‘Another for the thriller pile,’ I say to myself, standing at the table in the middle of the shop floor, and placing the book on the stack of titles that could topple at any moment.
I’m heading through to the back, carrying the pile, when the brass bell above the door chimes and a man walks in, not much older than me, with scruffy blond hair.
‘Morning,’ I say. ‘Excuse the mess.’
‘No problem,’ he says, glancing around.
‘Have you been in before?’ I call, it being unusual that anyone under retirement age comes in, let alone a good-looking guy.
‘A long time ago,’ he answers, putting down a supermarket bag.
‘We’ve got second-hand books through the back, and new titles in the front,’ I tell him as I reposition a stack of books to make room for the ones under my arm, hoping he isn’t judging the state of the place.
‘Cool,’ he replies, putting his hands in the pockets of his jacket, and casually beginning to browse the shelves.
Returning through to the front, I realise he reminds me of someone in a crime show Dad likes – Jack Lowden, I think his name is; he’s got the same strong jawline and intense look.
‘What’s with all the Frances Henderson merch?’ he asks after he’s had a good root around, gesturing at the various promo posters displayed above the bookshelves.
‘She owns the place, with my dad. She’s my mum,’ I add, hoping I don’t sound as nervy as I feel, now that his gaze is turned on me.
‘Frances Henderson is your mum?’ he asks, a glimmer of something registering in his green eyes.
I nod. ‘I’m Carly, her daughter.’
‘Flynn Gardener,’ he says, reaching out his hand.
‘Nice to meet you,’ I say, our hands clasped. I’m suddenly aware of the rise and fall of my chest. ‘You know Mum’s work?’
‘Are you kidding? Of course!’ His smile lights up his face. ‘My mum has all of her books. I grew up on Frances Henderson. I had no idea she lived in Edinburgh.’
‘She’s about as Edinburgh as it gets,’ I laugh, and a little nervy moment sits between us, me flicking my fringe from my eyes, he rubbing his stubble, his eyes still firmly fixed on mine.
‘And your part in the business is . . .?’ he asks, as I reach for another pile of books.
‘Oh. No,’ I shake my head, putting the stack back down. ‘I don’t really work here; I just help out from time to time. Volunteer bookseller.’
He cocks his head to one side as if to suggest I’ve left something unsaid.
‘I worked for a children’s literacy charity until recently. Funding was pulled. You know how it goes.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he says, his brow creasing. ‘Work like that isn’t easily come by.’
‘Right,’ I say, glad that he gets it, because even if it wasn’t quite my thing, the office environment, the lack of influence, at least I felt I was doing something worthwhile in a sector I enjoyed.
‘Nice to have grown up in a bookshop,’ he says kindly, turning over a book to glance at the blurb. ‘Assuming you did?’
‘Since I was a baby.’
He looks at me to continue.
‘When I was a toddler, I used to act along to my dad reading stories to Mother and Me groups, and in primary school I helped keep the kids’ section tidy,’ I say. His eyes smile. I stop short of telling him about earning teenage pocket money by cleaning and stocking the shelves, and placing orders through university, and how I’ve helped Dad out whenever I can ever since.
‘Sounds idyllic,’ he says, heading through to the gloomy back section, where Dad insists on having a huge stand of books in front of the French windows. Flynn sneaks a look out back. ‘You couldn’t be better positioned.’
‘You’d think,’ I say, knowing that he’s referring to the affluence of the surrounding neighbourhoods – the Dean Village, Comely Bank and Stockbridge – and all the yummy mummies who would spend a small fortunein the bookshop if I could just convince Dad to spruce the place up and start marketing it effectively.
‘I guess it’s not an easy time to be an independent.’
