Bookends Page 8

  Lucy starts reading the details James has brought with him, and excitedly walks to the back of the shop, where she pushes open a door to reveal another room.

  ‘Look! Cath! The kitchen!’ And then she runs into the larger room and, sure enough, off the L-shape is another room.

  ‘Let me guess.’ I smile wryly. ‘Stock room?’

  ‘Isn’t it perfect, Cath?’ she says, whirling around. ‘Can’t you just imagine it? Close your eyes and can’t you hear those pages rustling? Smell the coffee? The home-made cakes and biscuits?’

  I smile at her, swaying gently in the middle of the floor, eyes squeezed tight, able to see exactly what it will be like.

  And of course it is perfect. It would make the perfect café/bookshop. I’m just not sure that I have the nerve to get involved with something entirely different at this stage of my life.

  ‘What was it before? It must have been a bookshop, but I don’t remember.’ My voice is clipped, businesslike, because I figure that at least one of us has to be if we’re going to be taken the slightest bit seriously.

  ‘Believe it or not it was empty,’ James says. ‘It’s been empty for about twenty years.’

  ‘Well, that explains the dust,’ Lucy says, stifling a sneeze.

  ‘It was owned by one of the local eccentrics,’ continues James. ‘Harry Roberts?’ He looks at us, but we both shake our heads and shrug. ‘Harry was always a bit of a local character. He died last year in his nineties, but up until the week he died he used to go to work every day, dressed in a three-piece suit, immaculately turned out.’

  ‘And?’ Lucy’s eager to hear what happens, loving nothing more than a good story.

  ‘We all thought Harry was a bit of a chancer.’ James smiles fondly at the memory. ‘He used to come into the office to talk about property, and we’d indulge him because we thought it made him feel good, but we didn’t think he had anything. He was just an old man.’

  ‘And?’ Now it’s my turn.

  ‘The thing is he never actually seemed to do anything. He just had this office round the corner and he used to go every day, without fail, and then pop round to the local agents for chats because he was bored.

  ‘And then he died, and you’d never believe it, but he turned out to be worth millions.’

  ‘No!’ Lucy breathes in awe. ‘Really?’

  ‘I’m not kidding,’ James said. ‘He lived in a hovel of a flat. Really disgusting. Threadbare carpets, chairs held together by string; most of the furniture hadn’t been changed since the thirties, but he owned about half of the commercial property in the area.’

  ‘But didn’t you know?’ I asked. ‘You must have known?’

  ‘That’s the ridiculous thing,’ James says. ‘He just leased them all out, and most of the tenants were paying next to nothing to stay there. When they were going through his estate they realized that he had been sitting on a fortune that had hardly been making a profit.

  ‘So they sold them off,’ he continues. ‘And this one had just been sitting here for years. We’d tried to find out who owned it. Everyone in the area had, but this was the one property he’d never leased out.’

  ‘Oooh. How fascinating. Why do you think?’ Lucy’s eyes are wide and bright, hardly able to contain her fascination.

  James shrugs. ‘All sorts of rumours have flown about. Allegedly it was a bookshop, and the owner was a woman he’d had an affair with. She was supposed to be the one great love of his life, but she was already married and wouldn’t leave her husband. He never got over it, or so they say.’ He grins at us. ‘But you never know with rumours.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound right,’ I say. ‘In his day women didn’t really have careers, did they?’

  ‘Who cares,’ says Lucy, hugging herself with happiness. ‘How romantic. How wonderful. This is it, you know,’ and she looks at me, while I try to signal to say nothing further, because you should never let estate agents know what you’re thinking.

  ‘It’s crying out for some TLC,’ James says. ‘But, as I explained to Lucy the other day, all the basics are here. Stick in a new kitchen, a bar in the middle here, and a coat of paint.’ He scuffs the floorboards with his right foot. ‘Even these are immaculate. They just need sanding down’ – he looks up at us – ‘and I really can’t imagine a more perfect spot for your business.’

  ‘Have you had much interest?’ I ask casually.

  ‘We’ve only just got it,’ he says. ‘So we haven’t even started marketing it properly yet, but we’re putting adverts in all the trade press next week. It will go like a shot.’

  Lucy looks dispirited. ‘That means we must act quickly, Cath,’ she advises sternly. ‘Come on now.’ She grabs my arm and turns to James, flashing him a dazzling smile. ‘James, you are an absolute angel for showing us at such short notice. We’ll ring you in the morning.’

  James, still stunned by the radiance of Lucy’s smile, nods, and we leave him standing there, basking in the excitement and joy Lucy has left behind.

  ‘Low-halogen spots, lots of pale wood, very sunny. What do you think?’ Lucy’s pacing round the kitchen, words tumbling out of her mouth.

  ‘I think,’ Josh says slowly, looking at me, ‘you should (a) stop pacing round the floor, and (b) ask Cath what she thinks.’

  Lucy stops in mid-step and looks at me, mortified. ‘Cath! Darling! I’m so sorry.’ She runs over and leans down, giving me a big hug. ‘I just haven’t stopped talking. God, I’m so selfish. Tell me. Tell me. What do you think?’

  ‘It’s all a bit much for me,’ I say. ‘I mean, it’s not that I don’t want to do it, it’s my life’s dream, but I just don’t know if I could really leave my job and do this. What if it were a massive failure? What if we lost all our money? I’d have to put my life savings into this, and I could lose everything.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Josh says slowly.

  ‘Come on, Joshy,’ Lucy says. ‘You’re the clever banker. How could we minimize the risk?’

  ‘You could go with a backer,’ he says thoughtfully. ‘But then again, maybe it’s best to keep the investors to a minimum.’ He sits in silence for a while as Lucy makes faces at me. ‘You know,’ he says eventually, ‘it might actually be far less than you think.’

  ‘Do you think it’s worth it, then, Josh?’ I trust his opinion.

  ‘I do, as it happens,’ he says, coming back to the present. ‘Hang on,’ and he leaps up, grabs something from his jacket pocket in the hallway, and comes back into the room. He opens a small black computer-type thing and starts typing on a tiny keyboard.

  ‘What is he doing?’ I raise an eyebrow at Lucy.

  ‘Heaven forbid we should go anywhere without his beloved Palm Pilot,’ she laughs.

  ‘Just trying to work out some initial costs,’ Josh says, snapping it shut. ‘In fact one of the guys at work has parents who own a bookshop. It’s in Derbyshire or somewhere, but I’m sure he’d be able to help, or at least give us an idea of the sort of money we’re looking at, although at a guess I’d say around £100,000 once you’ve sorted out builders, alterations, stock cost, etc. Why don’t I speak to him?’

  ‘Sure.’ I shrug, wondering why this fantasy appears to be suffering from a severe snowball effect.

  ‘But as for the idea – ’ he goes to the dresser and pulls out some plates, napkins, and lays them on the table – ‘I do actually think it will work. You’ll have to do your research, of course, but the cafés that are already there seem to be full all the time, so there’s obviously room for one more, and we need a populist bookshop.’

  ‘Populist?’

  ‘Well, it has to be financially viable, so you have to provide something for everyone. In other words, a bookshop that stocks a good range of books across the board. You can’t compete with Waterstone’s or Books Etc., but you can offer a next-day delivery from the wholesalers.’

  Lucy’s looking at him with affection. ‘Darling husband of mine, tell me how you know all this?’

  Josh sh
rugs. ‘And the other thing,’ he continues, ‘is that as far as I know most books are stocked in bookshops on a sale or return basis, so apart from the refurbishment of the shop, and the catering outlay, it wouldn’t be as much risk as, say, a clothes shop.

  ‘Plus, Lucy, we could always remortgage the house. God knows I’d rather use the money for a business venture than for a holiday or something.’

  ‘What about your son’s schooling?’

  ‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. And Cath, what about that money from your grandma?’

  I gasp. ‘Josh, you’re not supposed to know about that! How do you know about that?’

  ‘Because you told me, Cath. You asked my advice on investing it, then promptly ignored it, and I bet it’s been sitting in the bank all these years gaining nothing on interest.’

  I choose to stay silent.

  ‘Exactly. It’s about time you made that money work for you. God, between the two of you, you can do this thing, no problem.’

  ‘Have I ever told you how much I love you?’ Lucy says suddenly, flinging her arms around Josh and planting a smacker on his cheek.

  ‘Yes,’ Josh smiles. ‘Does that mean you love me enough to serve me dinner?’

  Lucy flops into a chair with a grin. ‘Nope,’ she says happily. ‘You cooked, you serve. That’s the deal.’

  ‘So let me get this straight. You’re thinking of leaving your super-duper, high-powered fantastic job that pays you a fortune, to set up your own business with…’ and at this Si pauses. ‘Lucy?’

  ‘What’s wrong with Lucy?’

  Si begged and pleaded for me to meet him for a drink after work in Soho, and, even though it’s a pain, I succumbed, because, as Si often moans, I have become horrifyingly suburban in my old age. I remember thinking nothing of going straight out after work in my twenties. In fact, if I didn’t hit the bars, pubs or clubs, you could be certain there was something wrong with me. Every afternoon, about half an hour before the end of the day, you’d find a pack of us in the loo, all hastily reapplying make-up, putting on spare clothes, hairspray, perfume, from the seemingly endless caverns of our handbags, ready to flirt with City boys until we were too drunk to stand up.

  I used to think nothing of spending every night in ‘town’. Of course, I tell myself now, those were the days when you could actually find a black cab when it was going home time. Unlike now, when friends of mine have been forced to walk home to West Hampstead from Piccadilly Circus, turning round every few feet, just in case they should experience a minor miracle and spot an orange light in the distance.

  ‘So get the tube,’ Si says. ‘Mix with the common people for a change. See how the other half lives.’

  But I spend enough of my working day crammed in with people on the tube. At least my salary should enable me to afford the luxury of a black cab when we go out. It’s not my fault they all seem to desert the West End after seven p.m.

  But tonight I thought, what the hell, I could do with a fun night out. Is this a sign of getting old? That going out for dinner now means popping up the road to a comfortable, cosy local restaurant? That I never have to even consider making an effort with my clothes? That not only am I always home by eleven o’clock, but that if I weren’t I might possibly die of exhaustion?

  I wasn’t always like this. Honestly. In the early days, post-Martin, I threw myself into the club scene with wild abandon. Si would come and pick me up at midnight, and we’d hit the one-nighters all over town, ending up sipping coffee at Bar Italia in the early hours of the morning.

  To be honest, I’ve been feeling for some time that I’m slightly stuck in a rut. I love my friends. Would die for them. But part of me would quite like to meet a man, and unless I manage either to convert Si or to steal Josh from Lucy, neither of which is a particularly appealing option, I think it’s highly unlikely, unless I drastically change my life. Do something to meet more people.

  And Lucy’s plan seems to have come at exactly the right time. Think of all the new people I’d meet! Think about what it would be like to have my own business! To – oh joy of joys – go to work almost on the doorstep of my home!

  Do you know what I thought today? I sat at my desk thinking what the hell am I doing still working here? Because although the events of yesterday feel like a bit of a whirlwind, I do think that if anyone could make it work, it would be Lucy and I.

  Lucy of course doesn’t have a clue about business, or bookshops, but – and I swear I’m not making this up – on the rare occasions I venture into coffee shops and order cakes, even if they’re home-made they’re not half as good as Lucy’s.

  And Lucy doesn’t think it should be just cakes and home-made biscuits. She thinks easy sandwiches, beautifully presented on fresh ciabatta bread, slabs of basil and garlic focaccia with roasted aubergine and grilled mozzarella… even hearing her descriptions made my mouth water.

  It was all I could think about at work today. Work? I didn’t do any. I sat in my office, closed the door and fantasized the day away. By mid-morning I’d planned the lighting. By lunchtime Lucy and I were playing the convivial hosts, loved and adored by the entire community, and by the end of the day we were being written up in the Ham & High.

  ‘So what is wrong with Lucy?’ I ask again, when Si refuses to answer.

  ‘It’s not for me to say.’

  ‘Right,’ I mock. ‘If not you, then who?’

  ‘Oh, okay,’ he sighs. ‘If you insist. It’s just that Lucy’s wonderful, and we all adore her, but she’s not a businesswoman.’

  ‘But that’s the point, Si. That’s why Josh is looking into it before we do anything, but anyway I’m the one with the common sense. Lucy’s the creative person. She’ll help with the design, the concept, and, let’s face it, she is the best cook in London.’

  ‘That’s true,’ he agrees. ‘So explain to me exactly what you would be doing?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Cath, sweets, I know you have good business acumen, but it’s in advertising, not in bookshops. It’s all very well Lucy being the creative person, but you know next to nothing about running a bookshop, and I’m not sure if this isn’t too big a challenge for you.’

  ‘Actually, I think you’re wrong,’ I say with certainty, slightly pissed off at Si for pointing out the obvious, but pleased that it is firing my determination. ‘I mean, I’m sure Lucy wouldn’t have asked me if she didn’t think I could contribute something, and there’s no way Josh would let either of us do it if he didn’t think it was a viable proposition.

  ‘Plus it’s always been my dream, and I know the two of us could do it.’

  ‘Cath,’ Si says, suddenly serious. ‘Do you want my honest opinion?’

  I nod.

  ‘My honest opinion, and remember I’m only giving you this because I love you and I want you to be careful, but my honest opinion is that you should definitely become involved on some level, but certainly not throw in your job or do anything drastic until it’s established in the new site and it’s successful.’

  I know he’s right. Of course he’s right, but even as I hear his words I feel them float in one ear and out the other.

  ‘Stop it, Cath,’ Si says sternly, knowing exactly what I’m doing. ‘You know that it makes sense. Lucy doesn’t really have anything to lose, and if it went horribly wrong, then Josh could always pick up the pieces, but you would be the one with the most at stake here, and you stand to lose the most.

  ‘I’m not saying don’t do it, I’m saying think about it. Hell, get Lucy to do it by herself, work in the shop on weekends, organize reading groups, events, anything you want. Just don’t give everything up yet, that’s all.’

  I know what he’s saying makes sense. But I also know that there’s no way on earth I will let Lucy fulfil my lifelong dream without me in it. I just won’t tell Si. That’s all.

  ‘And by the way,’ he adds with a twinkle, secure in the knowledge that I’ve listened to him and taken his advice, ‘
if I gave Lucy my application form for a Saturday job, would you make sure I got it?’

  ‘Only if you pay me enough.’ I squeeze a smile, and we sit in silence for a few moments, then Si looks at me and lets out a big sigh.

  ‘I know you too bloody well.’ He shakes his head.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re sitting there thinking: screw Si, I’m going to do it anyway.’

  I know I’m not supposed to be smiling at this, but I can’t help it: a grin flashes up.

  ‘Cath, I’m just saying that I don’t want you to lose everything.’

  I reach out and cover Si’s hand with my own. ‘Listen, my darling,’ I say. ‘I know you’ve got my best interests at heart, but I really do think I need to take a risk and I need to do this. At the very least I need to explore every option.

  ‘And as for the money,’ I continue, ‘Josh was absolutely right. It has been sitting in the bank doing nothing, so even if it all went horribly wrong and I lost everything, I wouldn’t actually be losing anything, if you see what I mean. And Si, I hate my job. I can’t carry on doing it for much longer.’ I pause for breath but before I have a chance to continue Si pulls the twizzler out of his rather revolting-looking daiquiri and sucks it slowly.

  ‘So let me ask you this,’ he says finally.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You basically want to be Ellen, don’t you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’s what you’ve been describing all night. Ellen’s bookshop. Buy the Book.’

  ‘Oh my God!’ My mouth drops open. ‘Si, you’re brilliant! That’s exactly what I want it to be like. If I did it,’ I add quickly, in a mumble. ‘Which I probably won’t.’

  ‘I know, I know.’ Si waves me quiet impatiently. ‘So you’re Ellen. Lucy is Audrey, except she’s not dippy, she doesn’t have red hair, and she dresses better. Portia, if she were here, would be Paige. Josh, I suppose, being handsome and decidedly heterosexual, despite being taken, would be Adam. Or Spence. Depending on whether you’re a fan of the early years or not.’

  ‘Uh oh.’

  I start to laugh, knowing Si so well, knowing what’s coming.