Jonathan smiles grimly. ‘Well, it happened to me. Guy ordered a book online – a very special book. I know it’s arrived, and I assume it’s all fine, but then I get a complaint…’
‘What kind of complaint?’ I ask.
‘Bit of salami stuck in it. Horrible and greasy, ruined the pages.’
‘Just like ours!’ I exclaim, turning to Rupert.
‘So I refund him and ask him to return it,’ Jonathan continues, ‘and the email bounces back. He’s gone. No way of contacting him. And then—’ he taps his nose ‘—I dig around a bit, go on forums, and it seems this person has been doing this to a lot of booksellers…’
‘And it’s always the same,’ the woman announces. ‘A bit of food apparently stuck in the middle. A slice of ham, that’s what our customer said – cheap, thinly sliced ham that had soaked right into the book…’
‘Mine was a numbered limited edition,’ Jonathan announces. ‘It was fine when we sent it. Excellent condition. He’d faked it.’
‘He – or she, we don’t know – uses different aliases and orders from different booksellers,’ the woman adds. ‘But it’s always cheese or meat?—’
‘Turning the book into a kind of sandwich?’ suggests the red-headed man to my right.
‘Exactly,’ Jonathan says.
I look around the table, taking this in. The woman introduces herself as Magda and smiles warmly. ‘I loved your speech,’ she tells me.
‘Thank you.’ I sense my cheeks flushing. ‘But… how does the person make money this way?’
‘Because most of us are old school,’ Jonathan explains. ‘We give a refund before the book has been returned to us.’
‘We operate on trust,’ Magda says. ‘With mine, I was so mortified that it had happened that I didn’t even ask for the book to be returned. I refunded them and said they could keep it.’
I look at Rupert, wondering if he’s planning to apologise for wrongly accusing me of book vandalism. Instead, he merely shrugs and says, ‘So there we are. I didn’t actually refund the customer, so no harm done!’
No harm done? I want to say. What about you blaming me? But instead, I chat with the booksellers and then settle into listening to the rest of the talks. When the day is over, I head up to my room for a little much-needed respite before dinner.
There I notice a missed call – from Pam, Ravi’s mum. Strange, I think. But then it hits me that there’s only one reason why she’d ring me. My chest tightens as I call back. ‘I’m so sorry I missed you,’ I say. ‘I’ve been at a conference all day.’
‘Oh, where are you?’ she asks.
‘Whitby.’
‘Lovely! That was always one of my favourites when the kids were young. They loved all the scary stuff – the spooky abbey and all that. So, did you do the tour?’
‘The Dracula tour?’ Could this possibly be what she means?
‘No, the band tour. The reunion tour…’ She laughs her tinkly laugh.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘My head’s been in a whirl today. Yes, we did. I should have told you…’
‘Don’t worry. I’m just glad you did it.’ Not all of it, but I decide not to mention that. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any chance of seeing you, is there?’ Pam asks. ‘Before you head back south?’
‘Oh, I’d love to but…’ Mentally, I run through the obstacles. The distance involved, and how I’d get there. Yes, I’m in Yorkshire but my home town is hardly down the road.
‘When are you going back to London?’
‘Friday morning.’ I’d persuaded Rupert to stay for the duration of the two-day conference, and to factor in a little sightseeing too. Just to show him that ‘The North’ isn’t that scary after all.
‘We can do that another time,’ Rupert insists over breakfast next morning. And so I set off to my home town, having been offered a lift from Magda who, it transpires, runs a children’s bookshop in Selby. From there I can hop on a bus. But when it comes to it, she insists on driving me all the way to the Kapoors’.
Magda parks a little way down the lane, and I get out and close the door. ‘Thank you so much,’ I say.
‘Honestly, you’re welcome. No trouble at all.’ She smiles, and I wave as she pulls away.
