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  Dr Nicholson cleared his throat and said, ‘I’m sure that wouldn’t happen.’

  ‘Well, hopefully not, but sometimes you do know the answer and you just can’t think of it. Someone fires a question at you, you know it’s important to get it right and—boom!—your mind goes blank!’

  ‘Of course it does.’ He nodded understandingly.

  ‘Like, let’s try it with you.’ Lola waggled an index finger at him. ‘Capital of Australia.’

  Dr Nicholson hesitated. Blythe, never able to resist a quiz question, let out a squeak of excitement and raised her arm. Lola swung the pointing finger round and barked in Paxmanesque fashion, ‘Yes, Mum?’

  ‘Sydney!’

  ‘No it isn’t.’ Lola returned her attention to Dr Nicholson. ‘Your turn.’

  He was looking somewhat taken aback. Opening his mouth to reply, he—

  ‘Brisbane!’

  ‘Sshh, Mum. It isn’t your go.’

  ‘Um…’

  ‘Melbourne!’ squealed Blythe.

  ‘Mum, control yourself. It’s Dr Nicholson’s turn.’

  At this, his shoulders relaxed and his mouth began to twitch. ‘It’s Canberra. And I’ve just worked out what’s going on. I’m not Dr Nicholson, by the way.’

  Bemused, Lola said, ‘No?’

  He smiled. ‘Entirely my fault. I knew the police had told you our name last night and I kind of assumed you’d remember. But you were concussed. I’m sorry, let’s start again. My name’s Philip Nicholson and I’m here to thank you from the bottom of my heart for coming to my wife’s rescue. You did an incredibly brave thing and I can’t begin to tell you how grateful we are.’ His voice thickened with emotion. ‘Those thugs could have killed her if you hadn’t gone to help.’

  Lola clapped her hand over her mouth. ‘I thought you were my doctor, coming to check whether I was compos mentis.’

  Philip Nicholson looked amused. ‘I realize that now.’

  ‘Phew! Just as well I didn’t think you were here to examine my chest.’ God, imagine if she’d whipped her top off, that would’ve given him a bit of a start.

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘How’s your wife this morning?’ said Lola.

  ‘Well, still shocked. Battered and bruised. Two broken fingers.’ There was a hard edge to his voice now. ‘Where they tried to wrench her rings off.’

  ‘Did they get them?’

  ‘No. Which is also thanks to you. She’s pretty shaken up, and her face is swollen. But physically it could have been a lot worse.’ Philip Nicholson shook his head and slowly exhaled. ‘My wife and I owe you so much.’

  Lola squirmed, embarrassed. ‘Anyone would have done the same.’

  ‘No they wouldn’t,’ Blythe retorted. ‘Most people would have had more sense.’

  Their visitor nodded. ‘I’m inclined to agree. Though very grateful, of course, that your daughter wasn’t—’

  ‘Hello, hello! Morning, all!’ A little man wearing a maroon corduroy jacket over a green hand-knitted sweater came bouncing up to them. Pumping Lola’s hand and simultaneously pulling closed the curtains around the bed, he said, ‘I’m Dr Palmer, your consultant. Let’s just give you a quick once-over, shall we? If you two could leave us alone for ten minutes that’d be marvelous. I say, that’s a fair-sized bump on your head. How are you feeling after your little adventure last night?’

  ‘Great.’ Lola watched as, with mesmerizing speed, he began testing her reflexes, her eyes, her coordination. ‘Are you going to be asking me questions?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  She couldn’t help feeling a bit smug. ‘The capital of Australia is Canberra.’

  ‘Good grief, is it really? Always thought it was Sydney. Never been much good at capital cities, I’m afraid. When I’m checking out my patients I prefer to ask them sums. What’s twenty-seven times sixty-three?’

  ‘Uh… um…’ Lola began to panic; seven threes were twenty-one, carry two and—

  ‘Only kidding.’ Mr Palmer’s eyes twinkled as he snatched up her notes. ‘What day is it today?’

  ‘Wednesday the fourth of December.’ Phew, that was more like it, that was the kind of question she could answer.

  ‘Cheers.’ He wrote the date on a fresh page then added o/e NAD.

  ‘What does NAD mean?’ Lola peered at it. ‘Please don’t say Neurotic and Demented.’

  The consultant chuckled. ‘On examination, no abnormality detected.’

  ‘My mother might not agree with you there. So does that mean I can go home?’

  ‘I think we can let you go.’

  Beaming, Lola wiggled her feet. ‘Yay.’

  ***

  ‘What a charming man.’ Blythe, evidently quite bowled over by Philip Nicholson, found Lola’s glittery shoes in the bottom of her bedside locker. ‘And so grateful. His wife’s on Ward Thirteen, up on the next floor. Poor thing, from the sound of it her face is a terrible mess. I think they’re going to be sending you flowers, by the way. He asked for your address.’

  ‘If they’re that grateful they might send me chocolates too. Did you phone work?’

  ‘I did. Told them you wouldn’t be in until next week.’

  ‘Who did you speak to? What did they say?’

  ‘It was Cheryl.’ Blythe held out the cropped velvet jacket as if Lola were six years old. ‘And it was quite hard to hear what she was saying. Everyone was cheering so loudly when they heard you were going to be away, I could hardly make out a word.’

  ‘Cheek. Everyone loves me at work. Honestly,’ said Lola, ‘if Philip Nicholson wants to get me something really useful, a new mother wouldn’t go amiss.’

  Chapter 6

  ‘This is fantastic. I feel like the Queen.’ Being at home and having a fuss made of her was a huge novelty and Lola was relishing every minute. Once you’d been officially signed off work by the doctor, well, you may as well lie back and make the most of it. Friends called in, bringing chocolate croissants and gossip from the outside world, a couple of police officers had dropped by to tell her that the muggers hadn’t been caught, and Blythe had come over yesterday and spring-cleaned—well, winter-cleaned—the flat.

  Best of all, she had Gabe at her beck and call.

  ‘You’re a fraud.’ He brought in the cheese and mushroom toasted sandwich he’d just made. ‘You don’t have to be in bed.’

  ‘I know.’ Lola happily patted her ultra-squishy goose down duvet, all puffed up around her like a cloud, and wriggled into a more comfortable sitting position. ‘But I get so much more sympathy this way. It’s like being back at school and staying home with tonsillitis. All cozy, watching daytime TV, everyone being extra-nice to you and knowing you’re missing double physics. Ooh,’ she bit into the toasted sandwich and caught a string of melted cheese before it attached itself to her chin. ‘Mmmmpphh, this is heaven. Oh Gabe, don’t go to Australia. Stay here and make toasted sandwiches for me forever.’

  Gabe found her toes and tweaked them. ‘What did your last slave die of?’

  ‘Nothing. I’ve never had a slave before, but now I definitely know I want one.’ At that moment the doorbell rang downstairs. ‘Like when the doorbell rings,’ said Lola. ‘And you just ask someone else to run down and see who it is.’

  ‘That’ll be me, then.’

  ‘Sorry. I’d do it myself if I could.’ Lola shrugged regretfully. ‘But I’m an invalid.’

  He was back a couple of minutes later with a great armful of white roses tied with straw and swathed in cellophane. ‘Flowers for the lady. From a very upmarket florist. Here’s the card.’ Gabe tossed a peacock-blue envelope over to Lola. ‘Unless you want me to read it for you because you’re too ill.’

  ‘I’ll manage.’ Since she didn’t have any friends who would use such a glitzy company, L
ola had already guessed the identity of the sender. And she wasn’t wrong. ‘They’re from Philip Nicholson. He hopes I’m feeling better. His wife was discharged from the hospital yesterday.’ She paused, reading on. ‘He’s inviting me to a party at their house so I can meet her and they can thank me properly.’

  ‘You can’t go to a party. You’re an invalid.’

  ‘It’s not until next Friday; that’s seven days away. I’ll be fine by then. It’s nice of them to invite me.’ Lola hesitated, pulled a face. ‘But won’t it be a bit embarrassing?’

  ‘Spoken by the girl who once superglued her finger to her forehead and had to wait in casualty for six hours before the nurse could unglue it.’

  OK, that had been more embarrassing.

  ‘I’m still not sure. They live in Barnes.’ Lola checked the address. ‘Sounds posh.’

  ‘You’d hurt their feelings if you didn’t turn up.’

  This was true.

  ‘And they must want me to go.’ She showed Gabe the handwritten letter. ‘He’s even organized a car to come here and pick me up on the night. Crikey, now I really feel like the Queen.’ Having finished her toasted sandwich, a thought struck Lola. ‘Is there any of that apricot cheesecake left?’

  ‘No, you ate it.’

  ‘Oh. Well, could we buy some more?’

  Gabe rolled his eyes. ‘You really should get back to work. You’re turning into Marie Antoinette.’

  ***

  Five days later Lola was back. She adored her job and she loved her customers—dealing with the public was her forte—but sometimes they were capable of testing her patience to the limit. Especially in the run-up to Christmas, when vast hordes of people who didn’t venture into bookshops at any other time of year came pouring through the doors with a great Need to Buy coupled with Absolutely No Idea What.

  It could be an enjoyable challenge. It could also be the road to madness. Lying in bed watching lovely Fern and Phil and dunking marshmallows in hot chocolate seemed like a distant dream.

  ‘No, no, it’s none of them.’ The woman with the plastic rain hat protecting her hair—why? It wasn’t raining today—rejected the array of books Lola had shown her.

  ‘OK, well, that’s everything we have in stock about insects. If you like, I can look on the computer and—’

  ‘It’s nothing like any of these,’ the woman retorted. ‘There’s no pictures in the one I’m after.’

  A book about insects containing no illustrations of insects. Hmm, that would probably explain why they didn’t stock it.

  ‘Would you recognize the cover if you saw it?’

  ‘No.’

  Lola tried for the third time. ‘And you really can’t remember who wrote it?’

  The woman frowned. ‘No. I thought you’d know that.’

  She was clearly disappointed, feeling badly let down by the incompetence of Kingsley’s staff. ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Lola, ‘I can’t think how else to do this. I’m afraid we’re not going to be able to—’

  ‘Oink, oink!’

  Okaaaay. ‘Excuse me?’

  The woman said triumphantly, ‘There’s a pig in it!’

  A pig. Right. A pig in a book about insects. Zrrrrr, went Lola’s brain, assimilating this new and possibly deal-clinching clue. Zzzzrrrrrrrr…

  ‘Is it Lord of the Flies?’

  ‘Yes! That’s the one!’

  Lola exchanged a glance with an older male customer currently leafing through a book on the subject of kayaking down the Nile. For a split second she saw the twinkle of suppressed laughter in his eyes and almost lost it herself.

  But no. She was a professional. To the woman in the rain hat Lola said cheerfully, ‘It’s a novel by William Golding. Let me show you where to find it,’ and led her off to the fiction section.

  When she returned, Kayak Man was waiting to speak to her.

  ‘Hi. Well done with your last customer, by the way.’

  ‘All in a day’s work. You nearly made me laugh.’

  ‘Sorry.’ He put down the kayak book. ‘Anyway, I’m hoping you can help me now.’

  Lola smiled; he had a lean, intelligent face. ‘Fire away. I like a challenge.’

  ‘Jane Austen. My wife’s read all her books. I was wondering, has she written any new ones this year?’

  Lola waited for his eyes to twinkle. They didn’t. Her heart sank.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jane Austen’s dead.’

  ‘She is? Oh, that’s a shame, my wife will be sorry to hear that. We must have missed her obituary in the Telegraph. What did she die of, do you know?’

  ‘Um…’ What had Jane Austen died of? Multiple injuries following a parachuting accident, perhaps? Had she crashed her jet ski? Or how about—

  ‘Lola, there’s someone here wanting to speak to you.’ It was Cheryl, sounding apologetic. ‘A crew from a TV station are interviewing store managers about Christmas shopping and they wondered if you could spare them five minutes. If you’re too busy, Tim says he’d be happy to do it.’

  ‘I bet he would.’ Tim was besotted with the idea of being on TV; it was the reason he went along to all the film premieres in Leicester Square, why he’d dressed up as a chicken to audition for the X Factor (the judges had told him to cluck off), and what had propelled him to stand up while he’d been in the audience on Trisha to announce that as a baby he’d been found abandoned in a cardboard box at Victoria station and he was desperate to find his mother. His mum, who’d been ironing a pile of his shirts when the TV program aired, had given Tim a good clump round the ear when he’d arrived home that afternoon.

  ‘It’s OK, I’ll do it myself.’ When you were having a good hair day it was a shame to waste it. ‘Cheryl, can you help this gentleman? His wife’s read everything by Jane Austen so I’m wondering if she might enjoy one of the sequels by another author.’

  Having excused herself, Lola made her way over to the young male reporter waiting at the tills with a cameraman and his assistant. ‘Hi, I’m Lola Malone. Where would you like to do this?’

  The reporter said, ‘Oh. We’re meant to be doing the interview with the manager.’

  ‘I’m the manager.’

  ‘God, are you really?’ The male reporter—who looked exactly like a male reporter—eyed Lola’s sleek black top, fuchsia pink skirt, and long legs in opaque black tights. ‘You don’t look like the manager of a bookshop.’

  ‘Sorry. Were you expecting someone more frumpy?’

  He looked abashed. ‘Well, yes, I suppose I was.’

  It was a preconception that drove Lola mad and made her want to rattle people’s teeth. ‘I could run out and buy a grey cardigan if you like.’

  ‘You’re joking, no, you look fantastic.’ He spread his hands in admiration. ‘Crikey, I just didn’t think…’

  ‘You should get out more.’ Lola winked, because it was also a preconception she enjoyed shattering. ‘Try visiting a few more bookshops. You might be surprised—nowadays, some of us don’t even wear tweed.’

  Chapter 7

  The piece aired on the local evening news two days later. It lasted less than ninety seconds and the reporter had asked some pretty inane questions but Lola, watching herself on TV as she set about her hair with curling tongs, felt she’d acquitted herself well enough. It wasn’t easy to be witty and scintillating whilst responding to, ‘And here we are, in Kingsley’s on Regent Street, with less than a fortnight to go before Christmas! So, just how busy has it been here in this store?’

  The urge to stretch her arms wide like a fisherman and say, ‘This busy,’ had been huge.

  ‘Well?’ Still wielding the tongs, Lola turned to look at Gabe when the piece ended.

  ‘Yes, that was definitely you.’

  ‘Was I OK?’

  Gabe was busy un
wrapping a Twix bar. ‘You answered his questions, you didn’t burp or swear, or take a swig from a bottle of vodka. That has to be good news.’

  ‘But did I look nice?’

  ‘You looked fine and you know it. What time’s this car coming?’

  ‘Seven thirty. Should I wear my red dress or the blue one?’ Curling completed, Lola bent over and gave her head a vigorous upside-down shake. ‘I feel quite jittery. I’m not going to know anyone else there. What if it’s all really embarrassing and I want to escape but they won’t let me leave?’

  ‘OK, you’ll get there around eight. Leave your phone on and I’ll ring you at nine,’ said Gabe. ‘If you’re desperate to get away, tell them I’m your best friend and I’ve gone into labor.’

  ‘My hero. The things you do for me. How am I going to manage without you when you’re gone?’ Vertical once more, Lola hugged him then made a lightning lunge for the Twix in his hand. She was fast, but not fast enough.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll cope.’ Gabe broke off an inch and gave it to her. ‘You’ll soon find some other poor guy’s Twix bars to pinch.’

  ***

  By seven fifteen Lola was ready to go—OK, it was uncool to be punctual but she simply couldn’t help herself—and peering out of the window.

  ‘Wouldn’t it be great if they sent a stretch limo?’

  Gabe looked horrified. ‘That would be so cheesy.’

  ‘Why would it? I love them!’ OK, she was cheesy and uncool.

  ‘Don’t get your hopes up. From the sound of him, this guy has better taste than you. In fact,’ Gabe went on as a throaty roar filled the street outside, ‘that could be your lift now.’

  It was Lola’s turn to be appalled. Flinging the window open as the motorbike rumbled to a halt outside, she watched as the helmeted rider dismounted. Surely not. If someone said they were sending a car they wouldn’t economize at the last minute and send a motorbike instead. Would they? Oh God, her hair would be wrecked…

  ‘Hi there, Lola.’ Phew, panic over, it was only Marcus.

  ‘Hi there, neighbor-to-be! Come on up,’ said Lola. ‘Gabe’s in my flat at the moment.’