A famous author came into the bookshop today and we all had to pretend we didn’t know who he was. He lives nearby and we have several of his books on our shelves, some with his actual face on them, and yet when he wants to order a book in to buy, we have to ask, completely straight-faced, “What’s your last name? Uh huh. And first name?” and then remain blank-faced. It is the best acting I have ever done in my life.
Apparently, a long time ago, a former bookseller here asked for a selfie with him and he (politely) refused and then he didn’t come into the bookshop for years, so now we must be extra careful around him.
This is in contrast to another famous author who came in recently. He wanted to autograph his books and a customer on her way out overheard and said, “Oh, you wrote a book! Good for you!” and then she left, the door shutting behind her.
It was like someone saying “Oh, you wrote a little song! Adorable!” to Paul Simon and then slamming the door, leaving Paul Simon fuming inside. With me. I did not know what to do, but I needed to make sure that he knew that I knew who he was. I panicked and said, “Oh, it’s YOU! YOU! You wrote that…thing!!! That thing that I love!!”
Anyway, it’s hard to get it right when it comes to the famous.
It is my first autumn working at the bookshop (I started working here in January). We have a coffee machine here, so we have ordered in fancy pumpkin spice syrup and we have cursive orange lettering on the black A-board sign out front. I wore an oversized navy cardigan and jeans to work last week because leaves were blowing everywhere and there was finally a chill in the London air. The cinnamon candles are out.
Cara was working today. Cara is 22 and looks like Alexa Chung, if Alexa Chung only wore cargo pants and baggy black t-shirts. She has that cool haircut and her cat-like eyes and Cara’s also tall, so when she sits, she can cross her legs over about seven times. She only wears mascara and that’s all she needs because, let me reiterate, she is 22.
Sometimes I can’t believe Cara is only 22. A baby. A child. A baby-child. I find myself exclaiming, “You are SO YOUNG! You are a baby!!!” and she laughs and pretends to fake cry “wah” with exaggerated wringing hands.
Rebecca was also working today. She has long dark wavy hair and loves books so much that on her off days, she visits other indie bookshops. She is crafty, she writes poems, and she cuddles every single dog who comes into our shop.
The most shocking discovery I made about them, these twenty-somethings, is that Rebecca and Cara have never seen a single episode of GIRLS. I am in my 30s and I have never felt older in my life.
I find myself mothering them. Not because I want to, but when you are left with stray kittens about to scurry across a busy road, you scoop them into your arms before you know what you’re doing. You give them water and brush them and suddenly say out loud, realising, “Wait, so I have to be the adult here?!”
I say to them, “What do you mean you don’t wash your fruit?” and text them late at night, “Did you remember to take your B12 and iron?” (Cara is a vegan and Rebecca a vegetarian.)
When Cara forgets to drink water, yet makes a cup of coffee that is FOUR espresso shots and no milk, I want to cup her face in my hands and say, “No. No no no no no no no.” I pester Cara and Rebecca to make appointments at the GP and to go to the dentist. To confront their rude flatmates. I beg them not to text their exes. I give them my password to a streaming service and say, “Please watch GIRLS. Go. Now.”
Cara and I often work together. We try to find common ground and fail. She says “slay” often and non-ironically and when I tell her I need a break to pee and can she cover the till, she yells, “Go piss, girl!!!” which is apparently a meme from the Gossip Girl opening montage, something I did not know for months of her yelling this at me. I just thought all twenty-somethings encouraged each other with, “Go piss, girl!”
Even so, it was easy to bond with my younger colleagues, because we all love reading books and while the bookshop doesn’t have a policy per se about their hiring process, it is telling that there are five of us and we are all very much introvert brunettes who know the names of at least two types of antidepressants off the top of our heads.
I remember that I had only met Rebecca, the 24-year-old, a handful of times but she was open with me immediately. We were sitting at the table in the café part of our bookshop and she was crying, angrily. She had just been broken up with by a guy she really liked but had only gone on three dates with.
“You’re so lucky you’re married!!” Rebecca wailed. “I am so sick of this! I just want my PERSON to spend the rest of my life with and just be done!”
I nodded.
“Tell me! How old were you before you met your husband? I need to know that I still have time!!” she said.
I paused.
“It doesn’t work like that!”
“How old were you?”
