Lola exchanged a glance with an older male customer currently leafing through a book on the subject of kayaking down the Nile. For a split second she saw the twinkle of suppressed laughter in his eyes and almost lost it herself.
But no. She was a professional. To the woman in the rain hat Lola said cheerfully, ‘It’s a novel by William Golding. Let me show you where to find it,’ and led her off to the fiction section.
When she returned, Kayak Man was waiting to speak to her. ‘Hi. Well done with your last customer, by the way.’
‘All in a day’s work. You nearly made me laugh.’
‘Sorry.’ He put down the kayak book. ‘Anyway, I’m hoping you can help me now.’
Lola smiled; he had a lean, intelligent face. ‘Fire away. I like a challenge.’
‘Jane Austen. My wife’s read all her books. I was wondering, has she written any new ones this year?’
Lola waited for his eyes to twinkle. They didn’t. Her heart sank.
‘I’m sorry, Jane Austen’s dead.’
‘She is? Oh, that’s a shame, my wife will be sorry to hear that. We must have missed her obituary in the Telegraph. What did she die of, do you know?’
‘Um ...’ What had Jane Austen died of? Multiple injuries following a parachuting accident, perhaps? Had she crashed her jet ski? Or how about
‘Lola, there’s someone here wanting to speak to you.’ It was Cheryl, sounding apologetic. ‘A crew from a TV station are interviewing store managers about Christmas shopping and they wondered if you could spare them five minutes. If you’re too busy, Tim says he’d be happy to do it.’
‘I bet he would.’ Tim was besotted with the idea of being on TV; it was the reason he went along to all the film premieres in Leicester Square, why he’d dressed up as a chicken to audition for the X Factor (the judges had told him to cluck off) and what had propelled him to stand up while he’d been in the audience on Trisha to announce that as a baby he’d been found abandoned in a cardboard box at Victoria station and he was desperate to find his mother. His mum, who’d been ironing a pile of his shirts when the TV programme aired, had given Tim a good clump round the ear when he’d arrived home that afternoon.
‘It’s OK, I’ll do it myself.’ When you were having a good hair day it was a shame to waste it.
‘Cheryl, can you help this gentleman? His wife’s read everything by Jane Austen so I’m wondering if she might enjoy one of the sequels by another author.’
Having excused herself, Lola made her way over to the young male reporter waiting at the tills with a cameraman and his assistant. ‘Hi, I’m Lola Malone. Where would you like to do this?’
The reporter said, ‘Oh. We’re meant to be doing the interview with the manager.’
‘I’m the manager.’
‘God, are you really?’ The male reporter — who looked exactly like a male reporter — eyed Lola’s sleek black top, fuchsia pink skirt and long legs in opaque black tights. ‘You don’t look like the manager of a bookshop.’
‘Sorry. Were you expecting someone more frumpy?’ He looked abashed. ‘Well, yes, I suppose I was.’
It was a preconception that drove Lola mad and made her want to rattle people’s teeth. ‘I could run out and buy a grey cardigan if you like.’
‘You’re joking, no, you look fantastic.’ He spread his hands in admiration. ‘Crikey, I just didn’t think ..’
‘You should get out more.’ Lola winked, because it was also a preconception she enjoyed shattering. ‘Try visiting a few more bookshops. You might be surprised — nowadays, some of us don’t even wear tweed.’
The piece aired on the local evening news two days later. It lasted less than ninety seconds and the reporter had asked some pretty inane questions but Lola, watching herself on TV as she set about her hair with curling tongs, felt she’d acquitted herself well enough. It wasn’t easy to be witty and scintillating whilst responding to, ‘And here we are, in Kingsley’s on Regent Street, with less than a fortnight to go before Christmas! So, just how busy has it been here in this store?’
The urge to stretch her arms wide like a fisherman and say, ‘This busy,’ had been huge.
‘Well?’ Still wielding the tongs, Lola turned to look at Gabe when the piece ended.
‘Yes, that was definitely you.’
Was I OK?’
Gabe was busy unwrapping a Twix bar. ‘You answered his questions, you didn’t burp or swear, or take a swig from a bottle of vodka. That has to be good news.’
‘But did I look nice?’
‘You looked fine and you know it. What time’s this car corning?’
‘Seven thirty. Should I wear my red dress or the blue one?’ Curling completed, Lola bent over and gave her head a vigorous upside-down shake. ‘I feel quite jittery. I’m not going to know anyone else there. What if it’s all really embarrassing and I want to escape but they won’t let me leave?’
‘OK, you’ll get there around eight. Leave your phone on and I’ll ring you at nine,’ said Gabe. ‘If you’re desperate to get away, tell them I’m your best friend and I’ve gone into labour.’
‘My hero. The things you do for me. How am I going to manage without you when you’re gone?’ Vertical once more, Lola hugged him then made a lightning lunge for the Twix in his hand. She was fast, but not fast enough.
‘I’m sure you’ll cope.’ Gabe broke off an inch and gave it to her. ‘You’ll soon find some other poor guy’s Twix bars to pinch.’
By seven fifteen Lola was ready to go — OK, it was uncool to be punctual but she simply couldn’t help herself — and peering out of the window.
‘Wouldn’t it be great if they sent a stretch limo?’
Gabe looked horrified. ‘That would be so naff.’
‘Why would it? I love them!’ OK, she was naff and uncool.
‘Don’t get your hopes up. From the sound of him, this guy has better taste than you. In fact,’
Gabe went on as a throaty roar filled the street outside, ‘that could be your lift now.’
It was Lola’s turn to be appalled. Flinging the window open as the motorbike rumbled to a halt outside, she watched as the helmeted rider dismounted. Surely not. If someone said they were sending a car they wouldn’t economise at the last minute and send a motorbike instead. Would they? Oh God, her hair would be wrecked .. .
‘Hi there, Lola.’ Phew, panic over, it was only Marcus.
‘Hi there, neighbour-to-be! Come on up,’ said Lola. ‘Gabe’s in my flat at the moment.’
Upstairs in Lola’s living room, clutching his motorcycle helmet and looking sheepish, Marcus said, ‘All right, mate? The thing is, I’ve got some good news and some bad news.’
‘Go on then,’ prompted Gabe.
‘Well, me and Carol are back together, she’s giving me one last chance. And I’m taking it.
Turning over a new leaf. Cool, right? So that’s the good news.’ An embarrassed grin spread across Marcus’s shiny face. ‘But that means I won’t be moving in here after all, mate. Sorry about that.’
Gabe shrugged, having already pretty much guessed what Marcus had come here to say. ‘Well, I suppose I can’t blame you. Bit short notice, seeing as I’m off next week.’
‘I know. Sorry, mate.’
‘I’ll have to register with a lettings agency now’
‘I might know someone who could move in.’ Eager to help, Marcus said, ‘There’s a guy at my motorcycling club whose parents are keen to get rid of him. He could be interested.’
Lola pictured a spotty gangly teenager inviting hundreds of his spotty gangly mates round for parties. ‘How old is he?’
‘Terry? Early fifties. Don’t look like that,’ Marcus caught the face Lola was pulling at Gabe.
‘Terry’s a good bloke. And he works in an abattoir,’ he went on encouragingly, ‘so you’d never go short of pork chops.’
The car, a gleaming black Mercedes, arrived at seven thirty on the dot. It wasn’t a stretch limo, but it was without a doubt the cleanest, most valeted car Lola had ever been in, and knowing that you wouldn’t have to pay a huge taxi fare at the end made it an even more pleasurable journey.