Helen rang up the sale and packed the books into a canvas tote bag emblazoned with the name of the shop, The Owl and The Pussycat. Holding up her own book, Helen said, “Do let me know what you think of this one. The writer is a friend of mine, so I can pass on your feedback.”

“I will, thank you. Particularly looking forward to this one though. Heard lots of good things about it,” she said, pointing to the Osman book.

“Ah, yes, another celebrity author, probably has a ghost writer,” Helen replied. She was about to say more but swallowed down the words at seeing the now disapproving look on the woman’s face.

“I think he is just lovely. I’m a big Pointless fan,” the woman said and tucked the tote bag into her pull-along grocery carrier. She headed out of the shop, leaving Helen alone with the young girl, who was also now looking at Helen’s books.

“Did I hear you say you know the author?” she said suddenly in a deep, throaty voice.

“Er, yes, I know her quite well actually.”

“What is she like?”

“Very nice, friendly. Um…”

The girl nodded, picked up another book, set it down again. “I picture her as quite an eccentric woman, a martini drinker who wears big hats and has large breasts. Am I right?”

Helen laughed. “Not in the slightest.”

She nodded again. “Do you have any history of art books?”

“Um, the shelves towards the back are our reference section. There may be some there.”

Helen could feel the girl’s eyes on her as she walked past, but Helen kept her head down, looking at but not seeing the computer screen in front of her.

Helen wiped a hand across the back of her neck, which was damp with sweat.

Minutes later, the girl appeared from behind the shelves again and said, “You don’t have what I’m looking for,” before walking towards the door.

“I can order titles in if you—”

“That’s ok, I’ll be back. I like it here.” She paused with her hand on the door, smiled angelically, then floated out, leaving just the smell of cherries in the air.

*

She watched Helen move about in the shop. She seemed stiff and tense today though, her movements jerked and forced as she rearranged shelves, unpacked new orders, served customers.

Occasionally, she’d sit and drink a cup of tea, her fingers aimlessly scratching at her arms or her hands rummaging in packets of biscuits.

Those habits lingered, the only real signs that she was affected by it all.

Helen couldn’t see her from where she was sitting. She liked to do this most days, just watch her moving around, waiting for the weight of it all to come crashing down on her. The guilt, the sense of wrongdoing, the retribution.

But it never did.