Romance authors like Oliver James spend their lives writing books that convince readers that love conquers all and that soulmates can be found in idyllic settings, such as florists or bakeries. They make me want to believe in love, but my curse always reminds me of the lies, the ghosting, the serial cheaters, the tragic accidents that take the good ones while they are cycling around town or those who can’t seem to forget their ex-partners.
Miranda tidies up the array of glittery pens, notebooks, and bookmarks by the till. ‘I only found out this the other day,’ she explains. ‘You’d think Frank would have told me sooner that his boss has a son who’s a bestselling romance author. Frank knows the bookshop has been struggling financially. Having direct access to the author everyone’s talking about right now would be a game-changer for me.’ She sighs. ‘Sometimes I wonder what goes on inside his head.’
‘Oliver James is moving here?’
Miranda nods. ‘He’s selling his flat in London and wants to rent a room for six months.’
‘Why would someone like Oliver James come here?’ I murmur.
She shakes her head. ‘I have no idea. You’d think Oliver would go live with his father, who, I might add, lives in Cornwall in a large, flashy house, and each week, a new bikini-clad woman sits in his hot tub. I’ve seen his Instagram photos. I bet Oliver’s late mother is rolling in her grave, watching her husband behave like a wealthy playboy. Oliver should head for Cornwall and join his father.’
This is a helpful reminder to me. Heartbreak still finds you in the afterlife.
‘Maybe Oliver doesn’t want to live with his father.’
Miranda ignores me and pulls out her phone. ‘I know I’m technically old enough to be Oliver’s aunt, but if he were interested in a fun, fifty-something woman with a lively personality, a pair of flexible hips, and a personal fashion stylist, I wouldn’t say no.’
‘Miranda, you have Frank!’ I exclaim.
She rolls her eyes. ‘I don’t think Frank knows I exist.’
I watch her take out her phone, scroll, then hold the screen in front of me. I find myself staring at a photo of Oliver James. He looks like he’s from a romance novel. My heart skips a beat. He is annoyingly handsome, with perfectly tousled hair and dark eyes that evoke thoughts of a rich, dark coffee.
‘Do you like what you see?’
I blink at him and then at Miranda.
Her eyes twinkle. ‘Imagine bumping into him after he’s just had a shower.’
‘Miranda, I don’t want a flatmate.’
‘Oh, Nelly, come on,’ she groans. ‘This would also be a good career move for you.’
My eyebrows are almost touching my hairline. ‘A career move?’
‘Think of all the promotion we could do. You could sweet-talk him into doing some book signings or an event or two.’
My irritation levels have spiked. She only wants me to offer Oliver James a room because she thinks it will boost her business. I don’t think she ever intended to ask anyone else.
Before I tell Miranda where she can shove her idea on flat-sharing with Oliver James, a customer asks why the bookshop’s free Wi-Fi isn’t working. I leave Miranda by the till and assist them with their Wi-Fi issue.
The next few hours are filled with my attempts to ignore my hunger pangs and the image of Oliver James, which refuses to leave my mind.
I repeatedly tell myself that I don’t want a flatmate and certainly don’t want a male flatmate who writes romance novels. Money is tight, but I’m not desperate.
6
Miranda leaves early. ‘Think about what I said earlier,’ she says with a wink. ‘Frank tells me Oliver is house-trained and owns a Le Creuset set. If that’s not husband material, I don’t know what is.’
‘No thanks, Miranda,’ I snap and start a vigorous shelf stack.
Later, as I lock up the bookshop, my phone rings. It’s Aunt Polly.
When my parents died in a car crash, Aunt Polly became my legal guardian. She is everything to me. I often think about how dramatic a change it must have been for her when her brother died, and she became the guardian of a nine-year-old girl. At the time, she had no plans for children of her own, and we barely knew each other, as she and my father had not been close. We bonded immediately over a massive slice of cake, her copy ofThe Secret Garden, which she let me borrow, and her promise to paint my new bedroom in her house any colour I wanted. She was the first person I confided in about my curse.
After moving away, Aunt Polly now lives by the coast, an hour away by train, and we keep in touch during the week with calls and FaceTime. When we meet, it’s coffee, cake and long walks on the beach.
‘Nelly, I have some news.’ I detect something unfamiliar in her voice. Her cheerfulness and sing-song tone have been replaced by one tinged with sadness.
