Page 9 of The Bookshop By the Loch

She dropped her tone to a conspiratorial level. “I don’t suppose you have Dame Alicia’s phone number? I would love to invite someone of her calibre for supper. I feel we’d have such a rapport.”

I clutched my bag tighter to my side, keen to make a sharp exit and ignore her question. Dame Alicia would have me hunted down and flayed.

One of Flora’s friends piped up from behind her like a meerkat. “There was a feature in one of those glossy magazines about Dame Alicia last week. Her home is spectacular. It reminded me a lot of what used to be the Stafford-Wells property. You know, that old house out on the coastal road.”

Flora’s expression became odd. “We’re not idiots, Martha,” she snapped. “We’re aware of which house it is!”

Martha blinked in consternation. “Alright, Flora. Keep your hair on. I was merely saying Dame Alicia’s house looked rather like the Stafford-Wells place, with its balconied—”

Flora cut her off. “Yes, you’ve already said that.” She fiddled around with her rose- imprinted scarf. “I’m sure Dame Alicia has more class in her little finger than that Stafford-Wells lot ever did.”

Everybody else exchanged puzzled glances.

I saw an opportunity to escape while they were bickering. “Well, thank you once again for your kind comments. Now, I really must get on.”

Flora gathered her nautical jacket around her, stuck in her own thoughts for a few moments. Then she rallied her troops. “Once again, Lexie, so sorry to hear about the demise of your job. Dear me. It’s true what they say, isn’t it? There’s always something going on in one’s life!”

“It’s not a demise,” I replied, my face tightening. “I’m just considering my options.”

“Send our regards to your mother and grandfather,” added Flora, thrusting out one arm to indicate to her squad it was time to go.

The cluster of well-turned-out women moved away, chattering and proclaiming in the windswept April sunshine.

I stepped to one side, allowing a harassed woman pushing a buggy to ease past me on the pavement.

Now that I was alone again, I decided to stroll along to the end of the high street and pop into our local bookshop, Book Ends. It’d make me feel closer to Grandma Pattie. The prospect of being surrounded by gorgeous books, with their vanilla scent and embossed covers, made me pick up speed in my urgency to get there. The whisper from the pages as you turn them over; the spines standing to attention on the shelves; the feel of someone else’s thoughts and creativity, cradled in your hands.

Even though it felt as though publishing had turned its back on me, the lure of being in Book Ends was all-consuming. Nothing got my heart racing more than the thought of a bookshop. Ok, Ryan Reynolds did, but for different reasons.

I struggled to recall the last time I’d been in Book Ends, what with just snatching the odd harassed flying visit back to see Mum and Grandpa, while I lived and worked in town.

Book Ends was a mullion-windowed affair, with flower boxes and an old-fashioned swinging shop sign above the entrance. It also possessed an uninterrupted and enviable view of the loch.

Trevor Newman had owned it for the past thirty years. It was a treasure trove, deceptively large despite its bijou appearance from the outside and stocked every genre, appealing to everyone from literary lovers and romcom fans to amateur sleuths devouring crime, thrillers, and history buffs.

Grandma Pattie started taking me into the bookshop from the age of about four and she would sit and read to me or tell me stories about the books on the shelves. It seemed so sophisticated and grown-up. Other times, she would tell me tales about the authors themselves.

I devoured everyone from Judith Kerr and Enid Blyton to Wilbur Smith and Sydney Sheldon, all under the auspices of my book-loving grandmother and the magical, enticing atmosphere of Book Ends.

There had been a few scattered tables for book lovers to sit at, peruse their purchases or just relax and absorb the serene atmosphere.

Trevor Newman was a charming well-read widower, who was now in his late sixties, and who had encouraged me when I was a self-conscious teenager, prattling on about how much I wanted to work in publishing.

He’d offered me a summer job during the school holidays and I would spend my lunch breaks on the shop floor, nibbling on the packed lunch Mum had made me and savouring the sights and scents of the books, fascinated by which novels customers were buying and imagining my name appearing in the acknowledgements from grateful authors, saying what a talented and encouraging editor I was.

The sign of the bookshop ahead spurred me onwards, its gold and chocolate lettering a welcome sight, as it gently swung in the breeze.

But as I negotiated my way around a couple of shoppers engaged in animated conversation, I noticed an odd triangular sign had just been erected and was jutting out above the bookshop door.

What did it say?

I drew up level with the entryway.

No. That couldn’t be right. I must be imagining it.

Closing Down – Shop for Lease.

Chapter Four