shouldn’t be hard; he’s always there.’

  ‘You know who else is always there these days?’ She rolls onto her side and looks at me, her face full of mischief.

  I giggle. She’s talking about Blaine.

  ‘These sightings are becoming more frequent,’ I agree. Sightings. Like he’s some sort of fittie Sasquatch or Loch Ness monster. He is a rarity, that’s for sure. He’s endangered. Because I want to poach him. Love-poach him.

  ‘He cannot keep away!’ Holly laughs. ‘It’s you. It has to be because of you.’

  ‘I feel like we have a connection, Hols. But, I don’t know, why does he always catch me when I’m acting like a total freak?!’

  ‘Well, I hate to say it, Paige, but … you are a total freak!’ She scoffs. ‘Jokes, you know I love you.’

  ‘And where has he suddenly come from?! I’m starting to think I’ve inhaled too much shelf polish and he’s just a very vivid hallucination.’

  ‘Ha! Sounds like the plot for a cheesy YA novel.’ Her eyes light up and she’s on her knees, setting the scene. ‘He’s the ghost of Bennett’s Bookshop, guardian of the shelves, disturbed by Mick Morgan and the threat of demolition … Now, his only chance of remaining in the literary vessel he has chosen to haunt is to possess the young, beautiful, virgin bookseller who has captured his cold heart!’

  Howling, she falls to the ground. I throw a daisy at her. What a stellar performance.

  ‘Back to mine?’ The plan for this afternoon is to make posters and zines and stickers and bookmarks with pictures and collages and #SaveBennetts tags on them to distribute everywhere. They’ll be pretty, so people will want to look at them, but they will carry a message and spread the word about the campaign. Craftivism. I’ve got stacks of old magazines and newspapers and glitter glue waiting for us at home.

  We stand on the kerb. I press the CROSS HERE button out of habit.

  Holly wrinkles her nose and looks both ways at the empty road. Then up at the red man. ‘Wait for the green MAN. WTF?!’

  I’m not sure where she’s going with this.

  ‘I mean, why should I wait for a man to tell me when to cross?!’

  I laugh with how much I love what she’s saying. ‘Aha! It’s true! I’ve never thought of it like this before but it’s actually a symbol of a man telling us to stay in our place!’

  ‘As if ! We don’t need a man to tell us to cross!’ She strides out into the road and holds her middle finger up to the illuminated red man on the lamp post. I skip after her swearing at that smug little git as well. Disobedience in the shape of chewed-up pink nails.

  A silver Nissan Micra drives slowly towards us and the woman behind the wheel shakes her head at us. Unimpressed. Join the revolution, sister!

  ‘Smash the patriarchy!’ Holly yells at the top of her lungs, dead pleased with herself.

  On the other side of the road we high five. ‘Yes, Hol! Look – we disobeyed The Man and we survived! We made it!’

  I’m balancing a stack of paperbacks between my upturned palms and my chin, walking very slowly past Tony, who’s squinting at an A4 page of numbers.

  ‘You know, we’ve actually been busier in the last few days than we have been for years …’

  You don’t say. It’s been a week since the shop closure was announced and some of the shelves are already looking bare. The books I’m carrying have been picked up and dumped in piles around the carpet. It’s like the bargain-hunting locusts have been. I’m trying to tidy what’s left and make it look pretty, unloading this stack of misplaced books back onto displays.

  ‘Yeah, I think the campaign is genuinely reminding people that we’re here …’ He frowns and mutters, ‘Whether it will keep us open is another thing.’

  I steady the wobbling tower of novels in my grip. I fight the urge to fling the book on the top of the pile right at him. I really don’t appreciate his negativity. ‘H
ey, Tony. It’s happening. We’re going to turn this round. You just wait.’

  He raises his eyebrows and exhales dramatically.

  ‘Are they sales figures or something?’ I nod towards the sheet of paper he’s studying carefully behind his glasses.

  ‘Well, yeah …’ He sticks a biro behind his ear. ‘But it looks like a few bits have gone missing …’

  ‘Oh, great. Thanks to that weird guy who shoves our stock down his pants I bet.’

  ‘Mr Barnes? To be honest, I don’t think it’s him. I haven’t seen him around here over the past few days and it’s not his usual kind of books that have gone astray …’

  To be fair, it wouldn’t be hard to nick things from here, if you have a technique even fractionally better than shoving the book down your trousers. We can’t afford a security guard. We do however have the poster. Yeah, that poster really means business. It’s a photo of a police officer looking cross and it says in big red letters: ‘SHOPLIFTERS WILL BE PROSECUTED’. Still, it’s a terrible thing to do. If there’s one thing Paige Turner does not have time for, it’s dishonesty.

  ‘It’s the lowest of the low. Only a complete and utter scumbag would steal from a bookshop that’s on its way out.’

  ‘But –’ I balance the books in one arm, pointing my finger in the air to correct him. ‘We’re not on our way out, are we? We shall not be moved!’

  ‘Are you ready for your close-up, Miss Turner?’ Holly appears from behind a shelf, her camera poised; I hope she’s already caught me convincing Tony that we mean business.

  ‘Great!’ I finger-comb my fringe, which is still embarrassingly short. ‘Have you started filming yet?’

  ‘Got a couple of customers from downstairs and Maxine; I need you two next!’

  I look at Tony.

  ‘Oh no!’ He shakes his head dismissively. ‘You don’t want me in it.’ He’s quickly becoming very flustered.

  ‘Whose side are you on?’ I mutter in his direction, half wanting him to hear, because I do question his dedication to the shop if he’s not even bothered about helping us out with the campaign, and half not wanting him to hear, because something about his constant grouchiness is a bit intimidating.