Sophia Money-Coutts - The Wish List

‘Florence?’ shouted Norris, as I tried to scurry past his office to the stockroom unnoticed.

I stopped, briefly closed my eyes and retreated two steps.

I tried never to go into Norris’s office. It was too claustrophobic and untidy: dusty books and yellowing manuscripts were piled on the shelves, ketchup sachets and little salt packets lay scattered across his desk like confetti, pens and dirty forks protruded from an old mug. There should have been health and safety tape criss-crossing the doorway: Enter At Your Own Risk.

Zach, I noticed, had already carved out a small space for himself and a laptop at the end of the desk.

‘Yes?’

Norris cleared his throat. ‘I’ve told Zachary that he can take photographs of the shop floor later.’

‘Content, for the website and Instagram,’ added Zach, turning from the laptop screen to look at me.

‘Oh I see, we’re allowed Instagram now, are we?’ I raised my eyebrows at Norris.

He flapped a hand at me as if I was being hysterical. ‘Yes, yes, well, Zachary’s explained it and it seems like a sensible idea, so could you and Eugene have a tidy up?’

‘After lunch is fine,’ said Zach, his eyes dropping to my Tupperware.

‘Good of you,’ I muttered.

‘What?’

‘Nothing, nothing. Anything else? Can I get anyone a cup of tea? Coffee? A foot massage?’

‘A coffee would be amazing if you’re making one,’ Zach replied.

‘I’m not but the kettle’s in the kitchen.’ I gave him my best fake smile before heading to the stockroom.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. I didn’t even realize I’d counted each mouthful of my sandwich until I’d finished. The arrogance! What did a photographer know about running a bookshop? I’d been here for nearly ten years and suddenly this smug nephew was bossing me about. I tried to read my book but I couldn’t concentrate, so I went back upstairs, told Eugene he could go for lunch and straightened the tables of books in silent fury.

Zach appeared upstairs an hour later, by which point I was back behind the till discussing the previous night’s Masterchef with Eugene.

‘Do you mind if I leave these here?’ He put his laptop and camera on the counter and strolled around the shop floor, squatting every few minutes and narrowing his eyes across the floorboards as if he was on safari and trying to spot a lion in the distance.

‘This all seems very professional,’ Eugene said admiringly, so I kicked him in the ankle.

‘Ow! What was that for?’ he grumbled, bending to rub his leg. Such a baby. It wasn’t even that hard.

‘Trying to work out the best angles,’ Zach said, stepping back towards us and leaning over the counter to look down at Eugene. ‘You all right?’

‘He’s fine,’ I said. ‘And can you not leave your coffee there, please, because it’ll stain the wood.’

Zach picked up his mug and grinned at me. ‘Sorry, madam. Won’t happen again.’

‘Hand it over,’ said Eugene. ‘I’m going downstairs to make tea. Anyone want one?’

‘I’ll do tea,’ I said, intercepting the mug just as Eugene reached for it. I suddenly very much wanted to be in a different room.

‘Thanks. And I’d love another coffee,’ said Zach. ‘If that’s not too much trouble?’

‘No trouble. Milk? Sugar?’

‘Just milk, please.’

‘Sweet enough already,’ joked Eugene as I headed for the stairs, which made me want to kick him again.

Downstairs, I flicked the kettle on and decided to take much longer than I normally would with the tea run. I could probably stretch it out to twenty minutes or so if I really tried, but my thoughts about tea-making vanished when I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket and pulled it out to see a message from a strange number.

Hello! It’s Rory, who bought the books from you yesterday. Might you be free for a spin round the Royal Academy and a coffee on Sunday afternoon?

I stared at the screen. Rory seemed the right name for him. Posh, unquestionably, but that was fine so long as he wasn’t the sort of man who still talked about what school he went to and that he wanted to marry a rugby ball. Putting my phone down, I held my breath as I opened the fridge (it always smelled like a very old mouse had died in there) and thought about what to reply. Should I wait a bit? I couldn’t. I was too excited.

That would be lovely! I typed. Was an exclamation mark immature? But the words looked too severe without, as if I was texting a grandparent. That would be lovely! Let me know what time works for you , I decided, adding an ‘F’ and a small ‘x’ before clicking send.

I’d often scrutinized couples in restaurants or in the parks I walked through, watching them laugh together. How had they got to that point? What was their secret? Maybe now it was my turn. Maybe Rory would hold my hand on Sunday and other people would look at us and think, ‘What a nice couple.’ Then I told myself to calm down. This was exactly what had happened in the past: I’d been too eager about someone, wondered how many children we’d have after the first drink and then they’d vanished. But not this time. No, no, no. This time I would get it right.

Before I could hold hands with Rory at the Royal Academy, however, there was a hurdle to clear: dress shopping with Mia, Ruby and Patricia on Saturday afternoon. Mia had made a wedding dress spreadsheet and emailed it to us all so we were ‘prepared’. There were dictators who’d put less effort into military coups than Mia had put into this spreadsheet. It was colour-coded with multiple columns for each dress and space for a final mark out of ten. Who was it by? Was it strapless? A-line? Did it have a fishtail? What kind of silk was it? Where was the lace from? My favourite column on this spreadsheet was the one that asked, ‘Have any celebrities worn this dress?’ I wasn’t sure whether Mia deemed this a good or a bad thing but guessed it depended on the celebrity. Meghan Markle would presumably score higher than Kerry Katona.

Mia, Ruby and I took the Tube from Kennington together. Mia and Ruby discussed dresses while I brooded on what to wear for my date the next day. I hadn’t mentioned this to them. Half of me wanted to scream about it. More of me knew that talking about it would invite unwanted speculation.

We walked down Bond Street towards the boutique. As Mia pushed open the door, I heard Patricia bullying the receptionist.

‘I don’t want too much chest on show,’ she was telling her. ‘Can’t bear these modern brides with their bosoms racing down the aisle before them.’

‘Morning, Pat,’ Ruby said loudly. Calling their mother this was a long-running joke between her and Mia.

Patricia turned round. ‘Ruby, please. You know I hate that. And Mia, I was just saying we’re after something demure. Not too much…’ she flapped her hand around her own chest and then lowered her voice, ‘cleavage.’

‘Mum, it’s my wedding. I could go down the aisle in French knickers if I wanted,’ she replied, as Patricia kissed us all in turn. Her lips left a damp patch on my cheeks.

‘You could but your father and I might not pay for it.’

Mia pulled her laptop from her bag and waved it at her mother. ‘I’ve done a mood board.’

I could already detect the roots of a headache from the candles burning in the boutique. I picked one up and squinted at the label. Meringue-scented. Candles were getting sillier.

‘This is Hilda,’ said the receptionist, as a middle-aged lady with blonde hair pulled into a neat doughnut appeared in front of us. ‘She’ll show you to your changing room.’