7. Lara

Chapter 7

Lara

“ W akey, wakey!” a sweet voice booms. Hearing footsteps approach, I roll onto my right side and peek through my lashes to get a view of the culprit. My eyes widen when the door swings open to reveal Mia. Of the three of us, she’s the least likely to be awake first, like, ever.

As Mia leans her shoulder against my door frame, I drag myself into a sitting position, rubbing my eyes. I check my watch and almost gasp. “Are you ill?” I ask. “It’s only seven o’clock. Isn’t your body clock set to nine at the earliest?” Mia scowls, and I grin.

She’s already dressed and ready to go. It must be a reasonably chilly day outside because she’s wearing a pair of beige corduroy trousers paired with her favourite chunky white sneakers and a soft pink sweater. If the locals are in trousers and sweaters, I’ll be wrapped up top to toe in seven layers.

“I’ll have you know I’m up before nine most days, thank you,” Mia retorts, mirroring my grin. “Now, get up. Places to go! Tourists to check out!”

“I didn’t move across the other side of the world to check out tourists, Mia. Take me to the hot Brits.” This has Mia rolling her eyes and trying to restrain a laugh.

“Honey, you’ll have plenty of time to see all the eligible bachelors the UK has to offer now that it’s your home,” Mia responds.

Harper’s head appears over Mia’s shoulder. She’s curled her hair today and has on a light face of makeup. She looks so effortlessly stunning. Harper could pass as a tourist herself with her bronzed skin, uncommon for most Brits. I can see the top of a blue turtleneck knit peeking out from above Mia’s shoulder.

Since the beginning of our friendship, Harper and Mia have been aware of my love for English men. I blame the likes of Henry Cavill and Tom Hardy for my obsession. Of course, I can't speak of hot British men without mentioning Orlando Bloom and Jude Law, circa mid-2000s. Thanks Mum for introducing me to the Lord of the Rings at a young age; it truly helped to shape my taste in men.

Perhaps it’s because I have one, but I simply do not like Australian accents. Nine times out of ten, they sound bogan—the equivalent of America’s low country-type accents for those unfamiliar—and I’ve yet to hear an attractive Australian accent. As a child, I used to tell my mother I’d endeavour to marry a British man so my children would have his accent. Failing that, I’d fake a British accent for their early years while their own real British accents developed as a result. If that doesn’t show dedication to the cause, I don’t think anything will.

“You make an excellent point, Harps. Alright you two, give me half an hour, and we’ll be off. What time is the bus?”

We’ve bought tickets for one of the double-decker tourist buses, and I can’t wait. I’ve visited London twice previously, but both were short trips. We have a whole day of sightseeing planned; I’m so grateful to the girls for being tourists in their own city with me.

“The bus will pick us up down the street at eight-thirty sharp, but we’re visiting the bookstore first, remember?” Mia responds.

“Oh, I forgot! Okay, go, go. Let me get ready,” I reply, hastily clambering out of bed and shooing the girls out of my bedroom.

I quickly dress in my favourite pair of jeans and throw on a red chunky knit over a cute thermal top. I pull on a pair of brown boots and hurry into the bathroom. My hair is in its natural state of dead straight, which works to my advantage as it requires absolutely no effort. I put on a light layer of makeup and accessorise with gold earrings and my favourite Burberry scarf.

Making my way out into the kitchen, I find the girls waiting for me with a homemade caramel iced latte and two slices of raisin toast. The sight makes me giggle. I forget I may have only lived here for a few days, but they’ve known me far longer.

After devouring our coffees and breakfasts, we set off. The cool air bites at my skin the second I step out of our building, and I’m thankful for the thermal undershirt. The bookstore, and my new place of work, is a few blocks over and a short five-minute walk. Chapter Nine Bookstore, aptly named given the building is #9, is a delightful place.

The store doesn’t open until a little later, but we wanted to test out the walk and have a look from the street. The large bow windows lining the front of the store allow for the stray rays of sun to cast a glow on the books nearest to them. The front door is housed underneath a beautiful old arch frame, painted white to match the window frames.

Through the windows and to the left lie rows and rows of books, with aisles taller than most people. To the right is the counter, and nestled just beyond against the far wall is a little reading nook. It looks cosy, filled with bean bags, throw pillows and blankets.

We spend the rest of the day touring around London like typical tourists. The day’s itinerary begins in Central London, visiting Big Ben, who I have affectionately dubbed Biggie. The refurbishments have finally finished, and Biggie is finally visible in all his glory. Why Biggie, you may ask, because who the fuck nicknames a global icon? Let’s say one of the girls back home had a particularly questionable past with someone of a similar name. We don’t speak of said person, and therefore, Biggie’s real name seemed inadequate. Don’t tell the locals; they’ll have my head. Harper and Mia already stare daggers at me anytime I utter the nickname, and those two are scary enough.

After we’ve taken far too many pictures, we head over to Buckingham Palace. The last time I visited, the Commonwealth had a Queen, so it’s a bittersweet feeling being here knowing there’s no Lizzie. Not that she was within the palace walls when I last visited, but you get the point.?

Continuing on with our quest to fill our camera rolls in one day, we take ample pictures at the gates and in the surrounding gardens. The day is filled with laughter, screams of joy, more steps than any of us were prepared for, and so much smiling. My heart is so full as we pass by places like the London Eye, St. Paul’s Cathedral, and The Shard. Before we know it, we’re on the bus once more and heading to our last stop of the day—Tower Bridge and the Tower of London.

We’re sitting along the back row of the top deck, driving down Upper Thames Street with the Millennium Bridge to our right, and I have a little moment.

“Thank you, guys, for being tourists with me this weekend, it wouldn’t have been nearly as fun alone.”?

Reaching my hands out to grasp each of theirs, I give Mia and Harper a teary-eyed smile and squeeze. They squeeze my hands in return, and we sit like that for a moment.?

“As if we’d be anywhere else, Lars,” Harper responds, grinning at me as the tears welling up in her eyes match my own.?

“This has easily been one of the best days I’ve had in a long time,” Mia adds. “Is it too early to start planning weekend trips away? There’s so much of the UK we want to show you.

“And Europe!” Harper adds, leaning in closer to be heard over the hustle and bustle of the street below. “We can take the Eurostar to Amsterdam and Paris and venture out on our own from there.”

The rest of the weekend is a blur of more pictures, cheesy grins, and laughs. Sunday brings Kings Cross Station and all of the Harry Potter sightseeing one could wish for. Madame Tussauds was also a highlight. Pictures with Captain America, the Star Wars cast, and the royals fill my camera roll, and I have no regrets.

The tourist weekend ends at the British Museum, pretending we know what the hell we’re talking about when it comes to fine arts.?

It’s been the most wonderful weekend with the girls. Who knew being a tourist in your own new home could be so fun?

Today is my first day at the bookstore and excited is an understatement. Getting paid to discuss books all day with fellow bookworms? Seeing new releases first? Setting up staff pick displays, genre and trope sections? Simply sounds too good to be true.?

When I arrived this morning, I was a healthy mix of excited and nervous. Marissa, the owner and manager, met me at the door. She’s a little lady, probably somewhere in her mid to late 70s. I knocked once on the glass door before her head popped out from behind the end of a shelf.

Marissa is the epitome of a bookstore owner. White hair pulled into a loose bun at the nape of her neck, round-framed glasses sitting atop her nose, and arms full of books.?

Placing the books on the counter, Marissa approached the door to greet me.?

“Oh, you must be Lara,” she beamed. Thanks to the phone calls prior to my move, her voice was familiar and wrapped around me like a hug. She smelt of book pages and something of a floral nature, but I couldn't put my finger on what exactly. Perhaps jasmine or gardenia? I don’t pretend to know much about flowers, but she smelt homely.

“I certainly am. It’s lovely to finally meet you, Marissa,” I responded, a warm smile pulling up my lips. Marissa pulled me into a hug, and I felt the nervous energy evaporate.?

“Oh please, sweetie, call me Riss.” Her small smile wrinkled the skin around her eyes. She led me inside, plucking a small tin with baking paper peeking out the sides from the countertop and holding it out to me. “Just a small first day treat,” she’d said sweetly. My heart squeezed in my chest in response to the kind gesture, so similar to something my own grandmother would do.

Following a cup of tea together in the reading nook, we spent the next two hours touring the store and each of its genre sections. Riss had drawn a little mud map for me with the layout of the bookstore. It detailed where each genre could be found, as well as prominent subgenres that were often requested. The gesture made my detail-oriented heart sing.

The conversation flowed easily between us. So much so that hours later, I don’t think the stupid grin I’m wearing has left my face once. Riss, declaring her faith in me, has stepped out for an hour or two to run some errands and pick us up some lunch.

Deciding to be proactive whilst she’s out, I tour the different genres. Pen and paper in hand, I make a note of any shelves with space for three or more in their stack. While wandering, I can’t help but pick up some of the newest arrivals. I take in a deep breath and inhale the divine scent of new books—an aroma I can never explain, yet everyone seems to understand.

Happy with my list, I walk through the archway behind the counter and into the back room. Piles and piles of books tower over me, desperately needing some rearranging. The stockroom will be the second thing I tackle when I get a spare few hours.

I grab a cart, place my list inside, and get to looking. A mere two books on the list are secured before I’m rudely interrupted by a loud rumbling coming from my stomach. I glance at my watch. Damn, it’s only been 15 minutes since Riss left. I contemplate whether I can hold off, but my stomach decides for me as it lets out another rumble.

“Okay, okay,” I mumble to myself, “we’ll get a snack.”

My sad excuse for a book cart stands abandoned as I walk over to the cubby holding my bag, trying to remember if I’d packed any sweet treats. I swear I hear angels sing when I spot the tin Riss had handed me earlier. The lid is barely off, but the sweet scent of shortbread wafts through the air and I’m almost salivating in response.

As I take my first bite and moan in satisfaction, the doorbell chimes.