Read an extract from Friends You Haven’t Met Yet by Clare Pooley
The uplifting new novel about book lovers, bookshops, and second chances from the beloved, bestselling author of The Authenticity Project.
CHAPTER ONE
Jude
The date at table three was not going well. This was a shame, as the girl was one of Jude’s best customers. She was addicted to romance novels, and came in at least once a month to buy the latest releases. Which made it deeply ironic that her own love life seemed to be such a disaster.
The girl had sat at that exact table four Saturdays in a row, each time with a different man, but going through the same awkward starter questions: Where did you grow up? Did you go to uni? Do you have siblings?
She looked like someone you’d see presenting children’s television, making space rockets out of objects salvaged from the kitchen recycling bin. Mid-twenties, blonde, bubbling over with irrepressible energy, wearing the sort of expression that said I’m just so incredibly excited to be here speaking to you. Or at least that was the way she appeared at the beginning of each date. By the end, she generally looked deflated. She’d bounce into the shop like Tigger, and mope out like Eeyore.
Jude watched the guy sitting opposite her check his phone surreptitiously under the table as the girl waved her hands in the space between them, illustrating some anecdote she was hoping to charm him with. She was trying so hard, and he so little, as if he thought his good looks were all he needed to bring to the party. Jude wished she had the nerve to accidentally spill a pot of hot tea in his surly, entitled lap.
Jude was so caught up in the fantasy of being an altogether feistier, avenging kind of bookshop owner that she hadn’t spotted the middle-aged man come into the shop. He had a sense of purpose, as if he knew exactly what he was looking for.
Jude’s favourite way of passing the time was to guess which book her customers would pick up. She’d frequently get it bang on. It was her superpower. Less useful than having X-ray vision, or being able to fly, admittedly, but hours of fun. She’d give herself one point for getting the genre right, two additional points for the correct author, and three more for the exact title. She scrutinized this one. He was definitely a non-fiction man. But not self-help. Men like him rarely admitted to needing advice from anyone. He was a biography kind of guy, or maybe he liked books about business or finance.
Whereas the girl on the date was drawn to pink covers, like a toddler to candyfloss, this guy would no doubt favour monochrome, perhaps with splashes of red, or gold or silver embossing. Got it! He’d be a Michael Lewis fan. She’d bet anything he’d read Liar’s Poker and The Big Short, which he’d discuss at length at dinner parties with other equally stuffy men. Perhaps today he was looking for the latest one: Going Infinite.
Jude checked her points tally, pinned to her noticeboard. She had eight points in the bag. Only two more and she’d win one of her own chocolate brownies. She was so certain that she was right about this one that when her customer walked into the fiction section, she assumed he’d got lost. But he ran a resolute index finger along one of her shelves, stopped at a Penguin limited edition clothbound book, pulled it out and walked towards her. Dammit. No points at all. She must be losing her knack.
‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘Can I please pay for this?’
‘Of course,’ she said, putting on her most professional smile. ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray. Good choice. You’ll love it.’
‘It’s a present, actually. For my wife,’ he said, in a voice reminiscent of an old-school newsreader. The sort of polished, well-rounded tones you would trust to tell you who was likely to win the upcoming election. ‘It’s the book she was reading when we first met. In the library at Edinburgh University, back in the eighties.’
‘Oh, that’s so romantic,’ said Jude.
Now, this was why she’d always dreamed of owning a bookshop: so she could help people find stories that really meant something to them. Not so she could serve coffee to bad-mannered Tinder dates. She forgave her new customer for having robbed her of cake, silently apologized for thinking him stuffy, and handed him the card machine. ‘Is it her birthday?’
Jude looked back at her dating couple on table three. How strange. It was empty, except for two abandoned coffee cups. The door to the toilets opened, and the blonde girl walked over to the denuded table, then stopped and turned around, her frown looking ill at ease on her previously smooth forehead.
‘Have you seen the guy who was sitting here?’ said the girl, to the room in general.
‘Someone went out as I was coming in. He was in a bit of a rush,’ said the Dorian Gray man, then left before he could witness the impact of his words landing.
‘Yes, I’m sorry, dear, he’s gone,’ said one of the ladies on table two.
‘Legged it. Like a rat out of an aqueduct,’ said one of the others, rather unnecessarily. ‘Ouch,’ she added, leaning down and rubbing her shin.
Those three old ladies sat at that table several afternoons a week, which would have been great for the business if they’d ever ordered more than one pot of tea between them. They’d make their drinks last for at least an hour, while lounging like basking sharks in her expensive heating and lighting. And they never bought a book. They’d often discuss books, quizzing Jude’s customers on their choices, but – and she’d actually heard them say this – they always borrowed their books from the library.
Now, Jude had nothing against libraries. She loved them. In fact, she’d spent much of her childhood in one, and it was thanks to the library igniting her love of reading that she now had her own bookshop. But spending your whole time in a bookshop while reading books from the library was a bit like eating a packed lunch in a restaurant. Come to think of it, they’d done that too. On more than one occasion, they’d ignored her home-made brownies, flap-jacks and banana bread and had pulled a packet of biscuits from a handbag. Maybe they hadn’t noticed Jude’s cake selection.
‘Gone?’ said the girl, in a high-pitched, elongated syllable that wobbled at the end.
‘We did try to stop him,’ said the old lady.
‘He told me to mind my own business,’ said the middle of the three women.
‘He had a point,’ said the first lady. ‘Mo does have a terrible habit of meddling, but in this instance, she was only trying to help.’
‘Arsehole!’ shouted the blonde girl. Yes, thought Jude. Get angry. A much better response than getting upset or, God forbid, weeping in the middle of the café area. Then, in slow motion, the girl seemed to crumple, collapsing into the abandoned chair and face-planting on the tabletop.
‘Arrrghhh!’ she said, the wail drawn out and punctuated by deep, heaving sobs.
‘Do something!’ shouted the middle woman.
‘Give her a brownie!’ said the first one. So, they had noticed her baked goods.
‘Tissues!’ said the third lady.
Jude sighed. If she’d wanted to deal with the emotional issues of complete strangers, she’d have trained as a psychotherapist.
She stared at the distraught girl, who deserved so much better, took a deep breath, and intervened.