‘With the cheese business.’
‘Oh, yes! Of course. Thank you.’ We hug again and I muster a stoical smile. And this time, for some unfathomable reason, I feel a little lighter as I stride towards my room.
10
Don’t panic, I tell myself as I emerge from Piccadilly Circus Tube station. On this cool, bright Monday morning I have nothing to fear. Certainly not Rupert because, as I remind myself now, he is just a man. An extremely wealthy man who, I suspect, doesn’t really need to run a bookshop – or work at all. But still: he is not the police.
I’m not going to be flung into jail for the alleged misuse of processed cheese, and surely he can’t sack me. I’ve done nothing wrong, and he has to believe me. Even if he doesn’t, angry Rupert isn’t actually that scary. That time I spilt my coffee on the shop floor? ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, Josie!’ But it was like the King swearing – faintly ridiculous. I couldn’t take it seriously at all.
Reassured that all of this will blow over, I turn into the arcade and stride towards the shop. All curved glass windows and gleaming brass, this is a rarified corner of London of bespoke suits and cufflinks and those proper hankies that poke neatly out of a breast pocket. ‘A pocket square,’ Rupert corrected me once, with a note of bemusement. Silly Josie has no idea about these things!
I pass the eye-wateringly expensive leather goods shop. From the cashmere store, one of the sales assistants sees me through the spotless window and waves. I wave back and smile, then step into the bookshop. We’re not open yet but, as usual, Rupert is already occupying the huge antique desk that dominates the shop.
‘Hi, Rupert!’ I say cheerily.
He looks up. ‘Morning, Josie.’ Bit of the steely-teacher vibe today. That homework you handed in was disappointing.
‘Like a coffee?’ At least he hasn’t launched straight into the Dairylea incident. Hopefully it’s been laid to rest.
‘If you’re making one,’ he mutters.
Fine, I think as I head to the back room. As well as being my workspace, it also functions as what we grandly term the ‘kitchen’, consisting of an ancient mini fridge and a flimsy cupboard housing our motley selection of mugs. All are chunky and ugly apart from the delicate bone china cup with my initial on it, which Rupert gave me last Christmas. On the shelf below sits a catering tin of his beloved Nescafé granules. Three years I’ve worked here, and we’re still on the same tin. From what I’ve gathered, Rupert’s family owns roughly 70 per cent of Berkshire, yet our new shop kettle cost £12.50 (he insisted on the cheapest option I could find).
I put it on to boil, then switch on the printer on my desk. There’s the ominous hum that happens intermittently, and within minutes its plastic casing is worryingly hot to the touch. The hum becomes an urgent whine, as if it’s straining on the toilet, and as I set it to work it chews up the paper and shuts down abruptly. I glare at it, then carry Rupert’s coffee through to the shop, prepared to share my diagnosis.
‘You know how the printer’s been a bit erratic?’ I say. ‘I think I know what it is.’ He stares at me levelly. ‘Its moods are all over the place,’ I continue, ‘and now it’s hot all of a sudden.’ I smile, trying to lighten the atmosphere. ‘It must be menopausal! Should we see if there are HRT patches for printers, or maybe a gel?—’
‘Josie, could you please sit down for a moment?’ Rupert cuts in, indicating the curvaceous wooden chair tucked in at the other side of his desk.
I frown and pull it out and bob down onto it. ‘What is it?’
‘About this book.’
I bite my upper lip, conscious of my racing heart, and glance around the shop. There are hundreds of books in here, neatly displayed on open shelves and in highly polished glass cabinets. But of course I’m fully aware of the book he’s talking about. ‘Rupert,’ I start, ‘I’m sorry it happened but honestly, I have no idea how?—’
‘Was it some kind of prank?’ he snaps.
‘A prank?’ I exclaim. ‘You honestly think I’d prank you?’ I stare at him.
A clump of silvery hair springs forward and bounces against his brow, and he shoves it back distractedly. ‘How else could it have got there?’
‘I don’t know!’
He leans forward, looking thunderous, hands clasped together. When I landed this job, I felt so lucky; here was this kindly toff who was prepared to entrust me with his online business. And he did trust me – or so I thought.
‘Our customers are important,’ Rupert announces.
‘Yes, I know!’
‘Excellent service is what we’re all about. That way, they keep coming back?—’
‘Yes, but I didn’t?—’
‘And that kind of cheese?’ he crows. ‘It’s the kind you have.’
I look down at his desk, taking a moment to absorb his remark. He’s right in that I bring in packed lunches because the prices around here are outrageous. ‘Have you been inspecting my sandwiches?’ I ask.
‘Of course not. I’m just saying?—’
