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Getting Bernard out of the bookshop and into fresh air had taken most of the afternoon, and a bit of bribery in the form of a new bottle of red (now mostly in Bernard), but Fran was determined. She couldn’t shake the idea that if Bernard could just see this other little bookshop she’d found – so charming! – he’d understand. She’d shoved and bullied and cajoled him into a taxi, and now they stood outside A. Z. Fell & Co’s bookshop in Soho, Bernard bleary and belligerent – so, par for the course really.
“Here we go!” Fran said brightly. “Now, this is a second-hand bookshop. I really think you could pick up a few ideas. It’s just such a nice environment!”
“Noooooo.” Bernard looked like he was going to try to sit down on the pavement, but Fran hadn’t come this far to give up now. She held Bernard’s arm in a vice grip and pulled him into the shop ignoring his feeble attempts to slap her hand away. He was hampered by the fact that he was cradling the half-drunk bottle of wine in his other hand.
“Fran. Fran. Fran. We can’t be here. Fran. FRAN.”
“Shhh! Can’t you feel the atmosphere? It’s so nice. It’s hushed. I mean, this is a real example of retail excellence.”
“Fran. I know this shop. The owner doesn’t like cust-“ Bernard’s volume was rising.
“Can I help you?” The shopkeeper had materialised from the shelves, and was looking at them sternly. Fran hadn’t actually seen any staff last time she’d popped in here, and she was once again utterly charmed. Now, this man looked like a proper second-hand book seller! Sure, his expression was a little purse-lipped and prissy, but his clothes were just darling – a little worn, but just look at that waistcoat! And the cardigan! Not that Fran expected Bernard to wear anything like that in a million years, of course. But it was about the atmosphere.
Bernard peered at the other man. “Hey. It’s Fell. Hi, Fell. This’s my friend Fran. She brought me here. We’re just going to…sit. Sit for a while.”
Fell’s expression lightened with recognition. “Why, if it isn’t Mr Black! You’re just here to….sit?”
“Yes. Fran wants to see how a proper bookshop is run. Apparently.”
“You’re not here to, er, purchase anything?”
Bernard smiled (never a pleasant expression) and leaned forward to tap one finger on his nose in what he probably imagined was a subtle manner, and winked. (Or tried to. He succeeded in blinking then squinted meaningfully.)
Mr Fell’s manner brightened considerably. “Well, that’s all right then! There’s a couple of seats over near the dictionaries, you’re very welcome to sit there. Do you need a glass for your refreshments?”
Bernard looked in surprise to find he was still holding the wine. “Nah. We’ll be fine. Come on, Fran, let the man get back to work.”
Fran followed Bernard, hissing at him as they settled into the (very comfortable) chairs offered. “Why didn’t you tell me you already know this shop? And the owner?”
“You didn’t tell me we were coming here.”
“Yes, but…”
“Look, Fran. I think you can learn a lot here. Mr Fell has been in the business a lot longer than I have-“
“He doesn’t look that much older-“
“A lot longer. And. And Fran. Listen, Fran.”
“What?”
“I have never seen him sell a single book!”
“Oh, you’re not telling me that nice man is anything like you! He’s not going to throw things at people or get drunk in the middle of the day, or-“
“Ah, Fran. You have so much to learn. Just watch.” And with that Bernard settled back in his chair, looking satisfied as he started to drink the rest of the wine straight from the bottle, and selected a book at random from the top of a nearby pile to read.
Two hours later, Fran was sitting in dazed silence. Mr Fell was everything Bernard had said. He was masterful. Fran had watched a dozen customers come and go, and all of them had been quietly, exquisitely politely, managed out of the shop. There had been no threats of violence, not even a raised voice, yet somehow all the potential customers, no matter how interested they were in a volume, had left empty-handed. Mr Fell had pottered around contentedly, shelving the occasional book or sitting behind the counter to read, sipping on a mug of cocoa. (Cocoa! Who drinks cocoa these days?) He’d cheerfully brought over a new bottle of wine for Bernard when her friend’s bottle was down to the dregs. Fran had taken one look at the label on the bottle, and nodded meekly when Mr Fell had asked her if she’d like a glass too.
“Closing time!” Mr Fell called out cheerfully. It was precisely 3.47pm. He was ushering the few remaining customers out the door. “Oh dear, yes, time to leave. Do come again. Someday. If you must. Out you go! Oh no, I’m afraid I can’t sell you that one, the register is already closed.” With a sigh of satisfaction he closed and locked the door behind the last, protesting customer.
Fran wondered if you could even call them a customer if they never bought anything.
“Well, young Mr Black, Miss Fran – I hope you’ve had a pleasant afternoon in my little shop?” Mr Fell drifted over to pick up the empty bottles and glasses. Fran took the hint and stood up.
“Nicesh as always,” slurred Bernard, standing unsteadily. Mr Fell put a hand on his elbow to steady him and tutted.
“You’ll never get home well in that state. Here, let me just…”
Fran couldn’t tell what Mr Fell did, but Bernard suddenly stood straighter. His eyes were bright and clear. Fran had never seen him look like this. Almost…sober?
“Ugh, dear God, I hate it when you do that,” Bernard said crisply, wincing a bit.
Mr Fell patted Bernard’s hand. “You can get drunk again when you get home. Your poor liver just needed a little nudge, that’s all!”
Bernard took on a strange internal expression. “Is it….is it working again?”
Mr Fell beamed at him. “What’s a little favour for a fellow bookseller?” The two men looked at each other for a moment before chortling (Bernard chortled?!) and pointing at each other.
“Book seller! Good one, Fell,” said Bernard. “Come on, Fran. We’d better get back before Manny does something foolish. Don’t think I didn’t see him eyeing up the windows. Just look at Fell’s, a patina like this takes years to accumulate properly.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Fran faintly. She’d always supposed that you wanted customers to be able to see the display in a window, but clearly she did have a lot to learn about bookshops.
They were nearly at the door when it opened (hadn’t Mr Fell locked it?) and another man came in. “Hallo, angel. Last customers on their way out? Oh, it’s Black! I must come past your shop again. You always make people so wonderfully annoyed.”
Fran stood straighter and patted her hair. This gentleman was rather nice, wasn’t he? Dressed all in dark clothes, but very stylish and handsome.
“No,” said Bernard in her ear.
“Aren’t you going to introduce your friend, Mr Fell?” asked Fran, charmingly.
“NO,” said Bernard, dragging her out the door. Fran pouted. “Cheers, Fell. Fran, you don’t want to go there, trust me.”
“I think maybe I do want to go there.”
“We’ll get back to my shop, we can both have more wine, and I’ll explain it to you.” Fran heard the shop door lock behind her as Bernard hailed a taxicab. How rude!
Later, when Bernard had made a good start on pickling his liver again, and Fran had had another couple of glasses of the rather inferior wine Bernard had on hand, he explained it to her.
“You are shitting me,” she said. “That doesn’t…that doesn’t make any sense. You’re…you’re being mean to me. There’s no such thing.”
Bernard squinted at her and sighed. “Fine. They’re gay. Does that make you happy?”
The thought percolated through layers of alcohol to reach a couple of working synapses. “Ohhh. All the good ones are,” Fran said morosely. She looked around Bernard’s dingy little shop and snorted to herself. So much for her plan to get him to see that a bookshop could be a little nicer. At least there was still the wine to drown her sorrows…