Page 5 of Me and Mr. Darcy

However, Mr McKenzie is getting old, and with his only son a doctor and not interested in taking over the business, there’s been talk of him selling up. Six months ago he had an offer from one of the big coffee chains, who wanted to replace the stencilled glass with their logo, lay a cement floor and put fake books on the mahogany bookshelves. He turned it down, said over his dead body. But even so, I’ve got a feeling my days here are numbered. Not that I’m bothered about myself – I can always get another job – but there’ll never be another bookstore like McKenzie’s. Once it’s gone, it’s gone for ever.

Handing a customer his change, I turn to the person next in line and see there isn’t anyone. I heave a sigh of relief. Thank God. Stella’s still out at lunch and the run-up to Christmas is always manic. Everyone’s on the hunt for the perfect gift. This is the time of year that most people head to the table first, under the illusion that bigger is always better and only a large, expensive coffee-table book will suffice. True, they make an impact, but invariably these volumes of glossy photographs are flicked through once and then left to gather dust, whereas a much-loved paperback will be enjoyed on the subway, in the bathtub and under the bedcovers, and loaned to friends and family to be read time and time again.

Nobody will ever forget Wuthering Heights, but who’s going to remember The History of the Romanian Trapeze Artists? I muse, noticing a figure over by the trestle table. Short and stocky with hair almost a whitish-grey, he’s leafing through the large hardback book. I walk up to him. He’s deep in concentration.

‘Is that for Stella?’ I ask, peering over his shoulder.

He jumps. ‘Hey, Em, how are you?’ he gasps, his boyish face breaking into a grin.

‘Oh, you know.’ I smile as he gives me a kiss on each cheek, sprinkling me with the flour that has coated his jet-black hair, making it appear white. ‘How are you, Freddy?’

Freddy is Stella’s husband, but theirs is only a green-card marriage. They met two years ago when she went into the bakery next door to buy sandwiches for lunch and they’ve been great friends ever since. Freddy’s Italian, and when his visa ran out, Stella offered to marry him. In return she gets to live cheaply in his little apartment above the bakery. It sounds like the perfect arrangement, and it is. Apart from one little fact: Freddy’s obviously hopelessly in love with her – and the only person who doesn’t notice is Stella.

‘So, what do you think?’ he’s asking, gesturing to the book. ‘For Christmas.’

I wrinkle up my nose. ‘Stella might work in a bookstore, but I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen her read a book.’

‘Hmmm, I guess you’re right . . .’ He nods, frowning. ‘But she could look at the photos,’ he suggests brightly.

‘Have you ever seen her look at a photo that wasn’t fashion photography?’ I ask, raising my eyebrows.

Freddy slumps and lets out a deep sigh. ‘I give up. I’m useless. I can’t even buy her a gift.’

He looks so woebegone my heart goes out to him. ‘Look, can I make a suggestion?’

‘Sure.’ He nods dolefully.

‘Let me do a bit of detective work for you, find out what she’d really like.’ I squeeze his arm. ‘And I promise it won’t be Romanian Trapeze Artists.’ I smile, gently easing the book out of his hands. ‘Not that I’m saying it’s not a great book,’ I add, in loyalty to the store. ‘But just not for Stella.’

Freddy shoots me a grateful look, and after saying our goodbyes he leaves the store. On his way out he nearly collides with Stella, who appears back from lunch, her face flushed with excitement.

‘Hey, Freddy,’ she says distractedly. Sweeping right past him and over to me, she announces, ‘Have I got a surprise for you!’

Over her shoulder I can see Freddy. Pausing momentarily in the doorway, he’s looking at Stella. His expression says it all.

‘You are going to love this.’

As he disappears into the street, I turn back to Stella.

‘Love what?’ I murmur. Plonking myself down on to the little wheelie stool behind the counter, I slide over to the computer. I know Stella well enough by now to know that whenever she thinks I’m going to love something, I invariably don’t.

I begin checking work emails. The shop has finally emptied, apart from the woman still over in the biography section, and it’s a good opportunity to make a start on all the last-minute Christmas orders.

‘I know what you’re going to do!’ Stella continues, oblivious in her enthusiasm. Unknotting her stripy scarf, she skips round the counter and stands next to me, panting breathlessly at my side, not unlike my parents’ Labrador when there’s food around.

‘About what?’ I continue typing.

‘About all these terrible dates you keep going on,’ she gushes.

‘Thanks for reminding me, but I’m not dating any more.’

Stella waves her fingerless-gloved hand dismissively. ‘You’re going to cheer yourself up and come with me and a bunch of girlies,’ she continues excitedly.

There’s a pregnant pause as she waits for me to ask where exactly it is I’m supposed to be going with her and a bunch of girlies – no doubt with an equal sum of excitement to hers – but I can only manage a half-hearted ‘Hmmm.’

Which isn’t enough for Stella, who whoops, ‘Em, you’re going to Mexico!’ in the kind of voice quiz-show hosts use on their poor, unsuspecting contestants.

I turn away from the monitor to stare at her. ‘Stella, what in God’s name are you talking about?’