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	The Bookseller to the Stars by Mark Farley Synopsis The Bookseller to the Stars leads an intrepid team of booksellers in an independent Notting Hill bookstore. When conglomerate and market leader, RANDOM BOOKS takes over after Old Man Brophy dies, The Bookseller to the Stars and his passionate team have to make way for as new team of career driven nerds with no book knowledge. When he nearly takes the life of Arienne Jacobs at her swish book launch, he finds himself in a world of backstabbing, office polictics and industry double standards. Meanwhile, as his new Manager is falling for him while he attempts to fight his feelings for the unattainable author and his colleagues are threatening to leave over their new crap uniforms, the shop's legacy and soul is threatened. But first, he must find that stray copy of Love in Cold Climate before it is too late because the ladies who lunch in Westbourne Grove wait for no man. A hilarious and wry contemporary tale set amongst the London literary world. A novel with topical overtones and based on true life events, celebrating a host of eccentric characters and is packed with sardonic, social commentary with clever observations and unique insight into retail trading. Memo Please feel free to print off the following and display at all tillpoints. Customer Notice For your own convenience, Please take the time to note that we do NOT sell... Stationary, DVDs, records, tapes, cds, postcards of the local area or any other for that matter. Diaries, even those cute little leather notebooks you see around, yes they are divine, we are aware, and no, we do not have any plans to sell them, especially after February. Please don't ask why. Questions of such nature will be met with a general look of amazement. I am at liberty to admit that since we were another bookstore, standards have dropped but that is only because it is my job to agree with you and to reassure your inherent justification that you are solely the most important person on God’s graceful earth. Darling, It is a terrible tragedy that we don’t have the out of print and discontinued study aid published in 1983 you desperately need before you fly out to your ski cabin with “the gang” by 5pm this evening. For your information, I haven’t been in a “gang” since I was 9 and I certainly won’t be in one when I am your age. We do not have passport forms, drivers licence applications, divorce papers or sell stamps, envelopes, yes even the padded, ready-gummed, small parcel-style type. I cannot be 100% sure but I believe all of these items are located in the post office next door. That place which you passed on the way in here. These items are called stationery and being a bookshop and not a stationers we do not have them. We do not sell coffee or impart in any sort of cafe facilities, hence the lack of coffee related smells or noises as you would expect from such premises upon entry. We do not have toilets. This applies to everyone. Even if you are pregnant, famous or you have a child that is famous or pregnant or if you have impatiently dragged said child around the boutiques and pointless trinket stores that populate our area, the answer is still the same. We do not know where the nearest DIY store is or where to buy linen, curtains or carpets or do we fix clocks. What possesses this sort of query I cannot imagine. This inane behaviour can only lead us to believe that someone has paid you to come and test our patience for some reality TV challenge on some nondescript digital channel. Please do not ask us for directions as we are not a tourist information office and I would love to give you directions to the tourist information office but again, we do not give directions. Please do not ask us about the film that was filmed here because it wasn't. It was filmed in a studio and no, Princess Di did not shop here either, something tells me she didn’t have much time to read. Please keep a watchful eye on your children, the company will not be held responsible if your child wanders out of the store, falls down or up the stairs, gets their head stuck in the book with the big hole or damages anything or themselves in the process whilst you are engrossed in “The 50 years of Playboy”. Customers are advised to change their ringtones from "Jingle Bells" once you reach February. The company will not be responsiblity for the general embarrassment and ridicule from the other customers this will cause. In the first place... “Jingle Bells", really? Yes we do have “The Da Vinci Code”, it’s all over the store. You have seemed to have clearly missed it on all the tables, under author in fiction and the large pile of it upon entry to the store, not to mention here by each till, one of which is by this notice. We have the hardback, the paperback, the film tie-in, the illustrated hardback gift version designed to extract even more money from you, the script, the Rough Guide and even The Da Vinci Code Su Doku. You have to be an idiot to miss them. That is not my opinion but what I can put money on being popular belief. With this in mind and just in case of any other misunderstanding, we still do not have toilets. Please do not bother the celebrities. Asking them for autographs on general body parts or trying to encourage them into getting involved in your latest charity scheme will be frowned upon. Doing that is our job. If at all possible, please ensure offspring do not leave the designated children’s department looking like a small tornado has casually blown through it and please could you ask your children not to climb up either the Asterix rocket or any member of staff that may be there at the time. With this in mind, we would then be more than happy to answer any BOOK related questions that you may have. Please enjoy your browsing and Welcome to The Bookseller to the Stars. One “You don’t read much, do you?” “No, not really...” I guess I should explain. I’m joking with her, of course I am. But I’m not going to tell her that. It’s just better this way, besides she’s making feel like a dick because she thinks she has the right to. She doesn’t. Nobody does. I am not obliged to kiss her arse when she is being rude. Oh wait, that’s right... actually I am. Her arrogance and self assurance are bound to make her think I am being serious anyway. You’re here to serve ME so less of the insubordination, young man. This lady has politely tossed in front of me, three books. At this precise moment, she is referring to my negative reply concerning her reading material. I wouldn’t really call it a choice though. Society and the inevitability of our pseudo-aggressive signage pressure her into selecting three or sometimes four and annoyingly then, another and from watching her frustrated circling of the many promotional picnic tables (after the gingham cardboard skirts we are provided with for them each Summer) and muttering about the amount of different books available, I would say it was more of a half-hearted resignation. “Have you read this book?” “That book? No...” I can see where this is going by the other two books she has in her hand. To be honest, it happens quite often. I really wish that we had more time to familiarise ourselves with the populist fiction and ghostwritten minor-celebrity biographies on the 3for2 promotion but personally, I’m three books into the Anais Nin Diaries and I’m fairly content, thank you very much. “This one?” “Sorry...” Holding up a third, “Also No...” ...which is what she has solely based her opinion on, in regards to my reading ability. She has asked me my views on just three of a possible couple hundred thousand books in the shop. Her choices are heavily promoted, albeit predictable genre fiction titles that I have to admit, I don’t like the look of generally. This is mainly due to the garish, animated covers that publishers insist on using these days that usually portray either a pair of woman’s legs or something similar rounded off on the background of a warm pastel shade. Or both. It is par of the course though of being a bookseller, that I am expected to know not just every single plot line but also the review and media response every single book I am presented with has received ...and without hesitation, I might add. Any vague detail I am given must instantly trigger a positive face response and be able to magically conjur up a myriad of choices of what the book could be. I’m sure that they do this so they can feel inconvenienced by my actions and apparent incompetence, despite their poor attempts at description probably meaning nothing in the first place. Anything less than this little dance we perform daily with 90% of our customers and I am clearly not doing the job that she probably assumes I am paid a lot more to do than I am. “I’m sorry Madam, there are many books in this store, thousands even and I have read many of them.” In fact, if we were to both make lists, I am willing to put money on that mine would be longer. “I’m sorry. I just haven’t read these three here. In fact, you are more than welcome to my opinion on hundreds of others...” The frown lines are dancing a jig on her forehead and give me the distinct impression that this is not welcome. There are often books on said promotion that I have wholeheartedly enjoyed. This doesn’t happen very often and there are probably more out there waiting to be discovered at a discounted price but unless my workplace decides that it would be a good idea to pay the staff to also familiarise themselves with the product they sell as we are only allowed to sit down while pregnant, I wouldn’t get upset if you get a negative response to the content of The Lovely Bones. I’m not planning on ever reading it. To be fair though, I have a number of varied literature gems. The likes of both Charles Bukowski AND Abi Titmuss adorn my bookshelf at home, not to mention a large pile of unread, early reading proofs gathering dust on the radiator. My ex-girlfriend was right, they are taking over a little. I should look through them, they’re might be the odd prizewinner in there I can sell on Ebay. There is one in particular from a local author who I adore in person but never got around to reading and now don’t want to after reading a pretty horrible review in The Times that she actually pointed me to. That particular review was written by another author who our local author here had wrote a not so favourable review for her, six months previous. My theory is don’t write one at all if you don’t want to upset people. But in the media, some people will take any paid work they can get though. Everytime she comes in, I just end up bullshitting my way through enthusing about how great I thought her book was. Part of me wants to read it, but the rational part of me knows I will probably hate it. Yes, I’m fickle too. At The Bookseller to the Stars, we have a constant amusement within the shop about the “powers-that-be-who-are-not-exactly-present” that in essence run the day to day business and do this solely by the power of modern communication. They email us instructions whilst we are still tucked up in bed, telling us where we must put things and which particular books must have which large and prominent neon sticker adorning them. The stickered items are The Blessed and are the books that normally determine the nationwide bestseller lists. These are controlled without arguement by how much money you want to give The Bookseller to the Stars to put them in our windows all over the country. They call this mythical other world, Head Office and my friend Lisa here looks forward to every single time they correspond. “Why have you taking the ‘Da Vinci Code’ out of the window display?” Lisa questions the faded and sunkissed golden paperbacks on my trolley. “They’ve all read it... it’s time for him to retire...” I reply. I walk across the front of store with the Dan Brown books and she skips along next to me. I begin to return the books to their natural home. That’s under B... in Fiction. “But... But... the publishers... the space is paid for...” I stop in her path. “But nothing, Lisa... Let’s give another book his space... Look at the poor guy, he needs a break.” I hold the top one towards her. It’s cover has slightly faded and the promotional sticker has changed colour in the sunlight. “He’s been in that window for a year now. He’s been stared at, pointed at, ridiculed... for what?” Lisa is my line manager and Assistant Branch Manager here at one of many bookstores in the RANDOM book chain. RANDOM books have recently become the UK’s market leader in the retail book trade after they began acquistioning independent bookstores around the country and made themselves a habit of capturing and passing off an already vibrant spirit and empassioned image as their own, much to the recent annoyance of the press and other elements of the industry. Along with being our only qualified first aider and therefore duly responsible as our health and safety representative, Lisa quite often opens the store on a morning and sometimes finds herself closing that same evening. She is very dedicated and thus passionate about her job and overall contribution to the company. The rest of us are very proud of her but in no way have the same amount of ruthless ambition as she does. She is very much what some would have called in the Eighties, a “company man”... If she was a man, of course which she is not. I can assure you of that. The very essence of the store pumps through her veins and at every opportunity she talks with pride about her relationship with said company and every bright idea and change that originates from that oversized blue prefab in that business park so far, far away. She is passionate to the point of excitement when it comes to tasks like the quarterly stationary and promotional sticker requisition. A job she is more than welcome to. As well as also being in charge of all rotas and the Mind, Body and Spirit section, Lisa has also recently been given the task of Acting Branch Manager. A position and title I feel to be a little bit of a put down for her. You ain’t good enough to run a bookshop, but we will give you the reigns because there is nobody else at the moment to hold them. If anyone ever calls you Acting anything, politely tell them where to go. You have my permission, folks. If you want, I’ll be an Acting Bookseller and I will do the job quite happily in my underwear from my sofa at home. Just another excuse not to pay you for what you are doing, if you ask me. Our existing Branch Manager was dramatically “made redundant” due to the “cuts” the company was “making”. This all took place fairly timely after an incident occured at the annual meeting, held in the upmarket Swiss resort town of Verbier. By all accounts, Alice (the now departed) celebrated a little too much after receiving the news of her second divorce finalising. She went onto helping herself to perhaps one too many of the free Grappas on offer and proceeded to berate the new Company Director in the communal lodge bar about the recent staff cuts in London, much to the apparent horror and probably some delight of the other Branch Managers in attendance. With the warm crackle of the fireplace behind them, he suggested she should offer her own contribution to the cuts right there it seems. In lieu of Alice, Lisa was eager to prove herself and when she was approached by Big Area Manager for the post, she was more than happy to jump several hoops for him and into the position with both feet. Actually, we all think Lisa secretly loves Big Area Manager. She gushes after him when he bounds around the sections with his clipboard and checklist, giving his two penneth to our ideas and displays while we idly watch them verbally tear the place apart. Him with his notetaking and nodding and her with constant agreements and changes. But back to Dan Brown for a minute, “When the pope died, people sank to their knees in front of the shop and prayed for the authors soul...” I proclaimed to her. This didn’t actually happen, of course. I was hoping for at least one book burning though. I was even geared up with the fire extinguisher and ready to call Sky News at any opportune time after I found out what we were about to do. I was, of course referring to our recent Half Price Paperback of the Week promotion that our company cleverly marketed during the last week of the pontiff’s life. A shrewd move that made, at least our store, a few extra pounds that week. I laughed to myself, unsurprised and shook my head when we received the promotional memo a few days before. The book was already in the window and on all the tables, the stairs, next to any book that’s vaguely similar to it, cross sectioned in Crime and SciFi in case anyone goes there for it and now they wanted us to give it an “extra push.” Apart from seeing if the book sells in the Gardening section, there’s not a great deal else we can do for Dan. The religious world had recently tried to ban the book, the film and lambast the author in the media and now the head honcho was on death’s door. What better time to sell an extra few copies? This was the pile I was now taking away because there was really nowhere else we could put this book, let alone anywhere it really deserves. I’m not a catholic or a sympathiser in any way, I just didn’t think it was right. But ethics don’t come into question when you are trying to sell books, especially when people die. Death, after all is one of the best marketing tools The Bookseller to the Stars could wish for. When a celebrity or author dies, an excitement of perhaps reaching the sky high budgets set by Head Office descends over the management whose one clear goal is making as much money as possible for someone else. I, on the other hand, have other plans for my life. I just don’t know what yet. “If somebody could write a book for the people who never read they would make a fortune.” Nancy Mitford It’s bad enough seeing publishers rush re-releasing out of print, out of date biographies of the newly deceased, but trying to flog more of the one book which has angered a whole faith and whose particular leader is currently dying ...was taking it a step further. Lisa says I need to take something for the conscience I have developed. “Put the books back in the window...” I have to admire her though. She puts up with an exhaustive battle to get me to toe the company line and in particular uphold the questionably heavy selling techniques that they insist upon while I am constantly trying to break with convention. I am normally bursting with new radical ideas but to Lisa’s dismay, they never involve any of the heavily marketed titles. Each idea I have must be presented with a outline of why it will sell, while she works out the profit in her head. This is the essence of the relationship between Lisa and myself, your Bookseller to the Stars. I call myself this affectionately due to the amount of celebrities that walk through our doors. It was a saying actually coined by one of our patrons when she found herself in the queue behind Elle MacPherson. Yes, we service all kinds here, I tell her. I’m very nonchalant about it. “Who Elle? Yeah, she comes in all the time.... We’re really close...” Come on, sometimes it’s the only fun I get. I guess its the nature of the area though. Situated on Westbourne Grove, we are close to that affluent centre of West London and home to the more modern Conservative Party, Notting Hill. It is a popular belief that those that cross our threshold are an eccentric race of people. They are often the sort of people that like to make us believe that they are better than everyone else and actually, in many ways, I don't doubt that they are. Company and Council leaders, Lords, Ladies and entertainment divas all grace our till with their hard earned cash. A-list film stars, supermodels, politicians, comedians, captains of industry, Lords, Ladies and Gentleman, not to mention the opposite end of the fame scale aswell. That over saturated and desperate for exposure end. The reality TV show contestants and the people that pop up only on tabloid covers and are famous for being tanned, large breasted or having their hair cut a certain way. They all drop in and look on in devastation when they are not instantly recognised or you feign ignorance to their identity, to which I make a very special effort. Sorry, but I don’t think haircuts are front page news. But seriously, there are times we savour when the likes of PJ Harvey, Nick Cave or Christian Slater come in and possibly ooze some of their genius upon us but more than often the shop is filled with untalented morons instead, shopping themselves around the local talent agencies and auditioned curtain calls. The locals to The Bookseller to the Stars are of a certain affluence and spend handsomly but do not have much time to communicate with us, even less to be pleasant. If they’re not hushing the au pair and the kids behind them, they are hushing and directing the au pair and kids whilst on their Blackberries and Bluetooths from afar. They whip out their Coutts cards and don’t bat an eyelid as I ring up a couple of hundred pounds and try and get their attention when its time to pay. Their taste in taste in books is... something to be desired, put it that way. Not surprisingly, we do well in the “expensive-hardback-contemporary-interior-design-section”. Titles like Marrakesh Door Knobs and Swedish Tables go particularily well, much to the delight of Lisa who at all times has pound signs, figures and budgets in her eyes. But after that, it’s mostly a basketful of Chicklit, the new Trinny and Susanna, all topped off with something random like I dunno, Neitzsche. Our dear patrons are not the easiest of breeds. This area is not exactly known for its warming appeal for starters. They tend to be unquestionably irritable and unapproachable at the best of times and would sooner snap your way, grunt and refuse a gratitude for the information you part with, lest give you the time of day if they saw you in the street. Something which very seldom happens as they are just focused on getting from A (expensive home) to B (expensive restaurant) occasionally going via C (prep school) whilst ignoring as many tourists as they can. A “How are you today?” or a pleasant smile wouldn’t go amiss, for example... but perhaps I’m asking a bit too much. When I offer such platitudes, I am greeted with suspicion and they glare at me like they are unsure of what my motives are for being so pleasant may be. Wishing them a nice day is just returned with an offended, cynical comment normally. I often wonder what the many coffeeshops nearby are doing to these people to piss them off so much. I am intending to go in there at some point to find out what barbituate they are putting into their Passion Fruit Quarter Caff Soya Lattes before they head towards me. Myself and Lisa have an admired/exasperated relationship. This is a bit like a love-hate relationship but a lot more acrimonious and suited to the working environment. She knows all the budgets, performance indicators, revenue gaps, shortfalls, losses and gains of the business and chooses the morning meeting when we are all hungover to go through each one, in detail. I’m never quite sure what the Jamaican Jehovah’s Witness Cleaner and I can do at 8am about being £6,000 behind budget this particular period, but being the obvious gogetters that we are... we shall give it a try. Lisa is a useful resource though. Along with knowing all the birthdays and shoe sizes of every member of staff including important figureheads at Head Office, she can rattle off any publication date that you need and knows all the embargoes by heart of every major, upcoming, money making title. Including the ones that have yet to be written. Perhaps I should at least be on my way to learning some of this. She is after all, nuturing The Bookseller to the Stars to take over her job, in hope that she will move into the vacant manager’s position in the near future. I’m really not worried about that happening soon though. We had gone through all of this at our last and most recent “development review.” Yes, contrary to belief and despite being nearly thirty... I am not fully developed. I was given the task of creating an effective business strategy and time management plan for the front of store, the area of which I am duly bound and responsible (but not fully developed, remember) to protect, serve and tidy up after lazy people with little or no hand/eye co-ordination whatsoever. This means I am responsible for the essential task of creating those attractive-to-the-eye pyramids of books, designed for the customers viewing pleasure you notice everywhere. I do not care for such plans and strategies, I truly don’t. This is not what I want to do as a career, but I don’t have the heart to tell her that. I wanted to work in a bookshop so I could be inspired to write, not become a company robot and help destroy small businesses in my path. I was given half a shift off to research in our marketing and personal management section, but I went straight home and googled “Christina Aguileira in chaps” and then “business strategy plans” and got some automated website to do it for me instead. I don’t think it made any sense but it seemed to impress her and it made her leave the subject of promotion alone for another eight weeks. I sometimes wonder how I lucked into this job and it probably has to do with two things. Lisa’s predecessor was clearly sweet on me and luckily, I’m pretty charming. When he asked me what I was reading, I pulled out a copy of The Swimming Pool Library. I loaned it out of the library on a whim that day and hadn’t even started it. When I saw his reaction to the cover, I emphatically exuded about how this book recently changed my life and how I read and it would be great to pass that on to others. He agreed that it was a groundbreaking text for gay literature in the mainstream trade and that he loved Alain Hollinghurst’s new book, of which he was reading an advance copy. Like I said, I lucked out. It’s true that First Impressions Last at The Bookseller to the Stars and at least once every day, we are visited by a hostelling student from Eastern Europe. “I want Job...” “Excuse me...” “Job... I want.” “Have you worked in a bookshop before?” “The Job... I want.” Back to Head Office. Recently, they felt it was nescessary for us to expand our Learning at Home range recently. Admittedly, this just about stretches to the key skills books, exam papers and the Horrible Histories range. Until now that is. Now we have LeapFrog pads. For those visitors to The Bookseller to the Stars who (like myself) are childless, the LeapFrog learning systems are interactive toys designed to encourage children to discover an early passion in reading by means of an electronic book that talks to you when you run a pen over the words on the pages. To demonstrate to our customers the benefits and capabilities of this new product, we were kindly provided with a display copy, so the children themselves can discover the magic of learning. Provided with the centre are numerous examples of the different works available to talk to you, including one from the publishers of Winnie the Pooh. The monotone echo of the electronic reader’s voice runs through the shop. “Pooh stumbled out of bed and opened the door. “Hello... Is anybody there?” He called into the darkness. “Silly Old Bear” said Christopher Robin. He gently pulled the honey pot off Pooh’s head.” Ahh, that bear and the mishaps he gets himself into, I think to myself. Unfortunately, the few examples for this new system we have been provided with get very old, very quickly and with the attention span of your average seven year old left alone to his own devices, we learnt that some ideas really need thinking over first, before implementation. Honestly, we give you a chance to learn... and you just abuse it. “Pooh... Pooh... Pooh Pooh Pooh Pooh... Christopher Robin... Silly Old Bear... Silly Old Bear... Silly Old Bear...” I turn to Children’s Bookseller to the Stars who just shrugs. “Is someone making a Fatboy Slim record, down there?” “Doesn’t it have a volume control?” I ask her. She shakes her head. “Pooh... Pooh...” A group of children have congregated in the corner where the learning centre is. There are hushed giggles between them. I always think thats a bad sign. “Christopher Robin.... pulled... off... Pooh...” Oh Lordy. “...and Pooh... pulled... off...” I look up suddenly and toward my colleague who has a look of alarm on her face. Two customers idly flicking through titles on the hardback biography table have begun to glance cautiously my way. That idyllic sense of calm we normally have in the shop.... ruined. Screams of laughter ensue from the Children’s section. Lisa appears as if from nowhere and looks oddly toward me where I am stood. “Pooh... opened... Christopher Robin... gently...” ...and that was the end of that particular display. Personally, I don’t believe it’s right to ban Under 10’s from the store, but sometimes it’s nescessary. “Do you want to be the Energy Champion?” Lisa asks me. “The what?” “Energy Champion. The store representative for Health and Safety matters, responsible for energy conservation, turning off unecessary lighting etc, a bit of paperwork...” “God, no...” “Are you sure? You get to go to the monthly Regional Health and Safety meeting at The Flagship Store? They have coffee and pastries...!” “I’m sure.” I ask her about the recent darkness as I’m curious to know if this joyous little implementation on our lives explains why the bathroom light went out whilst I was having a number two and reading A Year in the Merde earlier this morning and found myself shouting to nobody, “Hey, there’s someone in here.... Hello.... Taking a crap here.... Dammit” “Hey, Is that why everytime I come to the office, all of the corridors have been plunged into darkness.” “Yes, I have been trying to get everyone into the habit of conserving energy, why?” “Well, as the Slips, Trips and Falls Champion,” I start, taking the piss. “I would have to argue that it affects the health and saftey of the back of house area...” “I’ll make you the Slips, Trips and Falls Champion if you are not careful...” Two Booksellers are a curious, obsessive breed. Even when we are not working we are trawling the local second hand bookstores for first editions and proofs of populist titles to impress friends, colleagues or sell them on Ebay. Man, I really need to get out more. Granted, it’s a bad sign for example, when you glance back as you pass a pretty girl in the street and the first thing you notice is the Penguin Classic she carries in her hand. “Ahh,” I try and recall the artwork on the cover. “Thomas Hardy...” We just spend too much time around books sometimes. I say that and of course, I am joking. I have a great job but we do get a little obsessive. I have proof copies of the last two Booker prize winners and I haven’t read them. It’s not because I haven’t got round to it. I’m actually scared to. Scared that I won’t like them, thus destroying this divine sense of recognising quality in a book that I think I have. Books have always been a part of my life. I never realised that one day I would become a bookseller, let alone one to the Stars. Looking back, it seemed like a natural progression for me despite the early dreams I had of becoming Adam Ant. Not actually being a pop star as such. I just wanted to be Adam Ant. Tonight Matthew, I’m going to be... If my mother encouraged one thing from a young age, it would have been my reading ability. Back in the Eighties, we didn’t have all of these key skills and verbal and non-verbal reasonings. At school and at home, it was this way or nothing. Dictation was the key to my early education. We wrote out thousands of passages from classic literature titles at our primary school that my teacher used to read aloud in class to a point that somewhere my mum has a copy of The Great Gatsby written entirely in an impressionable eight year old’s scrawl. When this book comes out and I top the Neilsen bookscan, that’s gonna be worth millions. We lived on the Lakes Estate in Redcar and it’s a pretty rough area. Redcar is a small seaside town in the county of Cleveland, in the North East of England. Not really famous for anything apart from from producing both Captain James Cook, groundbreaking sea captain of yesteryear, not to mention founder of the new world, the oldest existing lifeboat in the world, The Zetland, which came to Redcar in 1802 and was in service for some 78 years, saving over 500 lives. The adult comedian, Roy “Chubby” Brown was born here as well. We are quite varied in our production of talent. There were no prizes handed out there for being smart and tended not to be a great deal of opportunity around, so I was lucky that she was willing to pass on her own great background, principles and morals. What has happened to then since, I’m not quite sure. In recent years, the area has been treated to an obscure but small makeover, courtesy of New Labour’s gradual development plans but I still notice that cold heart beating away when I walk through the long, grey streets of the town. A feat I try not to replicate unless I really have to. English towns are known to be quite vibrant and pretty in the summer. With their buzzing atmospheres, colourful promenades, friendly charm and exciting local events programmes, they are known for their character and unique style. Redcar on the other hand, isn’t. It is a pretty bleak and often tough town. You won’t see Bill Bryson there anytime soon. In fact, Charles Dickens is documented as going on record and saying, “What a desolate place!” It hasn’t changed much, Charlie. But what you will find in Redcar is more than your fair share of lone young girls pushing pushchairs, dressed in cheap tracksuits and covered in plated gold. The High Street is covered mostly in seagull shit, broken glass, noses and cheap promises. On a Sunday Morning, you will find this shallow debris and an echo of violence from a good ‘ol Saturday night coming from the newly pedestrianised thouroughfare and the dilapidated clubs. The town’s name would only be synonymous really if you happened to frequent the local William Hill or similar on a regular basis as the town is the proud patron of an established racecourse and regular fixture on the country’s horse racing calendar. As a family, we didn’t have an expendable income and let alone one for books. We had no Lionboy or Harry Potter (cue the strings) and couldn’t go book shopping back then. We lived just under the bread line where it was a bit wet and soggy due to my fathers acute alcoholism and consequent lack of desire to work. But library cards were free and my mother quickly learned that libraries often kept children quiet and occupied. Not too dissimilar to the modern day equivalent ...bookstores. Well, sometimes. They offered her a sanctuary of sorts especially when things like supervised finger painting were being offered. It was somewhere she could take my much louder, two younger sisters for a timeout from all the fighting and screaming. I wasn’t so much a concern in that department apart from my non-participation on the creative activities. The same offerings that basically my two sisters interpreted as solely a chance to flick paint at each other. Instead, I absorbed the Asterix and Tin Tin ranges until I exhausted their resources. I was a pretty easy going kid and was quite happy in front of Macgyver and The A-Team while they went and fought over the worn My Little Pony in the library toybox. Later in secondary school, I made my first book recommendation in a GCSE English class. I was 14. We were asked to choose the title of our next book in which we would collate a report and present a short account to the class. I chose Z for Zachariah by Robert O’Brien, a novel about lonliness and isolation set in a post apocolyptic earth suffering from a nuclear fallout. I felt it upon myself to share this with others as it was something we could all relate to. It captured the atmosphere and ambience in that school perfectly. After reading the book in a record ten days, which was quick for me back then, I delivered the weighty document onto the desk of my teacher. She balked and tutted at the amount I had written and downgraded the piece for rambling on too much. I still do that if you catch me on a good day and I find you perusing Tales of the City or similar close by. Nevertheless, I stood in that class and gave it my all. I read my selected passage while omitting the message of pain and confinement in my soul upon the eyes before me. They glared back upon my slender frame, filled with hate and loathing. I spoke for a full 20 minutes, taking those with me into the final torturous moments of the book before the teacher interrupted me, just as I got to the cliff hanger. She politely told me to return to my seat. Unfortunately for us, they lacked any passion for the subjects they taught as they directed the class from the National Cirriculum book in front of them and hardly ever diverted. It was an old school mentality that incorporated vicious tones and abusive behaviour towards their pupils whilst turning a blind eye to the bullying that they inspired. But they were uninspired themselves also and really I don’t blame them. I must have been a shit place to work let alone study. I am sure that the only reason that some made it through the whole day without hurling themselves onto the electric perimeter fence were the new breed of young, nubile teaching assistants from Lyon we acquired in my final years. Male and Female. This may or may not have had something to do with the discovery of scorched bodies in cheap woollen suits with patched elbows, found earlier that Spring in the woods. I can’t really comment. The rest of the subjects I really sucked at. I was no maths genius and as I told my teacher back then, I have never needed to work out the square root of anything, let alone use pi. I hated games and couldn’t comprehend why our activities were indoor in the Summer and outdoors in the Winter. Never needed photosynthesis or what the inside of a frog looks like. Three years of woodwork produced only a box with a lid and that didn’t quite fit but it was still felt a nescessity for me to learn and consequently forget all of this when I could have been learning something more constructive like politics, completing a Rubiks cube or how the inside of a woman’s mind works, for example. At least one, if not all of these skills would have saved me a lot of money over the years. My only solace and sanctuary was the library, which (luckily for me) was always empty. “You can’t take that many books home...” I looked around at the late afternoon silence around me. The books I had pulled out, all classics and recommended GCSE texts were all covered in dust and hadn’t seen the light away from the shelf for a while. The piece of official school paper in the front of all the books had empty chasms for the hired hand to stamp her date, two weeks from now. I was curious about the six month gap certain texts like Catcher in The Rye had been left for without being also taken from the premises. Had they many copies of these works? I asked for a copy of Of Mice and Men and the lady looked up from her February 1990 issue of Woman’s Own and informed me that the only copy they had was out at the moment because one of the years were currently reading it. “Yeah, my whole year are.” “Sorry, darling.” I left her reading about the menopause and how there were still a hundred ways to attract a suitor. I would have gone down to the local library in town for a copy if some 14 year old kid hadn’t burnt it down to clear an outstanding debt with his dealer. The protagonist and architect of this destruction hadn’t got behind on his loans and incurred late fees or anything. It turns out that the mother of his child that worked there and had previously refused him parental rights. Her temporary unemployment gave him his grounds for custody once again as he was the sole earner, albeit illegally. It all came out in the wash after he then bragged about what he did to an off duty police officer one night in a local pub. The kid went into a borstal apparently. Despite the frustrations of an inadequate staffing budget and the sheer arrogance and rudeness of people that cross us daily at The Bookseller to the Stars, we really enjoy what we do. It’s important what we do. I am good at what I do, nee, I am into what I do. The idea of making a recommendation of a book to someone (especially a younger person) is a huge deal to us and many would class it as an honour to be asked, if we are approached in a nice enough way. Handing over a copy of A Clockwork Orange or A Kestral for a Knave to the right person is a big responsibility. We are handing down the gauntlet of classic literature so it is something that we treat with great caution, as well as an applied passion. Forming tastes and influencing choices in literature is right up there with saving lives. Not in the same sense, sure. But I know that the possible effect I could have on someones life through the product I manage is certainly something that could save or perhaps go toward forming someone’s life. That (in some way) makes all of the When is Harry Potter out? queries worthwhile. ...even when they have passed ten posters advertising the launch date outside.... ...and the ones inside, Oh yeah... the ones at the tillpoint.... ...not to mention the blowup lifesize Hagrid we have with a big speech bubble advertising the date. This is only when I slowly have an urge to stab myself. You may think The Bookseller to the Stars is not a people person. Quite the contrary, I’m just not a stupid people person. We do try our best to be pleasant, we really do. But it is hard when we are inundated with absurd requests and we don’t know what to say in reply apart from “No” and look perplexed. We are very sorry that we cannot please everyone and I do wish that we could stock every book that is currently in print and to a certain extent, those that are not. It would make peoples lives much easier if we also stocked many other different products from y’know... books, we really do... because it seems as if it would make our lives easier too. But we don’t and when you feel the need to patronize us and ask us things like, “Why Not?” We cannot help but reply, “Because we are a bookstore...” I wonder sometimes if the Lesser Bookstore/Magazine Emporium gets this as well. Probably, but you and me both know that if you asked for Small Island at the Lesser Bookstore/Magazine Emporium, the staff would look at you like you were trying to teach a goldfish to fetch. Then point you to the travel brochures on the Maldives. I can understand why they get upset. People don’t like to be ridiculed and neither do I, but pointing out the screechingly obvious shouldn’t be left to us but instead... the little pixie inside your heads. Despite the numerous conspiracy theories though, it seems to be accepted common knowledge that we have (as a race) performed and acheived general feats of astounding skill and capability like walking on the moon and sending nice polaroids back from Mars. So, Why are the people I come across unable to find “M” in fiction? “£1.50 please...” The withdrawn prescence in front of me produces a note. “That’s the worst excuse for a £50 note I have ever seen in my life....” I tell her. “Th’fuck yr talking about?? Just got that from the machine there...” Of course you did. Cash machines give out fakes all the time. An equally drawn male hovers in our vicinity. I know him and he knows me. Her broad country Irish gives the whole game up as soon as she opens her mouth and she knows it. Anyone who looks this shit, buying a greetings card with a fifty is a glaring opportunist and as there has been a number of fakes floating around of late, I am on full alert. My finely tuned bullshit detector has just had an MOT aswell. Unluckily for our gypsy friends here, this is the one time they have failed in their quest to fleece one of our weekend till monkeys. No, today they have met The Bookseller to the Stars. The last time I saw this girl, her boyfriend there had tried to pass a faux Scottish twenty and I laughed in his face. I know I’m not supposed to do that bytheway and to think about it, I shouldn’t have given him it back either. By law, we should keep all forgeries and take the customers details should they want to leave them, claim compensation etc. This girl of course does not, when I suggest it. I explain to her that it was a sheer impossibility that the machine would have given her this. That and as much as she persists... machines don’t carry fifties anyway and haven’t done for a long time. She begins to panic and begins her little rehearsed ‘only money we have left in the world’ act to the guy accompanying her. She really gets pissed when I tell her I am keeping the note and begins to head for the door as soon as I ask her whether she would prefer discussing this and the law in general at the nearby police station. “Smile for the camera on the way out...” I laugh. We are getting quite the currency collection building up on the staff noticeboard. In fact, I am two notes away from a whole Scotland collection. I have been urging for some sort of staff training to take place and I wanted to go and invest in a security pen but I was told that they cost too much. Probably didn’t help me that I asked for a “No Mobiles Allowed” sign at the same time though. Lisa is stood to my left and has her hands folded in front of her bosom. She has that look on her face. The same look my mother used to give me when she caught me bouncing on the bed. “What?” “You can’t be rude to people like that...” “Sorry, next time they come in to rip off our store another fifty quid... I’ll apologise to them...” “I’ve put you down as contact to meet Arienne Jacobs tommorrow, she’s coming to sign her new hardback. Please be nice to her.” “I will be the complete figment of charm...” I placate with a little bow. It’s the sprout girl. Arienne Jacobs, daughter of Lord and Lady Jacobs and intimate confidante to Prince Harry, according to my last girlfriend and the ever popular reliable source material, Heat magazine. This 27 year old former socialite-cum-restauranteur-cum-designer-cum-newspaper-columnist-cum-artist and now local author has just released her second book. The first, entitled Memoir of a Tragic Elfin Sprout (really, people who snort cocaine and sip champagne at weekends really shouldn’t be allowed to name books) received critical acclaim and much success when it was reviewed and chosen for a National daytime TV book club. The furore really started though when she was the surprise choice for a newspaper’s First Book award. Yes, we were baffled too. The book is a repetitive tale of woe and detailed account of how she cannot find the time in her day to spend the millions she hasn’t earned. In essence, the book was totally our market. So not something that would sell a great deal at Bluewater, for instance. I should offer Arienne my services in the money spending department. My rates are fairly reasonable. Ask Elle. The book stormed the charts and took the whole book trade completely unawares. The public took it in and the whole of the city dried up in the first couple of days. Not a Tragic Elfin Sprout anywhere. Apart from Bluewater, who were oddly sent a hundred copies. Because of her initial success, we are instantly sent a two hundred copies of her new book. “Elfin Sprout 2, is it or just plain Return of the Sprout?” “First novel actually....” I can’t imagine. Three “Part of shopping is discovering. It may even be a very important part of its appeal. It feels as though it’s tapping into some primordial instinct we have for hunting or gathering- we like the actual process of finding things.” Paco Underhill’s The Call of the Mall Top Five Most Asked Questions at The Bookseller to the Stars 1. “Where is the Travel section?” 2. “Do you have a Bathroom?” 3. “Where is Portobello Road?” 4. “Where is the Da Vinci Code?”/”When is the next Harry Potter out?”/Related Questions 5. “Do you have a coffee shop?” On the direct opposite side of The Grove to the BTTS resides Chaloner and Sons, the fishmongers. This is run by Mr. Chaloner (conveniently for them) and his two sons, who are in their early twenties. Their locally reknowned business serves the adjoining and respected seafood restaurant, Chaloners. Famous with local celebrities, film stars and consequently the freelance photographers and gossip columnists who follow them around all day. My mornings would not be complete without two things. The first being the morning stealth exercise that is dodging the parents in their 4x4s on the school runs, who mount the pavements, desperate to drop their kids off in enough time for them to make Toddler Kiln Forming and Glass Blowing Class. The parents, normally eager to then dash away to get to their bit of stuff for a bit of stuff before straightening their tailored threads from Jasper Littman and joining their colleagues for perhaps a bit more stuff and one or two business dinners before nodding off in a conference room and collecting a fat cheque at the end of the week that would feed and clothe twelve families in Hackney for a month. With the added danger on the roads of eco-conscious Tory MP’s cycling to work while being followed by their assistants in their gas guzzling mercs transporting their briefcases, shoes and Sharkfin and Polar Bear soup from Carluccios, I run an every day gauntlet of becoming a sad and forgotten statistic. The second thing my morning would not be complete without is the Chaloner brothers. Chaloner and Sons has an open front, almost market-like feel to the front of their shop. They have a raised table flat on a slant towards the passing trade in the street by way of display where they showcase that morning’s catch. The fresh smell around first thing when I open the shutters of the bookstore often takes me back to my fonder memories of growing up by the sea. Hakes, Soles, Trout, Salmon, Octopus, Cockles, Crayfish, Lobster, Mussels and Cod all exude a crescendo of maritime perfume as the Father and Sons prepare to sell their wares like the generations of their family before them. A representation, a snapshot of history, of tradition even. “Alright darling.... Wanna come back and see my Plaice.... geddit... plaice? Fish...? Uh-Huh-Huh” ...or not. Now, I’m no Neil Strauss but I feel that the guys need to work on their techniques a little. After their creation of award winning fayre at the fishmongers, the two younger brothers often find themselves at a loose end somewhat and with downtime on their hands before the late morning fish trade firmly kicks off. I too have an early morning lull and often watch them and the same life that passes my own front doors. Why then, do they take this time to attract women and in particular enter into the pursuit of the freshly showered and beautified, local office totty whilst dressed in yellow waders and already smelling like the inside of a shark, is something I do not understand. This leaves something to be said of the young single male in London. I know for a fact that either of them would run a mile if any members of the female public they subjected to borderline harrassment would answer back to them positively. Their repetoire extends to about the same number of tricks as the lone Chinaman who busks deep in the underground of Notting Hill Gate tube station most mornings, plucking away repeatedly to Tears in Heaven, which in principle is a great idea until one of the eventual delays on the Central Line happens and hundreds of people listen to the same repeated verse and chorus melody. Unfortunately, this comes around more often than not. In this case, one Eric Clapton song does not suffice. The same theory I think, applies to our fishmonger friends here. One of the benefits and appeals of working in a bookstore is that you get to keep your individuality (and often your pride as well) by coming to work in your own clothes. For a shopper who perhaps (as many) finds it hard to focus in a bookshop which sometimes results in breaking into tears or walking out in frustration, I believe that this creates the essential, relaxing and approachable atmosphere, unlike most other retail outlets which are essentially manned by uniformed robots, unknowledgable space cadets and greasy nerds with bunches of keys. This ended of course, with the takeover. The aquisition of the Westbourne Books empire by the large evil retailer, RANDOM books took us all by surprise. Mr.Brophy had run the place for many years before he passed away. He was more than happy with the business and how Alice ran it for him and we just assumed his son, Quentin would take advantage of his inheritence and the weekly profits as they came in. Yes, very naive. I know. Old Mr.B used to camp out most afternoons near poetry and happily read through whatever new and interesting prose titles came our way. He used to use his clever wiles and affectionate nature like Arkwright from Open All Hours was aggressive and often too, had complete strangers leaving with handfuls of new discoveries. But age finally caught up with him and we mourned the loss of a great salesman, not to mention a great person to work for. A few months after the funeral, his family took the first opportunity to sell his beloved bookstore to the highest bidder. One in particular that had made no secret publically of its intentions to expand its prescence into our vicinity. RANDOM Books. I bet they sleep like babies. It all came so suddenly. We literally arrived at work one morning to an additional, super-focused workforce, including Lisa. They had already begun changing all the sections around, including a book chart from an official looking memo that included titles I had never even heard of and ordering new signage for outside. At first we all thought it was a joke and even after it sunk in we still came to the conclusion that this really wouldn’t affect us that much. If anything, we would actually get paid a little more. The changes to our daily lives would be gradual and probably minimal and we actually convinced ourselves that they wouldn’t go full on with the brand change at all. Yes, very naive. I know. But reality did wash over us after it was too late and the little paperbacks with the happy looking people from the TV on the cover started to arrive the next day and then we were surrounded by sheets of neon stickers and cardboard RANDOM shelf strips. In our first initial meeting with Quentin and a representative of RANDOM books that first morning, we were charmed into believing that this was what Old Man Brophy would have wanted for us. We knew otherwise of course but kept quiet for the sake of having to find another job. Brophy had actually already rejected past offers from the same people that had fired up the overhead projector in front of us and made no secret in telling us his objections of this “cut-throat” and “evil” company. The generous employee discount and fringe benefits were among many of the trappings we could now look forward to taking advantage of and we were encouraged to believe that this was the best way forward for us all. Not that we really had a say in the matter. Lisa appears by the till with a big smile on her face. Myself and Another Bookseller to the Stars look at each other, concerned. “They’re here Guys, very exciting...” “What’s here?” we chorus. Unfortunately, I know exactly what she was talking about. I signed for the delivery an hour ago. I just hadn’t worked out how to tell the others yet. Lisa holds up a bright red shirt with thin dark green vertical stripes. The company’s name is embroidered above the right chest pocket. She peers over the top to check our reaction. Another Bookseller to the Stars looks horrified. I got over my initial shock when I opened the box. “Wait for it...” she cries. She turns the shirt round to reveal in bright white letters, “ASK ME!” Ugh, I’d actually missed that. “Good Luck getting the staff in them, Lisa...” “Well, we don’t have a choice. It’s head office...” For the past six months, all we have heard is, “...it’s head office.” Like it’s supposed to be some sort of threat. I wondered for a time if “the head office” actually existed as it was only referenced to when Lisa wanted us to do something. That was until they started to call here. In fact, they still ask for Alice, even though she has left. Actually, that’s kinda worrying. “Has the Big Man seen them?” I ask. When he found out that we were being taken over, John took it the hardest. Old Man Brophy had been like a Father to John the Big Man. He lost his father in the war and never really knew him. His old man was actually mentioned in a few of the many recent WW2 books to coincide with the D-Day anniversary and was so proud in showing us the grainy photographs and pointing out the nickname his fellow Air Force comrades had given him. “Shagger?” “Yeah, he was a smoker...” “Right...” After the shop had the corporate makeover, that was bad enough, when he heard about the uniforms he actually threatened to leave. “No, I was hoping you would tell him....” “Great, Thanks...” Lisa and a few others came with the company but alone she remains now as the others have moved on to bigger and brighter things within the company. They are all eager and “career driven” while the old school staff amongst us just want to sell books and then go to the pub. The majority of the staff including our “ex manager” Alice had been in this store for over twenty years. I am still a puppy in comparison and still feel like “the new guy” despite my paltry five years service. John the Big Man has been here longer than that and had actually worked for the previous owner when the shop was a grocers. He is our gentle giant and looks after all the non fiction upstairs. With his book knowledge and the unmitigated catalogue in his head, he deserves to run the entire company or have at least the position that Big Area Manager now holds. But he doesn’t and has no ambition to. Big Area Manager on the other hand has never worked on a bookstore floor in his life. Go figure. He came from the company who now owns us who owns them. This particular month, it’s a large music retailer. Next week, it will be some offshore bank. Following? This is how big business runs now though. Nowadays, it turns out that you don’t have to eat, have nescessarily handled or seen lots of bananas to actually sell them. To say that John took the news quite hard would be an understatement. I caught him doing up his coat in the staff room, mid walk-out. “Where you off to, John?” He wouldn’t talk to Sarah and completely refused to wear the uniform. I let him take his rage out on me which normally has the weight of a lighted match and is easily extinguished with a pint of Stella and I’ve had a lot worse from the customers to be honest. I took him to the pub and bought him a nice cold one. The thing with John is he doesn’t react well to major changes in his nice content life, which consists mostly of pointing out the Travel section and I actually don’t blame him, we all want a quiet life. It is true that Lisa could have handled this but she is right, it has come better from me. That (in her language) means she hopes that I can get John The Big Man into this sanctioned green and red excuse for a uniform. I wasn’t sure of that myself. Besides, I had other ideas. I thought of a plan, well ...more of a compromise. We certainly couldn’t afford to lose The Big Man. We were already short on keyholders and his buying expertese and rapport with the publishing reps is just priceless. They are notorious for pulling a fast one on the amount we buy and he just doesn’t take any shit from anyone when it comes to our stock levels. So I felt it upon myself to take a self-appointed executive decision. I return to Lisa who is eagerly compiling (on her lunch break) rotas or timesheets or something. She looks up at me with a mouthful of salad. Nice. “He won’t wear the shirt, Lisa...” “Well, he has to... It’s a...” “Yeah, directive thing... I know... I’ll ask him to at least try it on and see...” She continues to attack the lettuce and beansprouts in the small plastic container. That would never fill me up, I think. Lisa never eats with us. She always eats in the managers office on her own, while doing something “constructive.” I don’t think this helps for the divide in the staff at all and have often invited her in the staff room for a coffee which she quietly sips as the rest of the staff uncomfortably stay quiet until she scurries off again. “Where are the shirts?” “Box in the hall...” I rummage through the box and go through the sizes. I know she won’t have had time to go through these yet. They want us to be wearing them from next week, so it won’t be on her immediate list. I mumble to myself the sizes as I look at each one and I come across what looks like an individually wrapped one near the bottom of the box marked, “Special order XXL” That’s my cue. I reach out my leg to the fire escape and open it quietly with my foot and toss the bag through the door. I mask the noise while lugging the box back to its position. I appear back in the doorway. “Well, its not there. Are they sending it in a seperate consignment?” I mumble at the invoice in my hand. She vaults from her chair and sticks her head between mine and the invoice. “Don’t tell me its incomplete...” “Well, its not in this box hun...I see it’s on here...Hmmm, I’m off for lunch. I’ll call them for you when I get back.” Lisa pulls the box down on its side and begins to rummage through it, cross referencing each of our sizes against the invoice. John The Big Man is with a customer looking through the travel guides for Tokyo. He looks up at me and I smile and give him the nod. He takes his keys from his pocket and I take them from him as I pass. I will call them and end up having to tell Lisa that they will only be able to send another out in a couple of weeks. She won’t want to do this as the shirts come out of each periods budget and things are tight as it is. They want us to cut back on the staffing budget because of the shirts and we are already at the bare bones. If the Big Man left, that’s a huge blow for us and they wouldn’t let us replace him. I walk out onto The Grove and wonder where I should grab lunch. I consider heading towards the Sainsburys Local. Hmm, Sainsburys or Tescos? I wish I could afford to dine in one of the expensive, little cafes with the small portions. The ones that have the most uncomfortable looking seats but with the Gucci-clad models sipping iced teas in the window. I think I could sit in the window and watch other Gucci-clad models pass by. I take John’s keys and unlock the exterior door at the side of the shop and pick up his shirt at the bottom of the stairs. I greet the passing street cleaner and toss the package into his bin. “I don’t envy you being in this rain, mate...” “I don’t mind it actually. I get a lot of time to think.” For just a second, I ponder a career move. Copyright 2006 Mark Farley