Another customer says goodbye as she leaves without buying anything, walking around the tall man, who seems completely oblivious to how much space he’s taking up. Eventually he stands back up and suddenly realises what a mess he’s left on the counter because he rushes over and starts stuffing things back into his bag. When everything’s in except the water bottle, he puts the bag back over one shoulder, wipes the counter down with his hand, unscrews the cap of the bottle and pours some into the vase and rearranges the daffodils, trying to perk them up a bit. I admire his optimism because they look beyond help to me.
‘Anyway, hi. These limp, crushed flowers, that wet spot on the carpet, and the possible concussion are to welcome you to the area. And don’t tell me I shouldn’t have; I assure you I already know.’
‘At least the vase was plastic.’
He taps his temple to show his smart thinking. ‘Oh, I learnt long ago that me and things made of glass don’t mix.’
It makes me grin again because I also don’t mix with glass, and I have the scars to prove it.
‘So, if you’re not going to throw me straight out of your shop for such a dire first impression, hello. I’m Dimitri.’ He holds his hand out and I shake it, his long fingers closing around mine, which suddenly feel a lot clammier than they did moments ago. ‘You must be Hallie.’
‘Dimitri?’ I repeat, trying not to show my surprise that yet more people know of me. ‘Like the hero in Anastasia?’
‘I think you mean the crook in Anastasia, but yes. I’ve never had anyone make that connection before.’
‘I’ve never met anyone called Dimitri before.’ I’ve shaken his hand for far too long now and I reluctantly extract my fingers. ‘And he might’ve started off a crook, but he was a hero by the end.’
His cheeks start to redden, so I quickly continue. ‘I love that movie. I still sing the first lines of “Journey to the Past” in my head whenever I have to do something scary. I was humming it this morning when I walked in here.’
Maybe I shouldn’t have admitted that aloud to someone who I assume is a customer, but there’s something about him that’s so disarming.
His deeply curved upper lip tips up into a smile. ‘Got to admit, it would’ve terrified me. You obviously have heart and courage that hasn’t failed or deserted you,’ he says, referencing the song, and something inside me does a happy dance at someone else knowing one of my favourite songs. ‘And I’m sorry again for the catastrophic entrance. I’m sure that was all you needed on your first morning.’
‘Don’t worry about it. Like I said, it’s usually me dropping things everywhere. On the plus side, for ten minutes it took my mind off how much the shop needs a good clean.’
He laughs as he pokes the water bottle back into his bag and gives the flowers a forlorn look.
‘So what can I do for you?’ I ask, wondering if I sound as reluctant as I feel because, of all the conversations I’ve had so far today, this is definitely the one I want to end the least.
‘I don’t suppose Robert mentioned me, did he?’
‘I don’t think so. He didn’t mention much at all. He even forgot his goldfish.’ I point to the bowl on the window ledge.
‘Oh, Heathcliff?’
‘That’s his name? Because he’s so reminiscent of the tortured antihero roaming the moors?’
‘He didn’t forget him – Heathcliff’s the bookshop goldfish. He comes with the shop.’
‘Oh, great,’ I mutter. ‘I’m not good at keeping things alive. I had a houseplant once that, had it been sentient, would’ve sued me for negligence. And won.’
His laugh turns into a guffaw. ‘Heathcliff’s been here for years. Children love him. There used to be a whole competition for who could make up the best story about him.’ He leans his elbows on the counter and beckons me to come nearer, and when I do, I meet his eyes again and catch a whiff of his woody, smoky aftershave and something goes all flittery in my chest. ‘To let you in on a secret, that’s actually Heathcliff Number Four after the other Heathcliffs have gone to swim in the big aquarium in the sky, but you can’t mention that to any customers under pain of death. Heathcliff is immortal and always will be.’ He winks at me. ‘There’s a pet shop at the retail park on the outskirts of town that provides replacement Heathcliffs whenever the not-quite-so-immortal need arises.’
There’s something about him that’s so open and endearing. I like him instantly.
‘And between you and me, I don’t know how to gender fish but given the way he looks at some of the dogs that walk past, I suspect that one might be Mrs Heathcliff. Talk about a randy mare.’
I dissolve into a fit of giggles and he pushes himself off the counter and stands up straight again, and he’s so tall that I have to crick my neck to meet his bright blue eyes that are shining with mischief.
‘Right, so if a sex-crazed fish wasn’t enough to ruin your day, I kind of have a favour to ask that I was hoping Robert would’ve already mentioned to save me this awkwardness.’
‘Go on …’
‘I’m working on an update of an old book of Italian fairy tales.’ He pats the stack of sketchbooks still on the counter. ‘Pentamerone by Giambattista Basile. It was first published in the 1630s but the edition you’ve got here is from the 1800s. Do you know it?’
I shake my head.
‘Well, it used to be in the library, and when that closed, Robert did a deal with the local council to buy all their books, and the copy I was working from ended up here. And because it’s so old and eye-wateringly valuable, and I haven’t got a spare two thousand quid to buy it, and Robert always said that because he got it in the bulk deal and didn’t pay anywhere near full value, he didn’t feel right expecting me to pay so much for something that would’ve been free to use had the library stayed open, he’s very kindly let me come here every day and sketch from it.’
The idea that he comes in every day makes something in my mind overheat. Even with the catastrophic entrance, I can already tell that I wouldn’t mind seeing him more often.
‘I swear I’m quiet and don’t take up much room. Contrary to my entrance this morning. I’d say I’m not usually like that, but honestly, I’m a walking disaster, though I usually manage to contain it in public for short amounts of time.’
His bad luck reminds me of myself so much, and I’m pretty sure it’s impossible to say no to someone called Dimitri given how much my nine-year-old self loved Anastasia.
‘I sit in the reading area, but if it gets busy and other people want the space, I take myself into that corner where the book is kept and sit on the floor.’ He points to the far right corner at the back, a little nook of shelves squeezed in under the stairs. It’s Robert’s Rare and Valuable book section that I’ve never looked in because, like Dimitri, I also don’t have a couple of grand to spare.
‘I know I’ve got such a nerve in asking, and this is your shop now, so of course you’re absolutely free to say no. I can find versions online, but they’re all abridged modern translations, which aren’t the same …’ He kind of winces and smiles at the same time like he’s expecting me to refuse.
He has a smile that’s so wide, it’s almost like he’s baring both sets of teeth, but in the best way possible.
‘Honestly, I have no idea what book you’re talking about. I didn’t even know there was a book of that value here. Go ahead. Do what you normally do. If it was fine with Robert, I’m not going to change that. Besides, I owe you one for the crushed flowers and knowing Heathcliff’s name. I thought I was going to be calling him “Fishy” forever.’
He almost bounces on the spot and his whole face glows as his smile somehow gets unbelievably wider, and it’s the kind of smile that’s impossible not to smile back at. ‘Oh, I could kiss you.’ He looks embarrassed. ‘I won’t, obviously, because I’ve already humiliated myself enough for one morning without adding sexual harassment to the list as well. But thank you, and I promise you won’t even know I’m here.’
He ga
thers up his sketchbook, gives the floppy daffodils one final spruce, which does nothing to help their sorry-looking state, hoists his bag higher up his shoulder, and walks off towards the back of the shop, singing Kate Bush’s ‘Wuthering Heights’ loudly as he goes, swaying around and swishing an imaginary floaty dress, which is exactly what I do every time I hear that song.
And Nicole thought working in a bookshop would be boring.
Chapter 3
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.’
The Little Bookshop of Love Stories Page 5
