by Ali Berg
‘Coming right up,’ Dino said with a scowl, already beginning on her order.
As Bea was about to leave, Dino held his finger up and mouthed, Just give me a second. Bea shrugged and stepped to the side. She took out her phone, hoping again she might have received an email, a Facebook message, a text, or even a Words with Friends instant message from Cassandra.
Hey Cass,
I’m thinking of you. I heard from Mum that you’re back at work. That’s so great! I’m still in Melbourne and you’ll be happy to know that things aren’t going too well for me here – I hate my job and I have no friends. Karma’s a bitch, hey?
Anyway, once again, I’m so immensely sorry. I love you and miss you more than I miss summer fruit in winter. Please, please get in touch when you’re ready.
Bea xo
‘So, what do you think?’ Dino asked as she pressed send on her one hundred and seventeenth unacknowledged message to Cassandra.
‘About what?’ Bea looked up, confused. The five-adjectives-too-long-coffee-orderer guzzled her drink in the corner, a dab of cream hanging from the tip of her nose.
‘Jesus, Bea. You never pay attention to anything but the screen in front of you,’ Dino remarked.
Bea stared at him. Dino and Bea were friendly, but not quite friendly enough for his sudden abruptness.
‘I’m performing at some slam poetry gig tomorrow night,’ Dino began, looking down at Agatha Christie. ‘I have a spare ticket – my mum pulled out last minute, which probably says something about the quality of my art. But anyway, I thought you might like to come? Broaden your Melbourne horizons?’
Slam poetry? Bea wasn’t sure it was exactly her thing, but then again, she was hardly swimming in invitations. Besides, a chance to see Dino recite poetry on stage? Priceless.
‘Wunderbar, barista.’ Bea smiled encouragingly and made a note of the details in her phone. Dino nodded decisively and began cleaning his coffee machine.
‘Oh by the way, is it okay if I get a couple of prizes delivered here? I would get them sent to my house but I’m never home to sign for them. And we aren’t allowed personal packages sent to the office,’ Bea moaned.
‘Ah, sure, I guess. What sort of “prizes”?’ Dino narrowed his eyes, confused.
‘Oh, well, you know 25 words or less competitions?’
‘Mmm…’
‘I’ve sort of, got a knack for them.’ Bea shrugged.
Dino smiled, amused. ‘A knack?’
‘Yeah, I enter a couple a week, and I often win. The secret is to be super honest in your answers. No fluffing around, sucking up to the company who’s giving away the prize. Just tell it like it is, you know?’ Bea leaned over the counter, as if letting Dino in on some long held conspiracy theory.
‘I think the secret is that you enter a few a week! Who has time for that?’ Dino laughed.
‘I don’t have any friends here – remember? I’ve got loads of free time!’
‘Okay, sure, you can get your prizes sent here, you weirdo.’
‘Broaden your Melbourne horizons.’ Dino’s words had stuck in Bea’s head all afternoon, so after work, Bea found herself strolling down bustling Brunswick Street, eyeing off young couples making the most of the last of the longer days, drinking glasses of wine on outdoor terraces, and glaring at best friends grabbing each other’s arms while laughing hysterically. She so desperately wanted what they had. To think, just a matter of weeks ago, she and Cassandra had mirrored these women, meeting for their weekly ‘book club for two’, trading novels, gossip and pop culture titbits. A custom which they had practised just about all their lives. Only instead of hot chocolates, they now drank wine, and rather than rehashing MSN Messenger faux pas, they discussed, in minute detail, Bea’s latest failed Tinder date.
She had come to Brunswick Street because her copy of Lonely Planet: Melbourne & Victoria had told her to. It promised a vibrant and friendly atmosphere boasting a youthful and eclectic crowd. It had also guaranteed a lovely bookstore with knowledgeable staff and an excellent selection of novels. And, after leaving most of her books behind in Perth (she had put a pile of some of her favourites on Cassandra’s front porch as some kind of symbolic peace offering, but later learned that Cassandra had set the whole thing alight), Bea desperately needed to add to her dismal Melbourne collection, as well as force herself to go beyond the familiar five block radius in which she resided. Bea loved her new neighbourhood, Windsor. Leafy winding streets, and quaint Victorian terraces with brightly coloured doors, made exploring the area a treat. But she couldn’t truly call herself a Melburnian before venturing north of the Yarra River.
Arriving at The Little Brunswick Street Bookstore, she pushed open its glass door and heard a small bell chime. Inside, the familiar smell of fresh paperbacks beckoned her like an old friend. Books of all shapes and sizes lined the shelves that snaked around the store, and Bea immediately felt at home.
Two women, one with brown hair and the other with fiery red, greeted her from behind the counter. The redhead was wearing a strange knitted hat and a black knitted T-shirt, and cradled a small baby. The brunette had her feet propped on top of the counter, a copy of The Fault in Our Stars open in her hand. She took one look at Bea and shouted, ‘Rom-com!’, and then went back to reading. Bea rolled her eyes, assuming they were guessing what book she was intending to buy. She had heard that booksellers sometimes played games like that. She walked slowly through the aisles, eyeing off the classics, then Young Adult, followed by thrillers.
So, what’s your plan, Bea? You came here to make a fresh start, but aren’t you really just running away? You hate your job, you have no friends and your new balayage highlights look ridiculous with your black hair. She self-consciously tied her long, now slightly blonde hair in a ponytail. What are you going to do to make things better, Bea? How are you going to shake things up?
She absentmindedly picked up a copy of The Huntress, flicked through the first few pages, and racked her brain. How could she get out of this new rut she had created for herself? She could feel the eyes of the women at the front counter watching her and looked up. They smiled at her. The store was empty apart from the four of them, and she felt a sort of silent connection, a paperback-loving comradery, with these two nameless bookworms.
‘Try our second-hand section, it’s new.’ The brunette woman pointed towards the back of the store. Bea nodded and followed the direction of the woman’s outstretched hand. There, she found a stout antique armoire filled with beautiful old covers. Some hardbacks, some clothbound and some paper, but all with the worn look of a book much loved. She had always had a soft spot for second-hand books. There was something about reading the same book somebody else had already lived through. Excitedly, Bea flicked through the first few books and then paused. One was peeking up a little taller than its neighbours, as if it had been bookmarked just for her. She lifted it cautiously, grazing her fingers across its frayed edges and over the embossed title. Meeting Oliver Bennett by Emma Delcour. The cover blushed a dark shade of green, and was adorned with gold letters, flecks and imperfections, it instantly exuded intrigue. Bea hadn’t heard of the book before, but the front matter revealed that it had been published in 1994, after being translated from French to English.
Glancing around, she checked if the women were still watching her, but saw that their heads were again buried in their own books. The redhead had hers propped in a cook-book stand, and was rocking her baby gently.
Turning the book over, Bea squinted at the slightly faded blurb.
Meeting Oliver Bennett is nothing short of magic. With broad shoulders, dark features, and a mind that ticks faster than an Imperial Model 58 typewriter, he makes Amelia’s heart blossom with a love she had never dreamed possible. After a brief but impassioned courtship, Oliver gets down on one knee and proposes to cherish her forever.
And then the first bomb drops.
A daring World War Two story of bravery, the injustice of war and the unshakable determi
nation of two star-crossed lovers amid the chaos and devastation of London. Once you meet Oliver Bennett, nothing will ever be the same again.
Bea practically swooned on the spot. A historical fiction romance was just what the doctor ordered! She opened the cover. Chapter One. She ran her fingers down the page, imagining the new friends waiting to be discovered. No character is one dimensional (even Miss Trunchbull had her charm), and they often have ways of surprising you. In fact, on the days when she would row with her sister Lizzie, or on the odd occasion when she couldn’t seem to put a foot right with Cassandra, Bea wished she could be surrounded only by fictional characters, rather than those who inhabited the real world. How fun it would be to have dinner with Don Tillman, to ride a rollercoaster with Jo March or to gossip the night away with Emma Woodhouse.
She turned the page and her eyes caught on a scribble punctuating the bottom left corner. She squinted and pulled the book closer to her face.
your name is my favourite word
Each letter curled neatly into the next, without a single capital or space breaking its flow. The flawless cursive script gave off a primary school teacher vibe.
Bea frowned and flipped forward a few pages. This time, a sentence was underlined in thick, black ink. Three pages on, yellow highlighter dotted the paper, illuminating random words: fell, alarmed, disjointed, weathered, thick fog, him. Again, she shifted through the pages, moving chunks of paper at a time, until she arrived in the middle of the book. And there, wedged in the margin, she found another note.
ready or not?
Three little words. A question.
Helloisthisyourbook
Hi everyone!
I never thought I’d make an Instagram account (I don’t live the kind of life that’s worth snapping), but alas here I am. And here’s why: I’m looking for the owner of something. And apparently hashtags are the new mind map.
Today I bought this book because it seemed to be calling my name. And boy am I glad that I did. You see, when I cracked its spine (figuratively – I’m not an animal!) I discovered a rather extraordinary thing: scribbles. Pages and pages of personal annotations and underlines. All lowercase letters and old-school Bs and Zs. And the meaning – what meaning! What kind of person comes up with notes like ‘scowls won’t cover that big heart of yours’ and ‘a renewed brightness shifting shadows in your wake’? Could these be the scribbles of my dreams?
DM me if you’ve seen anything like this before, or if you’re interested in discovering what other gems this story holds, stay tuned. #ilovereading #bookish
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Comments (1):
lostinthepages41: Welcome to #Bookstagram. You’ll never leave ♥
Cass, I turn 30 next week! I never thought this was where I would be. And I certainly never dreamed that you would be anywhere but by my side. If a trip to Melbourne is on the cards, please come to my drinks on Saturday. We’ll be at The Woods of Windsor from 8.30pm. I have to show you this second-hand book I bought at The Little Brunswick Street Bookstore (the Boffins Books of Melbourne). Meeting Oliver Bennett. It’s filled with the most startling and raw annotations. You would go crazy for it! I miss you more than I miss Dumbledore. Love you xxx
Bea had been up all night reading the beautiful scribbles that adorned the dog-eared pages of Meeting Oliver Bennett. She was so consumed by the handwritten annotations that she had barely taken in the story. In fact, she couldn’t stop thinking about the heartfelt notes, and who they were describing, as she made her way to work. The person on the other end of the ballpoint was like another complex, intricate character in the book. And the best part? This character existed in the real world! And maybe I could find them? She desperately needed to fill the vacancy left behind in her ‘book club for two’, Bea thought before shaking the feeling. She patted the hardcover novel in her canvas bag to ensure it was still there, and smoothed the front of the pink polka-dot shirt she was wearing. She had bought it the other day, thinking it was the epitome of Melbourne Writers Fest chic.
Bea stepped inside The Nook and spotted Dino instantly, wearing a shirt at least two sizes too big. Bea rolled her eyes. He had admitted to her once that he shopped exclusively at op shops; something about not wanting to spend money on things he could get for half the price. But despite his best intentions (or maybe it was intentional, knowing Dino), he tended to look a little misshapen. He was tapping a cinnamon shaker over a reusable coffee cup, as a tiny woman dressed head to toe in black stared longingly at the drink. The woman was patting Agatha Christie aggressively on the head, while her other hand held onto her phone for dear life. As soon as Dino handed the drink to the woman, she scurried away, lips pressed to the cup, eyes now ogling her phone.
Back straight, hand on hip, Bea stood at the counter before Dino, beaming.
‘Bea? You’ve got a spring in your step. Still juiced from a big night of clubbing?’ Dino chuckled.
‘Reading, more like it,’ she said, the excitement of her literary discovery practically oozing off her. ‘I found the most extraordinary book yes—’
Dino held a finger up. ‘I think I hear the oven. Sunday called in sick today and I’m like a headless chook trying to keep this ship sailing. Give me a tick.’ He hurried to the kitchen.
She felt the gentle lick of Agatha Christie on her wrist. Taking a step back, she whipped out her phone, opened the camera, and crouched on the ground in an attempt to get the best angle. She was trying to get the perfect combination of cute dog and pastries, which was no easy feat – she resorted to lying on the floor. Satisfied with her work, Bea picked herself up and dusted herself off. She took the cup Dino, who had returned with a tray of scones, held out to her, twirling it around to reveal the quote.
‘Lives a mimicry, passions a quotation,’ she read aloud.
‘It’s Oscar Wilde.’
‘I know it’s Oscar Wilde,’ Bea said pertly, even though she didn’t. Despite her Year 9 English teacher Miss Lew’s best efforts, The Picture of Dorian Gray had only ever been that: grey.
‘So I suppose you know what I’m trying to say.’ He leaned across the counter, scooped Agatha Christie into his arms and held half a piece of fruit toast to her mouth, which she nibbled at intensely.
‘Of course I do.’ Bea took a long swig of her latte to cover the fact that she did not, in fact, know.
‘It means that today, for some reason, you’re being like everyone else. Please don’t tell me you’re one of those Instagram influencers.’ He looked at Agatha Christie as he talked, as if she totally knew where he was coming from, then gestured to the small sign hanging next to shelves of coffee beans and takeaway cups, which read: #NoFoodPorn. ‘You’re too good for that, Beatrix Babbage.’
Bea frowned. ‘You’re such an old man, Dino.’
Dino shrugged. ‘Ever thought how pertinent the saying, “If a tree falls in a forest, but there’s nobody to hear it fall, does it make a sound?” is today? I mean, nobody has fun these days without the validation of somebody else liking it!’
‘I don’t know what you’re on about.’ Bea didn’t need his holier-than-thou attitude dampening her spirit. Perhaps today wasn’t the day to reveal her discovery and social media venture. She picked up a sugar packet sitting in a jar next to her and waved it assertively in Dino’s direction.
‘What are you doing now?’
‘I’m putting a spell on you, to stop you from being so judgmental.’ She continued to wave the sugar stick at him, for once not caring how ridiculous she looked.
Dino nodded as if he understood perfectly well, and then placed his hand softly on top of hers, putting an end to her incessant waving. ‘So, will I see you at the poetry slam tonight?’ he said nonchalantly.
‘Of course you will,’ Bea said, then thought of the Mystery Writer, somewhere out there in the world, and, bolstered by this thought added, ‘Can I bring a friend though?’
‘A friend?’
‘Yes. There’s a chance I may make my first one today, a
nd if I do I will simply have to bring him or her along.’
‘Okay then. Sure.’
Bea sat on the toilet, black jeans scrunched around her ankles, Meeting Oliver Bennett balanced precariously on her knees. She had been relishing in the annotations and when she heard the pitter-patter of heels and the door of the cubicle next to her open and close, she lifted her eyes from the page. Bea angled her head so that she could get a good look at the woman’s shoes: a pair of glittery, navy blue Jimmy Choos with a thin strap, kitten heel and diamanté pendant at the front.
‘Martha?’ Bea whispered.
Bea had first met Martha when she was sitting in this exact position – and had dropped her bookmark. The two had gotten talking about reading in unusual places, and the rest was history. But when Martha had flushed, Bea felt a sudden embarrassment, not wanting to say something stupid to this well-read, smart woman, face-to-face. So she stayed on her toilet seat, and had done so every time since.
Never having actually seen each other face-to-face in real life, Bea recognised Martha by her parade of fabulous shoes.
‘I rewatched the finale again last night,’ Martha said in her posh English accent. She was talking about the 1995 Pride and Prejudice series, which they had recently discovered they were both infatuated with.
‘That double wedding. I still dream about it,’ Bea sighed, folding a piece of toilet paper into a neat square.
‘Who do you prefer, Jane and Bingley or Elizabeth and Darcy?’ Martha asked.
‘Is that even a question? Definitely Elizabeth and Darcy,’ Bea said. Her conversations with Martha had thus far been limited to Classics specific banter, but today Bea was someone different. Today she had the mysterious annotations – written by her literary soulmate – to encourage her to be a little more open. She cleared her throat. ‘So, do you have plans tonight? I’m going to this little poetry slam if you want to join?’
