The Secret Life of Evie Hamilton - Catherine Alliott [25]
I giggled. ‘Not, as such.’
‘Something more serious?’ He raised an eyebrow as The Pain of Infertility was flicked over now.
‘How would I know?’ I sighed, resting my feather duster a moment. ‘I could be as fertile as the River Nile or as barren as the Gobi, I've no idea. No one's ever tested my tubes. I do know this, though, Malcolm, my biological clock is ticking loudly and there's no one to hear it but you, Jean and the cats.’
‘What about Steve, the surfing dude?’
‘No ambition. No… direction.’
‘Except the beach, perhaps?’
I flicked him an unworthy-of-you look and resumed my dusting.
‘OK, well, that other chap then,’ he persisted. ‘Neil, the sarcastic book rep?’
‘Too chippy. He kept calling me a glorified shop assistant and waiting for me to rise, which I didn't.’
‘Not enough glory, that's why. Commandant Sybil sees to that,’ Malcolm jerked his head towards Jean, who very much ruled the roost here, overseeing any events in the shop and generally not letting us have a look in.
I sighed wearily. ‘Actually, I'm thinking of joining that new dining club at the Poly. Meet a few more people.’
‘Well, as long as you're not hanging around here waiting for blue eyes,’ he said gently, ‘because I'm afraid you've missed him.’
‘Oh!’ I swung to face him.
‘Came in ten minutes ago while you were in the loo. I was all for running to get you, but Jean blocked my path and served him herself.’
‘But she knew —’
‘Of course she did, but she doesn't want her pretty young assistant being chatted up by one of the dons, does she? Here, my sweet,’ he delved into a shelf and plucked out a copy of Anger Management. ‘Read and learn. You'll last longer. I have.’
He sauntered away. Bitterly disappointed, I dusted on in silence. Later that morning I slipped to the café next door to drown my sorrows in cappuccino. When I came back, Malcolm ran up, eyes shining.
‘Good news or bad news?’
‘Bad.’
‘He's been in again, and you missed him.’
‘Damn!’
‘But the good news is, he's coming to the poetry reading on Saturday night. Took a leaflet and everything, and – get this, poppet – asked if we all had to be there.’
‘Oh! D'you think he meant—’
‘Well, he surely didn't mean moi, munchkin. I'd have known.’ He tucked his silky blond hair neatly behind his ears. ‘And I really don't think he meant, that… that thing…’ His eyes widened in mock horror as Jean, halfway up a ladder at the top shelf, hitched her skirt a bit to scratch her pantyhose. Malcolm shuddered.
She turned to frown at us. ‘Come on, you two. Less chat.’
‘Jawohl, mein Führer,’ muttered Malcolm under his breath.
‘Oh, and, Evie, your don came in.’ She grinned at me over her shoulder. ‘I'm afraid you missed him.’
‘Yes, Malcolm said.’ I smiled sweetly back.
Malcolm gave me a huge wink as he sauntered away, pretending to shake Jean's ladder as he passed, then breaking into goose steps and a Nazi salute when he was out of her sight.
Saturday couldn't come quickly enough. Normally I avoided readings like the plague. Being only a small bookshop we didn't attract the likes of Jeffrey Archer or Jilly Cooper, rolling up in their chauffeur-driven cars with their glamorous publicity girls; instead, some unknown local author would shuffle in off the street in a duffel coat, their book in a Tesco carrier bag. Given the spotlight, though, and the evening, these usually timid souls would become expansive; droning on and on, reading reams and reams of interminably dry stuff, which Jean, being a pseudo-intellectual, would smile knowingly at, head on one side, stifling her yawns, whilst Malcolm and I whispered in the corner about how much better we could do it if we were in charge, at least asking thriller writers, or romantic novelists, and perhaps three or four, not just one.
Poetry readings were the worst. Some bearded type would read banal or incomprehensible verse, as everyone sat around in hushed, respectful silence,