The Little Bookshop of Lonely Hearts: A feel-good funny romance. Annie Darling

same joy, the same friendship.

       ‘If one cannot enjoy reading a book

       over and over again,

       there is no use reading it at all.’

       Oscar Wilde

      By some miracle, Sebastian at last fell silent. He traced the photograph, one long finger caressing the curve of Lavinia’s cheek; a Lavinia frozen in black and white who’d always be young and gay and gazing up at Peregrine with a teasing, loving look.

      ‘Oh … well, now … that’s very … thoughtful.’ He swallowed around the word, as though it had got stuck in his throat. ‘Sometimes Perry used to tell Lavinia that she loved this shop more than she loved him. Then she’d laugh and say that they were on pretty equal pegging.’

      ‘Lavinia did love this shop.’ Posy clasped her hands together and tried to compose herself. She needed to be impassioned but in control; it wouldn’t help her cause if she launched into some incoherent, garbled speech. ‘This is more than a shop. It’s part of your history, Sebastian. It was founded by your great-grandmother, Agatha. It survived the war. Everyone from Virginia Woolf to Marilyn Monroe to The Beatles has come through that door. But it’s part of my history too. It’s the only home I’ve ever known. It might not be making money right now, but it has done, it used to, it could again.’ She wasn’t clasping her hands together any more so much as wringing them, but she felt Verity pause to give her shoulder a squeeze as she brushed past the counter on her way back to the office. ‘Is this because Lavinia left the shop to me? Are you angry about that?’

      ‘Angry?’ Sebastian dropped his usual look of sneering condescension in favour of letting his mouth hang open in disbelief. ‘What? No! History, books, a place covered in dust. What would I want with that? I’m already rich beyond the dreams of avarice anyway.’

      ‘I just thought …’

      ‘Look, Posy, we’re veering dangerously close to talking about our feelings. Messy things, feelings. Almost as messy as your flat. Let’s go back to the bit where you explain why you want to commit financial suicide. You might as well light a big bonfire in the yard outside and throw all your money on to it.’ Sebastian cast his eyes to the heavens. It was a good look for him, showing off the lean, corded beauty of his throat.

      Posy blinked and tried to pay attention to what Sebastian was saying, but given that he was hell-bent on ringing the death knell for Bookends she didn’t know why she was bothering. ‘… and you’ve got the London Review Bookshop and the big new Foyles around the corner. It’s huge. Then there’s the flagship Waterstones on Piccadilly. It beggars belief, really, why anyone would want to come here. Or buy a book at all. So much easier to download it straight on to an e-reader. Not so dusty either – you should try it, Morland.’

      There was no point in explaining to Sebastian how lovely it was to crack open a new book and inhale that wonderful smell. Or the powdery, almost earthy smell of old books. To feel the comforting weight of a novel in your lap, or let the pages dampen and curl as you read in the bath. He wouldn’t get it. She’d have to stick to the facts, lead with her business plan, which was nothing more than a to-do list in an old exercise book and with Verity earwigging from the back office.

      ‘We can’t compete with the big chain bookshops, I know that,’ she said calmly, though that was about the only thing she did know for certain. ‘But Bookends is about more than selling books, it’s about the experience and expertise we can offer. We don’t sell books like they’re cans of baked beans or bars of soap. We love books, and that comes across in our bookselling.’

      ‘Not that there’s much selling going on here. Quite the contrary,’ Sebastian said with a smug sniff, as if he knew anything about the subject. ‘Maybe you love books too much, Morland, and that’s why your sales are so shocking. People come in to buy a book and you scare them off by frothing at the mouth as you bang on and on about the new Dan Brown.’

      ‘I do not froth – and certainly not about Dan Brown,’ Posy said crossly. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. And I do – know what I’m talking about, that is. Which is why Lavinia let me take over the three rooms on the right, to sell romantic fiction.’ Posy didn’t mean to, she was out and proud, but she whispered the last two words and blushed as Sebastian pulled an agonised face as though she’d made his instant coffee with curdled milk. ‘It’s been going really well because I’m passionate about romantic fiction. I doubt there’s another bookseller in London who’s read as many romance novels as I have, and it shows in my sales. I’ve been taking a lot of orders online too, even though our website is really basic. So, FYI our sales for romantic fiction are up by … a lot.’

      Posy had wanted to wow Sebastian with percentages and profit margins, but she’d never concerned herself with that side of things. She was, however, an expert on romantic fiction. If she were to go on Mastermind with romantic fiction as her specialist subject, she’d get a clear round every time. OK, she’d come a cropper on the general knowledge, but whatever! The problem with knowledge was that it was too general, too wide, impossible to know everything and …

      Oh goodness! Posy had to clutch on to a shelf because she was having an idea. A big idea. A grand scheme. A USP. She’d got it! By God, she’d got it!

      ‘Are you having a funny turn, Morland?’ Sebastian asked solicitously. ‘I’m not surprised. I’m pretty sure you’ve been inhaling all kinds of poisonous spores from the mould in your flat.’

      ‘We don’t have mould,’ Posy snapped; she wasn’t about to let Sebastian distract her now. ‘As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted: instead of trying to do everything, compete with the big bookstores, which is a hopeless task, Bookends is going to specialise in one genre. Go niche or go home.’ Posy paused for dramatic effect – and because she couldn’t quite believe what she was going to say next. ‘We’re going to become the only bookshop in Britain, maybe even the world, which specialises in romantic literature. So, what do you think about that? Hey! Did you hear what I just said?’

      Posy was talking to Sebastian’s back again. He’d disappeared into the first room and Posy had no choice but to follow. She caught up with him as he began pulling a book from one of the shelves. It was a US import, which was why it had a cover that featured a long-haired piece of beefcake with a rippling six-pack, straddling a woman who was wearing a filmy negligee and showing a lot of leg, as befitted someone who was about to be Seduced by a Scoundrel. Sebastian stared at it in horror then thrust it back in the wrong place.

      By the time Posy had restored it to its rightful place, Sebastian had moved on to the classics section of her little romance fiefdom and was waving a copy of Pride and Prejudice around. ‘Boring!’ he proclaimed, which was treason. High treason. Before Posy had time to react he’d moved on to I Capture the Castle. ‘Banal!’ And Tender Is the Night. ‘Facile!’

      ‘You’re so predictable! You make all these assumptions about romance novels and I bet you’ve never even read one. The whole world revolves around people meeting and falling in love; if it didn’t then, the human race would die out, you silly, ignor— Mpppfffhhhh!’ She got no further because Sebastian had clapped his hand over her mouth.

      How she longed to bite his hand. Maybe it would teach Sebastian a lesson about invading her personal space. Getting so close to her that she could feel the heat coming off him. ‘Not another word!’ His eyes flashed, not with anger but amusement, as if this was the most fun he’d had all morning. ‘Stop banging on about romance novels and lurve. I swear I can feel my testicles shrivelling.’

      Posy yanked his hand away. ‘I think you can get a cream for that. Try Boots.’

      ‘Good idea!’ Sebastian was in forward motion again. He flung open the door of the shop, because he couldn’t even open a door, without it turning into a big, dramatic gesture. ‘I’ll be in touch,’ he said with an airy wave of his hand. Then he was gone.

      Posy put a hand