‘Think on it, eh?’
‘No, thanks.’
Brian fiddles with his lanyard and looks everywhere but me. He’s nervous, but why? Is it that he wants to order in a book that he presumes I’ll judge him on? Little does he know, I’m not easily shocked when it comes to bookworms. I’ve seen it all working in bookshops off and on my whole life, and really most titles are rather sedate when compared to some of the spicy books I’ve read that are disguised by pretty pastel covers. ‘Can I help you find a book?’
‘Ah – yes. It’s for a mate, actually.’
Lies! ‘Oh?’
‘Yeah, he’s, ah – asked me to find it. An odd request too, it is. But a mate’s a mate, and you gotta do these things.’
‘Of course. You’re a good friend. I can see that.’
‘Apparently it’s called:How to Make Women Fall For You.’
I bite down hard on my lips to stem a smile. ‘Right. Let me check the supplier.’ I pretend to clack away at the keyboard while I ponder how to best handle this. Brian is in love with Mrs Bastille, but his yearning looks in her direction have got him precisely nowhere. It’s cute that he’s turned to literature to help him in his quest, but that sort of book, written by a dull type, is not the way forward. Not in my eyes, at least.
‘All out of stock.’
His face falls.
‘But never fear! I have another solution for you… for your friend. If you’ll follow me.’ I lead a suddenly shy Brian to the romance section. ‘Before you baulk, this is what women want. A love affair like the books. A hero that you’ll find between these very pages.’
His face twists with doubt. ‘Romance novels? They’re a bit… pink, aren’t they?’
‘Don’t let the pastels fool you. Some of these novels will blow your hair back with their spiciness.’
‘I might live on the Seychelles, but my diet is rather bland, I’m afraid. I’m not much into spices, definitely no chilli.’
‘Right.’ I debate with whether to educate Brian about spicy versus sweet in the romance genre but decide he’s already dangerously close to overwhelm. ‘Let’s start you off with this one.’ I hand him a copy of a summery romance set on an island just like Esperé. ‘Read this, and you’ll learn all about the subtle art of flirtation and just how to romance a woman.’
‘OK, I will. I mean, my friend Darry will.’
‘Darry?’
‘Sorry, Barry. His name is… Barry.’
‘Let me know what Barry thinks.’
35
Meet Turt Vonnegut!
How did eighty-six-year-old Turt get his literary name, we hear you ask? Well, we were intrigued too and the answer is Turt was named by bookseller Gus back in the late seventies in an ode to the writer Kurt Vonnegut. Let’s face it, the literary play on words had something to do with it but we like to think Gus admired the writer too. Gus and Turt spent so much time together that it wasn’t often you’d see the bookseller around the resort without his tortoise pal close behind. Everyone here still jokes that Gus learned to walk much slower, at tortoise speed, so he wouldn’t leave his reptile friend behind and so if you were meeting Gus for drinks, a chat, or waiting for a book delivery, you had to factor in that he would undoubtably be late. Unsurprisingly guests were always understanding when Gus did arrive, with his faithful companion by his side.
Recollection shared with us by Doris Winkler.
Is it your dream to snorkel the coral reefs with crystal-clear waters and see ocean life up close? What about island hopping to learn about the archipelago of the Seychelles? We offer Seychellois cooking classes, volleyball matches, kayaking and so much more. Don’t forget to look up when you’re here; we’ve got blue skies for days, and starry nights that will take your breath away…
36
It’s the golden hour, and soft filmy sunlight bathes the Barefoot Bookshop in a saffron glow. The bookshop quietens down as guests sink into a book in the day beds outside, or rock gently in a hammock on the shore. Today, Doris softly snores from her position on a swivel chair, her bangles silent. When it’s quiet like this, I take a moment to sweep up the ever-present sand that comes in from the beach and then tidy the shelves.
A woman wanders in, mouth parted, ready to chat, when I point to a napping Doris and gesture for her to talk quietly.
‘Must be a good book,’ she whispers.
‘Cocktail-induced slumber,’ I say.
