None of Helen’s business though. Everyone had a right to their secrets.

The other customer was an elderly woman who was browsing through the books on the tables. She picked up Helen’s latest book and read the synopsis on the back, then put it back down before choosing the one next to it.

“Those ones are signed by the author,” Helen said into the quiet. The pregnant woman simultaneously jumped and flinched.

“Oh, how lovely,” the older lady said. “They’re not too… saucy, are they?”

Helen smiled and said with a wink. “I guess you could say they are a good romp, but nothing too indelicate.”

The elderly lady smiled cheekily, put the book under her arm and moved over to the recipe books on the next table over.

Helen looked back down at the laptop in front of her as she went over last month’s sales. Not a pretty picture. Hugh wondered why she persevered with both the shop and the writing. God knows she didn’t need to do either. Her thoughts were interrupted by the pregnant woman pushing her toddler past the desk and bumping the wheels against a stand of bookmarks, sending them cascading to the floor.

“Oh!” she said, her hand shooting up to her mouth. The toddler giggled and dropped a raisin.

“Don’t worry,” Helen hid her annoyance behind a benevolent smile. “I’ll get those tidied up.”

The woman’s wan smile made Helen feel exhausted for her.

The old-fashioned bell above the door jangled as Helen bent down to pick up the bookmarks. Whoever it was stood aside and said in a throaty voice, “After you,” and held the door open for the pregnant woman and her toddler to leave.

Helen stood up with a handful of bookmarks and turned to see a strikingly beautiful young girl walk into the store. She was looking around with a small smile. Helen watched as she wandered over to the fiction shelves and began to browse the latest bestsellers. She was wearing skin-tight jeans that had been painted onto her long legs, and heavy black Doc Martin boots with neon green laces. Her hair was auburn, the colour of autumn leaves, and it moved effortlessly across the shoulders of her fluffy pale pink coat in a mass of loose waves. She carried a massive, slouchy black bag over one shoulder. Not the usual clientele Helen saw in the shop.

A cough brought Helen back to herself and she realised she had been staring impolitely, the bookmarks still clutched in her hands. The old woman was waiting patiently to be served, holding a copy of one of Helen’s books, a Rick Stein recipe book and Richard Osman’s debut novel.

“So sorry, away with the fairies there,” Helen said to hide her embarrassment. She stacked the bookmarks hurriedly and none too tidily, and returned to stand behind the desk.

The old woman looked from the girl back to Helen curiously.