through?’ Anna made her face cheery, even though inside she felt sorry for the now-homeless books and Cyril’s life’s work, heading for the recycling to make way for witty cardboard stags’ heads.
‘Nope, it’s going to be books.’
‘Books?’
Michelle nodded. ‘I’m going to run it as a bookshop.’
‘But this is the worst possible time for bookshops,’ said Anna, horrified. ‘And I say that as Longhampton’s sole remaining purchaser of books. I mean, it’s great that you want to keep it open, but I don’t want to see you ruined.’
‘Well, we’ll see. Tell me what you think about my ideas.’ Michelle flipped over another page in her notebook, which was covered in her bold handwriting, arrows and bubbles springing in every direction. ‘Redecoration and marketing are the key things. I was thinking about those presents you gave the girls. We could call them Book Bouquets, and offer it as a service – a stack of romances sent to a relative stuck in hospital, say? You can’t have flowers in some hospital wards, apparently – I’m always sending silk flower bouquets up there.’
‘Well, I’d buy that, obviously,’ conceded Anna. ‘Who’s going to put them together, though? Kelsey?’
She didn’t want to add, ‘You?’ because she knew she couldn’t make the word come out politely. Michelle was the only person she knew who arranged her books in rainbow order.
But Michelle was still listing her ideas, clearly not in the mood for negatives.
‘And I was thinking about organic book boxes, like veg boxes? For ten quid, we could send someone a mentally nutritious selection of titles, some new, some second-hand. Some easy “potato” books, some more challenging “turnip” ones. You know how you always make an effort to do something new when they send you a Savoy cabbage? Well, the book box would be like that. People would feel virtuous for trying a Swedish translation along with their new Marian Keyes, and it wouldn’t cost us anything because – here’s the clever bit – it’s here already .’
Anna marvelled at how Michelle made everything sound so possible. ‘That’s actually a really good idea. You’d need to put in a guide, though, get them interested in the turnip books. But who’s going to . . . ?’
‘Brilliant!’ Michelle pointed her pen at her, and jotted the idea down in the notebook. ‘And reading groups – during the day, not at night? I see the same faces in my shop during office hours – you know, the yummy mummies with babies and nothing else to do. They can’t really get their buggies in next door, but they could in here, if we made the space between the tables good and big. I thought with some chairs in here . . . get the fire going . . . paint it the right colour . . .’ She tapped her pen against her perfect white teeth. ‘What else?’
‘Pot of coffee brewing?’ suggested Anna, half joking.
‘Coffee, yes, good. And pastries. It’s all about the extras in a place like this. I’ll see if I can do a deal with the deli . . .’
Anna looked around and tried to see what Michelle was seeing, but she couldn’t: the windowless room was stacked with boxes of second-hand stock Cyril Quentin had never got round to sorting, let alone shelving. The shelves themselves were tatty and the lino was torn, showing bare boards in some places. No one ever ventured into the back room. Even she’d only put her nose round the door once or twice before giving up, overwhelmed by the disordered stock.
‘Children’s books are good sellers,’ she said, reaching down to pick up James and the Giant Peach , another old favourite. The downy, luscious peach dangling above the seething sea, strung up by thousands of seagulls. Anna had always been slightly scared of the gulls and had made her dad read it with the book flat, so she wouldn’t let their sharp beaks into her dreams as she dozed off. ‘Kids get through them so quickly, if they’re fast
‘Nope, it’s going to be books.’
‘Books?’
Michelle nodded. ‘I’m going to run it as a bookshop.’
‘But this is the worst possible time for bookshops,’ said Anna, horrified. ‘And I say that as Longhampton’s sole remaining purchaser of books. I mean, it’s great that you want to keep it open, but I don’t want to see you ruined.’
‘Well, we’ll see. Tell me what you think about my ideas.’ Michelle flipped over another page in her notebook, which was covered in her bold handwriting, arrows and bubbles springing in every direction. ‘Redecoration and marketing are the key things. I was thinking about those presents you gave the girls. We could call them Book Bouquets, and offer it as a service – a stack of romances sent to a relative stuck in hospital, say? You can’t have flowers in some hospital wards, apparently – I’m always sending silk flower bouquets up there.’
‘Well, I’d buy that, obviously,’ conceded Anna. ‘Who’s going to put them together, though? Kelsey?’
She didn’t want to add, ‘You?’ because she knew she couldn’t make the word come out politely. Michelle was the only person she knew who arranged her books in rainbow order.
But Michelle was still listing her ideas, clearly not in the mood for negatives.
‘And I was thinking about organic book boxes, like veg boxes? For ten quid, we could send someone a mentally nutritious selection of titles, some new, some second-hand. Some easy “potato” books, some more challenging “turnip” ones. You know how you always make an effort to do something new when they send you a Savoy cabbage? Well, the book box would be like that. People would feel virtuous for trying a Swedish translation along with their new Marian Keyes, and it wouldn’t cost us anything because – here’s the clever bit – it’s here already .’
Anna marvelled at how Michelle made everything sound so possible. ‘That’s actually a really good idea. You’d need to put in a guide, though, get them interested in the turnip books. But who’s going to . . . ?’
‘Brilliant!’ Michelle pointed her pen at her, and jotted the idea down in the notebook. ‘And reading groups – during the day, not at night? I see the same faces in my shop during office hours – you know, the yummy mummies with babies and nothing else to do. They can’t really get their buggies in next door, but they could in here, if we made the space between the tables good and big. I thought with some chairs in here . . . get the fire going . . . paint it the right colour . . .’ She tapped her pen against her perfect white teeth. ‘What else?’
‘Pot of coffee brewing?’ suggested Anna, half joking.
‘Coffee, yes, good. And pastries. It’s all about the extras in a place like this. I’ll see if I can do a deal with the deli . . .’
Anna looked around and tried to see what Michelle was seeing, but she couldn’t: the windowless room was stacked with boxes of second-hand stock Cyril Quentin had never got round to sorting, let alone shelving. The shelves themselves were tatty and the lino was torn, showing bare boards in some places. No one ever ventured into the back room. Even she’d only put her nose round the door once or twice before giving up, overwhelmed by the disordered stock.
‘Children’s books are good sellers,’ she said, reaching down to pick up James and the Giant Peach , another old favourite. The downy, luscious peach dangling above the seething sea, strung up by thousands of seagulls. Anna had always been slightly scared of the gulls and had made her dad read it with the book flat, so she wouldn’t let their sharp beaks into her dreams as she dozed off. ‘Kids get through them so quickly, if they’re fast
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