PROLOGUE
I’m doomscrolling on Instagram when I come across a reel with an intriguing title:
Barefoot bookseller wanted for tropical island bookshop situated in a five-star resort.
It’s probably clickbait, but this bookworm needs more details.
The video judders as three women’s faces appear. They look almost identical, with white-blonde bobbed hair and oversized sunglasses. ‘Hi, I’m Lucy. Welcome to Paradise! Are books your raison d'être?’ Her voice drops into a husky French accent.
The woman to her left slides her sunglasses up and rolls her eyes dramatically. ‘What on earth does that mean?’
The camera jiggles and cuts off the top of their heads. ‘It means “reason for being” you uncultured?—’
The camera swings down and zooms in on their chins. ‘Everything sounds better in French, darling,’ the third woman adds.
‘We’re supposed to be keeping this simple and here’s Lucy throwing around French phrases like she’s Dumas or something!’
‘What did you just call me?’ Lucy shrieks.
‘She called you dumb ars?—’
The second woman interrupts. ‘I was referring to Alexandre Dumas. Since you’re such an expert on French all of sudden, shouldn’t you know who he is?’
‘Ladies.’ A man’s gravelly voice attempts to cut in, but he’s duly ignored as the three women bicker like fishwives. Behind them, waves gently roll in and crash in a foamy heap.
They throw around insults like confetti until they’re doubled over shrieking with laughter. I can’t help but giggle along with them. Only the best of friends can trade insults like this and end up in hysterics. If I didn’t know better I’d say a few cocktails might have been imbibed.
‘Ladies,’ the cameraman says. ‘This filming nonsense was your idea.’
Lucy snaps her head back to the camera. ‘Apologies, dear friends, fans and followers…’ She flashes a smile.
‘You have exactly fifty-one followers and most of them are time-share salesmen.’
‘Time-share salespeople. You make it sound like I’m looking for love on the internet!’
‘Are you?’
‘What’s that got to do with the price of eggs?’
There’s an audible sigh from the cameraman before he says, ‘We’re looking for a star bookseller for the Barefoot Bookshop on the beach. There’s only one catch – you must live and breathe literature. Apply within.’
‘Apply within? Tell me you’re a luddite without telling me you’re a luddite.’ Lucy shakes her head. ‘Tell them to click on the link in my bio! How can a man running a bookshop be so clueless when it comes to social media? It’s the way of the world, you have to learn to embrace it, Gus.’
‘She’s got you there.’
‘She does.’ The three women are finally in agreement.
Gus grumbles. ‘Social media rots brains and ruins postures. Reading on the other hand…’ And with that the camera goes dark to the chorus of their laughter.
Out of curiosity, I go to Lucy’s bio and click the link. It comes up with an error message. I’m not sure why I deflate. It’s not as if I don’t already have a great bookseller job at Paddington’s Books in London and a busy life as a Bookstagrammer. Yet, for a brief moment I’d been transported to the island listening to Lucy and her unnamed conspirators’ squabble while the sun beat down and palm fronds waved in the distance.
I scroll through Lucy’s feed, hoping for a clue of where this bookshop is, and am met with the most glorious photos of white sandy beaches, palm trees that grow sideways as if laying down to sunbathe and dazzling postcard-perfect sunsets. There’s a picture of a circle of hands clinking colourful cocktails. A table of well-thumbed paperbacks. People supine on sun loungers, snoozing with a book forgotten on their laps. My heart stops when I land on a picture of a young guy in side profile who is criminally good-looking despite the serious glint to his eyes. Intrigued, I read the caption:
Xavier, boy wonder, back to claim what’s his.
What does that mean? Does that hottie own the resort? Some men are just hit with the lucky stick: beauty, brawn and brains. I’m desperate to find out where this island paradise is… but it’s not like I could jet off and leave my London existence behind. I love this life of mine, don’t I?
So why do I feel this strange pull to some undisclosed island bookshop?
