‘What’s really bothering you?’ I ask. ‘It’s not just the thought of giving a talk, is it?’ He never seems short on confidence, and I’ve always imagined he grew up being well-drilled in debating and the like.
‘I just feel a bit rusty, that’s all.’ He shuffles a sheaf of papers on his desk.
‘Rupert…’ I start. ‘Is it because this conference is happening in the North? Is that why you’re so reticent about it?’
‘It’s just an awfully long way to travel,’ he says with a dismissive flap of his hand.
‘Whitby isn’t that far.’
‘It’s far enough!’ He laughs and fondles his glass paperweight.
I glance around the shop, trying to maintain a neutral expression. ‘Do you know anything about Whitby?’ I ask.
‘Only that Dracula came from there.’
I can’t help smirking at that. ‘You do know that Dracula wasn’t real?’
‘Of course I do,’ he splutters. ‘I mean, the people it attracts – that connection with the macabre. I’ve been reading up on it. There’s a whole… goth thing going on up there and I’m not sure how to deal with those sorts of people.’
I stare at him. ‘What, goths?’
‘Yes, you know. Those people.’
‘I don’t think they’d be at the booksellers’ conference,’ I venture, but he waves me away to signal that the conversation is finished. I turn my attention to smartening up the window display, and have just removed a fat, dead bluebottle as two women breeze in. Somewhere in their sixties, they launch into a commentary as they browse the books. This artist behaved despicably to women. Look at how he objectified his mistress! D’you know what he really got up to?
I turn from the window and one of the women catches my eye. ‘Not much escape from it in here, is there?’ She picks up a coffee table book on Picasso.
‘From what?’ I ask pleasantly.
‘The male gaze.’
I’m not an art history expert like Rupert. Perhaps I am also a terrible feminist, because at this very moment I crave the male gaze. Shane’s gaze, to be specific; the way he looked at me when we woke up together in the Love Heart Boudoir. ‘I guess not,’ I say. But as the women leave, I want to cry after them: ‘I want it! I want the male gaze!’
I look at Rupert when they’ve gone, and he laughs. ‘Gosh,’ is all he says.
‘They’re right, though,’ I add, ‘about pretty much all male painters.’
‘Don’t you start!’ He feigns irritation.
I smile, about to return to the back room where a whole load of customer queries awaits me. ‘You know it’s… all right up north, don’t you?’ I add.
‘You would say that. It’s where you’re from!’
I laugh. ‘We don’t bite, you know. Some of us are pretty friendly.’
‘Hmmm, I’m sure.’ There’s a trace of doubt in his voice and I wonder now if this is something he genuinely needs my help with – along with the printer and ordering system.
‘Rupert,’ I say, ‘are you trying to tell me that you’d like me to go up to Whitby with you?’
He tweaks at the tuft of wiry grey hair above his left ear. ‘Of course not. That would be ridiculous.’
I shrug, watching him align his small collection of fountain pens on his desk. ‘I will, if you want me to?’
He looks up, his light blue eyes softening. ‘Would you be able to do that?’
‘I don’t see why not,’ I reply. ‘But what about the shop?’
‘Oh, I can ask Charles to hold the fort for a couple of days. He’s enjoyed helping me out. I don’t imagine it’ll be a problem.’ His shoulders lower, as if in relief. ‘So, if you’re sure, I’d very much appreciate it.’
