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‘Joan, you've read this.’

‘No, I haven't.’

‘Yes, you have.’

‘I've never read one with a windmill on the front.’

‘Ah, but they've repackaged them. Changed the covers. This one,’ he reached under the counter, ‘is this one.’ He produced another book.

She stared, dismayed. ‘I've read that.’

‘I know. Sorry, pet.’

‘Oh.’ She put her coins away downcast. ‘Oh, well.’ She turned to go. I nipped round the counter, went after her.

‘Um, Joan, have you tried Lyn Andrews?’

‘Who?’ She regarded me suspiciously.

‘Lyn Andrews. She writes lovely period romances, very Catherine Cookson.’ She took the book I'd plucked from a shelf behind me.

‘Well, I don't know…’

‘Try it,’ I urged. ‘I love them.’

She dithered.

‘Try it, and if you don't like it, I'll give you your money back.’

Behind me I heard Malcolm moan low and drop his head like a stone on the counter. He banged it up and down, Basil Fawlty-style, which took me right back. I suppressed a giggle.

‘All right,’ she said, brightening. ‘I'll take it.’

‘Hon!’ Malcolm wailed, jerking upright when she'd left the shop. ‘I'm not running a charity.’

‘Trust me. She'll be back.’

‘Indeed she will,’ he muttered darkly.

Sure enough she was. The next day. ‘Read it in a day!’ she declared. ‘In the bath too.’ We cringed. Too much information. ‘Has she written any more?’

‘Yes, loads.’ I hastened to the shelves, flicking Malcolm a triumphant look.

Some were harder to please. One tall, haughty-looking woman with a cut-glass accent and a nose a great deal of breeding had gone into, wanted a light romance for her niece. I offered her the bestselling chick-lit title.

‘Has it got any sex in it?’ she demanded, swooping from a great height to eye me fiercely.

‘None at all,’ I assured her.

‘Well, that's no good, is it?’ she snapped and left the shop.

I turned helplessly to Malcolm.

‘Never fall for the niece ruse, hon,’ he murmured, stroking Alan Hollinghurst reverently before popping him back on the shelf. ‘It's as old as the hills. Point her in the Anonymous direction, next time. She wants to get horny by teatime.’

The shop had changed since my day. For the better. It was a friendlier place than I recalled in Jean's reign. Most people knew Malcolm by name, some asked for Ludo, who happily wasn't there, some came to buy, some to browse, and some, it seemed, just to lean on the counter, chat and stroke Cinders. One or two curled up on the sofas upstairs for hours, read books they didn't buy, and even spilled coffee on them, brewed for them by Malcolm in his kitchen, complete with a chocolate digestive.

‘Don't you mind that they don't buy?’

‘Oh, I charge them for the coffee.’

‘No, the books.’

He shrugged. ‘They're students – no money. Not really. They make the place look busy and tell other people about it, who do buy. I had a visiting American professor in here the other day who'd heard about us from his students. Spent nearly a hundred pounds. Anyway, they're nice kids.’

I watched him go carefully back upstairs balancing a tray of Nescafé. He was a sweetie, Malcolm. But sweeties didn't make money. I tackled him on it.

‘Oh, there's no money in it. Not really. I mean, I make a bit, obviously, but probably less than Jean made. Specially now that the supermarkets do discounts. But it's a nicer place to be, isn't it? And isn't that what life's about? Having a nice time?’

He had a point. And with only a houseboat and a dog to run, what did Malcolm need with money? I sensed, though, that he was distracted, these days: his eyes were permanently on the door, looking for Clarence to come in, which he did, every lunchtime, on a gust of fresh air and a big smile, sporting heavenly Ralph Lauren shirts and cashmere jackets, which had Malcolm and I drooling and fingering the cloth, and often a bunch of flowers too for the counter, before whisking Malc off to Bertorelli or somewhere equally smart.

‘How come Clarence is so rich?’ I asked one day as we waited for him. ‘He's a college lecturer, isn't he?’

‘He inherited it.’

‘From who?’

‘His family, who else? He's a trustafarian. No irony intended.