‘There’s the second half yet,’ said Carl, still appearing a little uneasy. ‘Don’t jinx it.’
‘I won’t,’ she said, and kissed him.
A couple of cast members wandered over. ‘Sorry to interrupt, Carl, but have you got any notes for us?’ said one.
‘Sure, give me two seconds,’ said Carl. He looked at Jemma. ‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t apologise,’ said Jemma. ‘You’re doing your job.’ She stroked his cheek. ‘I’ll see you afterwards.’
As Carl beckoned to the rest of the cast, Jemma lingered behind the screen, gazing at the lower floor of the bookshop. They had sold out the venue, a hundred seats, and they were packed to capacity. In the third row – ‘we don’t want to be too conspicuous’ – were her mum and dad. Even from this distance she could hear her mother talking to someone in the second row. ‘It’s excellent, isn’t it? My daughter is the playwright’s partner—’ She spotted Jemma and waved, then stuck two thumbs up. ‘And Debra is his mum…’ Debra, sitting next to her, smiled politely, but underneath Jemma could tell that she was bursting with pride.
Some of the audience would be friends and family of the cast, of course, but she could also see a few bookshop regulars. The two Golden Age crime ladies were there, and Mohammed, in the third row, studying his programme. And was she mistaken, or were Felicity and Jerome whispering together at the back?
Speaking of together, Luke and Maddy seemed very happy. They weren’t going out exactly, but Luke had expressed an interest in spending time at the Friendly Bookshop to learn more about antiquarian books from Maddy. Since this freed Jemma to spend more time at Burns Books with Raphael and Carl, she had ordered more sunlight-filtering window film and been only too happy to agree.
Once Maddy had recovered from her anger and distress at the ordeal she had been through, with Luke acting as a sort of unofficial therapist, she had made a proposition to Jemma. ‘We have all these valuable books in the stockroom,’ she said, waving a hand at it in a dismissive way that Jemma could not have imagined a few weeks ago. ‘Now that – things have changed, and the fiction section is doing so well, it makes sense to extend it. But at the same time, it’s silly to ignore the stuff we have. Why don’t we sort of split the bookshop in half? You put more of your books out, and I work with the existing books.’ She gazed at Jemma, her anxiety visible on her face.
‘That’s a really good idea,’ said Jemma. ‘Let’s draw up a plan, try it for a month, and see how things go.’
Already, the idea was bearing fruit. The people who wanted non-fiction in posh bindings flocked to Maddy, and those seeking good-quality fiction made a beeline for Jemma – or Luke, if he was in. Often Jemma would return from lunch, or from the other shop, and find Luke and Maddy having an animated discussion about Seven Gothic Tales, or which was the best film version of Dracula.
‘Don’t you find the age difference a problem?’ she asked Luke once, when they were in the back room making tea.
Luke considered for a moment, then shook his head. ‘I know I’m a lot older than Maddy,’ he said, ‘but she is so wise when you get past her shy exterior. I don’t see it as a problem at all.’
Jemma looked at the café counter, where Raphael was laughing with Giulia as she made his drinks. They had arrived together, too. She wasn’t sure if that meant anything, or if it would continue, but she hoped it did. He deserves happiness as much as anyone.
A chirrup made her look down. Folio, wearing a smart collar for the occasion, was rubbing against her leg. She scratched him behind the ears. ‘Are you enjoying the play?’ Folio had been allocated his own seat in the front row, and when she glanced at him from time to time, he was paying attention, his head moving as the different actors spoke. She had been slightly worried that he might attempt to become part of the proceedings, but so far he had behaved very well.
Folio chirruped again, which she presumed was a yes, then ran towards the café area, pulling up next to Raphael. Raphael murmured something to Giulia, who laughed.
‘I thought it was you!’
Jemma jumped. A small pink-haired woman had materialised beside her. ‘Stella!’ she exclaimed. ‘You came!’
‘Oh yes,’ said Stella. ‘I’ve never attended a first night before, and it’s ever so good. Do you think I could maybe speak to some of the cast? I want to write this up on my blog.’
‘I’m sure that would be fine,’ said Jemma. ‘You know Carl, don’t you? He’s the writer and director.’ She pointed to where Carl was talking with the cast, gesturing occasionally. Just then his hands fell to his sides, and the cast began to drift away. ‘Now looks like a good time, if you’re quick.’
‘I shall be quick,’ said Stella, and bustled away. A couple of minutes later, a tall man with an interesting beard, wearing jeans, a fisherman’s sweater, and an artfully-draped scarf, wandered over to join them. ‘Promising first half,’ he declared, extending a hand and at the same time holding up a card. ‘Henry Sims, drama critic at the Evening Clarion.’
Carl’s face lit up, and Jemma’s heart filled on his behalf.
And what about me? Well, I have Carl, and there’s the flat to redecorate, and the bookshop is flying–
And the other thing? her inner voice prompted.
Yes, my mum finally understands that I’m serious about the bookshop, and she’s happy–
You know exactly what I mean.
Jemma smiled. She had applied for the post of Assistant Keeper, on the grounds that it wouldn’t hurt, and the closing date was tomorrow. She had handed her application to Raphael herself. ‘Although now I know how tech-savvy you are,’ she said, ‘I could have emailed it, couldn’t I?’
Raphael looked shamefaced. ‘Sometimes it pays to have a little in reserve,’ he said. ‘Anyway, I’m glad you’ve applied.’
‘Have you had much interest?’ asked Jemma.
‘Are you fishing, Jemma?’ Raphael laughed. ‘Not a great deal. Those in the know are aware that there is a very strong candidate in the field whom they don’t want to go up against.’
Jemma grimaced. ‘It isn’t Drusilla, is it? I don’t think I could bear her being any closer than she is.’
Raphael gazed at her with something like affection. ‘For someone so smart and talented, Jemma James, you really can be an absolute chump. I mean you.’
‘Me?’ said Jemma. ‘But I—’
‘Remember in Hay-on-Wye—’
‘I know, I helped with sorting out Brian,’ said Jemma.
‘If you’ll let me finish,’ said Raphael. ‘Remember when your pencil broke?’
Jemma frowned. ‘Yes, but I was probably pressing too hard.’
‘What were you writing?’
It was like yesterday. Jemma could see it in her mind’s eye: printing her name, writing Assistant Keeper, opening the bracket… ‘I was about to write Acting.’
‘Yes, and your lead broke, because a Pencil of Truth can only write truth. You weren’t acting as an Assistant Keeper; you were being an Assistant Keeper. There is an important distinction, and the Pencil of Truth never lies.’ For a moment he looked like a wise old owl. ‘That is all I shall say on the subject for now.’