‘They have a sun deck?’ said Carmen. ‘This doesn’t sound like Glenshee.’
‘Italy!’ said Idra smugly.
Carmen went quiet. Oh goodness.
‘Wow,’ she said.
‘Tell me you are really, really super-jealous,’ said Idra.
‘I will do that.’
‘See! Now we’ve left stupid old Dounston’s, all sorts of amazing things are going to happen. You’re in Edinburgh, full of rich blokes and Harvey Nicks and fun! It’s all there, Carmen. Go grab it!’
The morning was busy in the shop and every second person who looked local appeared to be going to Bronagh’s party, many of them buying her books as gifts, the more abstruse the better.
‘Do you have … ?’ said one rather vampiric skinny young man. He leaned over the counter. ‘A secret section? For forbidden books?’
‘Sure,’ said Carmen. ‘Seeing as this is a fourteenth-century monastery built on a hellmouth.’
‘Ahem,’ said Mr McCredie, who was signing for a delivery.
‘Sorry,’ said Carmen, ashamed of her bad mood. ‘I shouldn’t have said that. Sorry. No. I mean … Sorry.’
The skinny young man picked up his book on poisons and left silently.
‘I am really sorry about that,’ said Carmen. ‘My stupid mouth.’
‘Oh no,’ said Mr McCredie. ‘I just didn’t want you to tell him about the forbidden section.’
‘What?’
But he had already disappeared into the back.
Carmen’s mood was no better, even as she handed over the delivery Mr McCredie had been signing for to a customer.
‘You’re absolutely sure it’s nine copies?’ She had never sold nine copies of anything.
‘Yes, it’s for my Christmas book group! We’re going to meet and discuss the Christmas book for five minutes, then drink mulled wine and eat mince pies until we are sick!’
The woman, who was dressed almost entirely in plum, looked delighted at the prospect.
‘Actually sick?’ said Carmen.
‘One year, yes. So. Nice and short, is it?’
Carmen happily gathered up their entire pile of Night Watch, a clutch of funny and heartfelt stories about working in a hospital at Christmas time.
‘It is,’ she said. ‘But it’s really funny.’
‘Well, that’s good,’ said the woman in plum. ‘Although frankly, it barely matters. Nobody will remember a thing about it.’
She paid and swept out of the shop, seemingly looking forward to her terrifying night full of vomit, and Carmen tried to distract herself by looking at the accounts.
They were undoubtedly improving. The big old beautiful editions – particularly of children’s books – and the big girls’ annuals of Christmas activities were selling like hot cakes. And a huge box of hardback copies of Noel Streatfeild’s White Boots from 1951 was steadily moving, except for one Carmen had held back for herself and was avidly reading in a corner, following the plight of poor Harriet and nasty Lalla.
The Box of Delights worked well positioned next to the train, and for The Night Before Christmas, of course it could only be the little mouse house. She had turned it round so the front door, with the steps leading out, could be seen, then she’d gone online and bought tiny light-up Christmas trees and little model gas street lights, and lit every room behind its windows, one Christmas tree shining through and another one outside.