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Authors: Lucy Dillon
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own accord.
With a tight smile, Michelle leaned over and moved the perfectly legible Post-it note with her name and details on from the top of his old-fashioned phone to the small clear space in front of him. ‘Miss Nightingale. Michelle Nightingale. As in Florence.’
She made a mental note never to use Flint and Cook if they charged by the hour, and decided to take the meeting by the horns, as Rory Stirling clearly wasn’t going to. ‘I understand Mr Quentin’s retiring, and I’d be very keen to lease the premises,’ she said. ‘Or, even buy them outright, if he’s interested in selling?’
At the mention of selling, a light seemed to come on in the solicitor’s eyes and he pushed his glasses up his nose with renewed focus.
At bloody last, thought Michelle.
‘He owns the shop, yes, but I don’t think he’s intending to sell at the moment,’ said Rory. ‘He’s instructed us quite specifically about finding a tenant.’
‘In that case, I’d be very interesting in taking it on. I can give references, advance rent, whatever you need.’ Michelle’s smile became wider and warmer. ‘I’ve been trading next door for nearly three years now.’
‘People always need knick-knacks,’ he said.
Was that supposed to be a joke? Michelle stared across the desk. Rory’s long face didn’t offer any clues, but then, going by his desk, he looked as if he was a stranger to storage solutions. And elegant stationery. And organic cleaning products – most of her range, in fact.
‘They do if they’re the right knick-knacks,’ she said, lifting her sharp chin. ‘I’ve got several exclusive deals with international suppliers, and I’m hoping to expand further this year.’
‘Well, that’s very commendable,’ he said Scottishly. ‘The high street needs some invigorating.’
‘Best Neighbourhood Shop, 2010 and 2011,’ she replied smartly. ‘Did you see our hanging baskets this summer? We’ve won prizes for our window displays. I could do the same for next door.’
Rory leaned forward, resting one elbow on the desk. He had to move a file slightly to do it, which spoiled the casual effect, but he didn’t take his eyes off Michelle’s face. If she hadn’t been struggling with her rising annoyance, she’d have taken more notice of their unusual grey colour. ‘But – hanging baskets aside – what would you be bringing to the world of bookselling?’
‘Bookselling?’
‘Mmm.’ He looked straight at her in a cool, assessing way and Michelle suddenly had the unsettling impression that Rory Stirling’s brain wasn’t as messy as his desk suggested. ‘Bookselling.’
‘But I wouldn’t be . . .’ Michelle stopped and readjusted her line of attack, seeing his eyebrows shift upwards as she spoke.
Oh, for God’s sake, she thought crossly. He was obviously one of those ‘books are the lifeblood of our civilisation’ types, like Anna. Much as she liked Anna, she could be evangelical about the importance of literary heritage, and never seemed to notice how glazed Michelle’s eyes went whenever she started raving on about how some television adaptation had missed the point of the novel. Rory Stirling had probably gone to protest at the library cuts – now that she looked at it, his was exactly the sort of jumper that library-goers wore. The two book group sessions she’d gone to with Anna, even the women had worn jumpers like that.
‘It’s a very difficult climate nationally for bookselling right now,’ she said. ‘As Mr Quentin himself must have realised. I think it would be tough for anyone to make books work on their own.’
‘But not knick-knacks.’ His face was straight, but his eyes were glinting with amusement. ‘The knick-knack market is buoyant.’
Michelle clenched the hand he couldn’t see until the nails dug into her palm. She could handle tough negotiators, but one thing she couldn’t stand was having the mickey taken out of her. It had taken a long time to rebuild her
With a tight smile, Michelle leaned over and moved the perfectly legible Post-it note with her name and details on from the top of his old-fashioned phone to the small clear space in front of him. ‘Miss Nightingale. Michelle Nightingale. As in Florence.’
She made a mental note never to use Flint and Cook if they charged by the hour, and decided to take the meeting by the horns, as Rory Stirling clearly wasn’t going to. ‘I understand Mr Quentin’s retiring, and I’d be very keen to lease the premises,’ she said. ‘Or, even buy them outright, if he’s interested in selling?’
At the mention of selling, a light seemed to come on in the solicitor’s eyes and he pushed his glasses up his nose with renewed focus.
At bloody last, thought Michelle.
‘He owns the shop, yes, but I don’t think he’s intending to sell at the moment,’ said Rory. ‘He’s instructed us quite specifically about finding a tenant.’
‘In that case, I’d be very interesting in taking it on. I can give references, advance rent, whatever you need.’ Michelle’s smile became wider and warmer. ‘I’ve been trading next door for nearly three years now.’
‘People always need knick-knacks,’ he said.
Was that supposed to be a joke? Michelle stared across the desk. Rory’s long face didn’t offer any clues, but then, going by his desk, he looked as if he was a stranger to storage solutions. And elegant stationery. And organic cleaning products – most of her range, in fact.
‘They do if they’re the right knick-knacks,’ she said, lifting her sharp chin. ‘I’ve got several exclusive deals with international suppliers, and I’m hoping to expand further this year.’
‘Well, that’s very commendable,’ he said Scottishly. ‘The high street needs some invigorating.’
‘Best Neighbourhood Shop, 2010 and 2011,’ she replied smartly. ‘Did you see our hanging baskets this summer? We’ve won prizes for our window displays. I could do the same for next door.’
Rory leaned forward, resting one elbow on the desk. He had to move a file slightly to do it, which spoiled the casual effect, but he didn’t take his eyes off Michelle’s face. If she hadn’t been struggling with her rising annoyance, she’d have taken more notice of their unusual grey colour. ‘But – hanging baskets aside – what would you be bringing to the world of bookselling?’
‘Bookselling?’
‘Mmm.’ He looked straight at her in a cool, assessing way and Michelle suddenly had the unsettling impression that Rory Stirling’s brain wasn’t as messy as his desk suggested. ‘Bookselling.’
‘But I wouldn’t be . . .’ Michelle stopped and readjusted her line of attack, seeing his eyebrows shift upwards as she spoke.
Oh, for God’s sake, she thought crossly. He was obviously one of those ‘books are the lifeblood of our civilisation’ types, like Anna. Much as she liked Anna, she could be evangelical about the importance of literary heritage, and never seemed to notice how glazed Michelle’s eyes went whenever she started raving on about how some television adaptation had missed the point of the novel. Rory Stirling had probably gone to protest at the library cuts – now that she looked at it, his was exactly the sort of jumper that library-goers wore. The two book group sessions she’d gone to with Anna, even the women had worn jumpers like that.
‘It’s a very difficult climate nationally for bookselling right now,’ she said. ‘As Mr Quentin himself must have realised. I think it would be tough for anyone to make books work on their own.’
‘But not knick-knacks.’ His face was straight, but his eyes were glinting with amusement. ‘The knick-knack market is buoyant.’
Michelle clenched the hand he couldn’t see until the nails dug into her palm. She could handle tough negotiators, but one thing she couldn’t stand was having the mickey taken out of her. It had taken a long time to rebuild her
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