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“Arrived today. Tomorrow is my first working day.”
Grace scribbled down her phone number. “I hope it goes well, but if you need translation help—or anything at all—call me.”
Audrey shrugged. “It’s a load of old books. Books don’t talk. How bad can it be?”
Audrey
It was bad.
Hardly surprising really. Here she was, Audrey Hackett, the girl who everyone had agreed was least likely to succeed, working in a bookshop. Not only that, she was in charge of a bookshop. She had the keys in her pocket. She could hire and fire, although that power was limited by the fact she was the only person here.
Her and about a million old books.
If she sat here long enough, maybe the contents of the books would seep inside her brain and make her clever.
She spun around on the chair. It reminded her of the roundabout in the park where she’d often met Meena for lunch. She felt a pang. She didn’t miss the chaos of home, but she missed Hardy, and Meena of course, and she missed the buzz of the hair salon.
The bookshop was eerily quiet.
As she was the only person here she stood up, posed in front of one of the bookshelves and took a selfie while wearing her new glasses. Meena had typed some hashtags into the notes app on her phone, so Audrey pasted them next to her picture. #bookishAudrey #loveParis
She wondered if she should add #boredrigid but decided it had too many letters.
Also, there was no way she was admitting that her life was less than perfect.
With luck her old English teacher would see her post and feel shame that she’d so badly underestimated Audrey. She could imagine the chat in the staff room—Audrey, working in a bookshop? I feel terrible that I didn’t encourage her more.
She allowed herself a little daydream where she won the Nobel Prize for fiction, and gave a big speech thanking her teachers for giving her the motivation to prove them wrong.
Except that they weren’t wrong, were they? What was she good at, really?
She was good at washing hair and good at making people laugh. She’d been told she was a good listener. Not exactly the “marketable skills” the careers department were always talking about.
On paper, working in a bookshop looked impressive. It was a shame it was about as thrilling as waiting for nail polish to dry. And she was starting to panic that she might not get a job in a hair salon, after all. So far, they’d all said no to her. She was ticking them off her list one by one and she had more to see this afternoon, but she was starting to lose hope. There was an upmarket salon a few steps away from the bookshop, but Audrey hadn’t bothered talking to them. A place like that was never going to employ someone like her.
What if she couldn’t get a job? How would she eat?
The door opened, the bell clanged and an elderly man stepped through the door. Something about the way he held himself—straight, spine elongated—made Audrey think that perhaps he’d once been in the military. But that would have been a long time ago. His hair was white and stuck out in uneven tufts at the side of his head. Her fingers itched to reach for sc
issors. She knew she could improve his look.
“Bonjour.” Audrey hoped that if she dazzled him with her smile, he’d be too distracted to ask her a question about the books. Fortunately he didn’t seem to want any assistance. He greeted her politely, walked stiffly to a section at the back of the shop and browsed for half an hour.
Audrey watched, curious, as he selected a book from a shelf, flicked through it, then put it back and picked up the one next to it. After half an hour he left, giving her a nod and a smile on his way out.
Totally weird. Still, he hadn’t slipped one into his pocket as far as she could see, so what he was doing with those books was none of her business.
If he wanted to flick dust on himself, that was up to him.
Audrey decided that if everyone was as undemanding as the old man, the job might not be so awful. She was a book babysitter, that was all.
Her luck didn’t last.
The next three people to walk into the shop all spoke French and grew more and more impatient when Audrey looked at them blankly in response to their questions.
One man became so enraged she was afraid he might burst a blood vessel.
“It’s just a book,” she muttered, starting to feel stressed and flustered. At least when someone yelled at you in your own language you could defend yourself.
