Flynn folds his arms as if to brace himself.
‘The oil didn’t just spill on the books, it’s also all over the cakes for the afternoon teas.’
‘Jesus, no booksandno food,’ says Flynn. He squeezes the bridge of his nose.
‘It never rains but it pours,’ says Grant.
‘Tell me about it,’ he replies, his phone pinging several times in succession.
‘What’s the contingency plan?’ I ask, having learnt after the no-book mishap that every event needs a back-up plan.
‘There isn’t one,’ says Flynn, and I squint, certain I must have misheard him.
‘Has nothing like this happened in the past? You must have had books go missing or damaged, food go off or the wrong ingredients.’
‘Chefs always take care of the food, and I’ve never done a book event before.’
‘Um? Excuse me?’ I stammer, my mind leaps back to the bookshop and all his chat of Mum’s books, reader excitement, and book festival formats. Suddenly any doubts I had seem vindicated; mentally I add dishonest to opportunist, and the sensitive guy I thought I met in Edinburgh fades further into the distance.
‘Let’s think,’ I say, parking my irritation. ‘It’s coming up to lunchtime so we can close the bookstall for a while.’
‘But after that we’ve got another round of talks with no books for sale,’ says Flynn.
It’s then that I remember Jude telling me about a hen do she’d been on last year. The bride had fancied pizza on the train from Edinburgh to London, so Jude had figured out when the train was due to pull into the next station, ordered a pizza, and had the delivery guy come to the platform to hand it over.
‘What are our next stops?’ I ask Grant.
‘Newcastle in just over half an hour, Durham in under an hour, and York in around two hours’ time.’
‘Fine,’ I say, a plan shaping up in my head.
‘What are you thinking?’ Flynn asks, between firing off messages on his phone.
‘All three of those cities are university towns, they’re bound to have big bookshops. There must be a way to get more stock there.’
‘Let’s call them and find out, see if they can send what we need in taxis,’ says Flynn, as if reading my mind.
‘And what about the cakes?’ asks Grant.
‘Easy,’ I reply, thinking of a trip I took with my parents to York when I was a teenager. ‘There used to be a huge bakery there. We’ve got two hours. If they are still there, that would give them plenty of time to put boxes together and get them to the station.’
‘Fingers crossed. Let’s do it,’ says Flynn, and Grant pumps a fist.
‘Cool,’ I say, rapidly googling all the bookshops in the three cities and dividing them up amongst us to call. As I do that, Grant answers a call that’s come through on his walkie-talkie.
‘I hate to be the bearer of further bad news,’ he says, his face scrunched in concern. ‘But the driver’s just told me there are signal delays, meaning we might not arrive into London on time.’
‘Shit,’ says Flynn.
‘This is good news,’ I say, trying to remain upbeat. ‘This gives us more time to get the supplies we need.’
‘You don’t understand,’ he says, showing me his phone, lit up with messages. ‘I have to get to London on time, or else Christopher Rose is going to be left waiting, and everybody knows, Christopher Rose hates to wait.’
11.
FRAN
At the end of the workshop, most of the participants filter out with a word of thanks and a smile before heading to the dining carriage for lunch. The Welsh mums and the friends in their sixties linger to chat a while, eventually asking me to sign copies of books and then leaving to join the others. Only Ginny remains as I gather up my notepad and pen.
