The Wish List. Sophia Money-Coutts

upstairs. On the other, a rickety wooden table decorated with coffee stains. The loo and cleaning cupboard led off from another door behind the table.

      ‘Are you joining us full time?’ I heard Eugene say to Zach as I tipped the water into the loo.

      ‘Not sure, to be honest, mate,’ Zach replied. ‘You don’t happen to know the password into this thing, do you? That girl upstairs said it was to do with a donkey?’

      I slammed the cupboard door closed on the bucket and mop while Eugene helped him.

      ‘Yes, it’s Bottom123 but you need an uppercase “B”.’

      ‘Ah, thanks, mate, you’re a genius.’

      Eugene, the traitor, laughed with pleasure. ‘Not at all. Do you need anything else?’

      ‘Nah, don’t worry. I’ll wait for my uncle to get here.’

      On my way back to the counter, I paused at the office door. ‘I’m going to man the till. Eugene, can you deal with the deliveries?’ Then I looked at Zach. ‘Is that motorbike helmet on the till yours?’

      ‘Ah, that’s where I left it. Yeah. I’ll come grab it.’

      ‘You ride a motorbike? That’s very manly,’ said Eugene, in an awed tone.

      Oh good, I thought as I climbed the stairs, more testosterone. Just what this place needed.

      Norris arrived an hour later as Eugene was telling me about his latest audition for a cross-dressing role as the nurse in Romeo and Juliet.

      Eugene opened the door for him. ‘We’ve met Zach.’

      Norris looked blank, as if he’d never heard of a Zach.

      ‘Your nephew,’ I clarified.

      ‘Oh him,’ Norris replied, unbuttoning his duffel coat. ‘Yes, Zachary. Did I not mention him?’

      ‘No,’ I replied coolly.

      ‘He’s very good with computers and all that sort of thing so I asked if he’d help out here. We can all work together on it, of course, but Zach’s a photographer and seemed to have a few ideas so I thought, why not?’

      Childishly, I refused to smile back at him as I held out a few envelopes. ‘He’s downstairs having hacked your computer and here’s the post.’

      ‘Thank you. Everything all right up here?’

      ‘Absolutely,’ said Eugene, quickly.

      ‘Grand. Shout if you need me.’

      Norris went downstairs and I made a noise of disgust from the back of my throat.

      ‘I don’t get what’s so bad about him?’ said Eugene, picking up his copy of Romeo and Juliet. ‘He seems nice.’

      ‘I’m sure he is. It’s just that I’ve been banging on to Norris about the same ideas for months. It’s irritating to have someone else swoop in and take over.’

      ‘OK, but do you know what I think will help?’

      ‘A personality transplant?’

      ‘Maybe, but my suggestion is more immediate.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘More rehearsing. We’re about to get to the bit where Shakespeare makes a bawdy penis joke. Come on. It’ll cheer you up.’

      ‘Go on then.’

      We recited lines all morning, breaking off to help the odd customer before getting back into character, then I took first lunch and went downstairs with my Tupperware.

      ‘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!