Page 93 of The Wedding Forecast

‘I’ve felt that way about a book before,’ I say, nodding. My hands feel a little shaky.

‘Young people read such dross these days. And write it.’

‘They do. I’m sorry,’ I say. My professional facade is slipping. Half of me feels the urge to defend the young people of today, and the other is worried she’s right. Maybe I am a writer of worthless dross. Imagine if she knew what I was writing next. I should print her out my manuscript and get her to mark all the worst bits. What would she say about the sex on an office desk? That would be a ‘hurl it across the room’ moment for sure.

‘No need to be sorry, dear, you didn’t write it. Or sell it to me,’ the woman says.

‘No,’ I whisper. ‘I didn’t.’ I am finding it hard to swallow.

‘Well, recommend me something meaty and serious, can you? Something masculine. With heft.’ When she says the word heft, she makes motions with her hands that look like the kind of motion I make to indicate someone has big boobs, but that cannot be what she means.

I nod. My mind is spinning. What can I give her? Every single book I have ever known has disappeared from my mind. My thoughts are stuck on her finger hitting page fifty-five, the word dross. I walk over to the new-releases table and hover, then I move to fiction shelves.

‘Nothing light. And, please, nothing funny,’ she says, doing the air quotes with her hands. ‘I’ve learned my lesson with funny.’

I hand her Demon Copperhead by Barbara Kingsolver, which she looks at and wrinkles her nose.

‘Too depressing,’ she says.

I show her a Kazuo Ishiguro (‘too weird’), a Colm Toíbín (‘too Irish’), a Trent Dalton (‘too Queensland’). My eye is starting to twitch. I can see the other customers in the shop are listening in. I need this interaction to end, so I can start working on never thinking about it again.

She settles on an Ian McEwan as Bobbi walks back in, holding coffees.

‘You wouldn’t believe what the barista—’

‘Bobbi!’ the woman exclaims. ‘I’m returning that awful book you sold me last week.’

‘Which awful book…’ Bobbi’s voice trails off when she sees my book on the counter, and my face. She quickly puts the coffees down and hurries over.

‘Your new girl is helping me, it’s fine,’ the woman says, waving her hand, bracelets jangling. ‘Now, this one looks good,’ she says to me.

She brings the Ian McEwan to the counter, and Bobbi slides it into a bag for her.

‘She’s a smart one,’ the woman says, pointing to me. ‘Keep her.’

I smile weakly and the woman leaves. Bobbi gasps and rushes over to me.

‘Anna, darling, what a way to start your bookselling career,’ she says. ‘I’m sorry. Don’t listen to her. She has terrible taste. She is a chronic returner of items. A bad reader. I only put up with it because she spends thousands every year.’

‘It’s okay, I know I have to divorce my writer self from my bookselling self,’ I say.

‘Oh, you absolutely don’t. Look, ninety per cent of the customers here are lovely, I promise. And so many of them love your book.’

‘No one needs to love my book.’

‘Well it’s my mission to make sure they do. Now go out the back, take five minutes, drink the coffee and look through the pile of advance proofs for your next read.’

I do as I’m told. The proof pile is thrilling.

I can do this, I tell myself. I can do this. It’s going to be great. And I would take that woman over Marco, any day.

30

I’M ON A ten-minute break in the backroom, sitting among piles of unopened boxes of books that need to be opened, received, shelved and sold. I’m scrolling on my phone and snacking on a handful of almonds, contemplating typing up a little review on the typewriter because I find it so fun to use—when a message appears on my screen.

I’m watching Jerry Maguire.

It’s from Mac.