last night. Oh, I nearly forgot these.’ He reached into his back pocket, pulled out a box and held it up for us to see. ‘Organic chicken biscuits for the dog.’
I gave a snort. ‘She’s not Madonna.’
‘Not yet.’
‘Can you put it away somewhere other than here? We’ve got to open up.’ I’d spent that week obsessively tidying, putting books back into their rightful places. Running my fingers along the shelves, I’d played Consequences. If there was an even number on a certain shelf, Thursday evening would go without a hitch. Odd? I’d do something awful like fart on stage.
Zach gathered the shopping up. ‘Your wish is my command. The publisher also asked about a dressing room. Where shall we put Her Majesty?’
‘Stockroom?’ suggested Eugene.
‘That’ll do,’ said Zach, heading downstairs.
By lunchtime, I felt so ill I couldn’t eat my cheese and tomato sandwich.
By teatime, I wondered whether I could fake my own death to get out of it. Fake my own death and disappear to live in Africa like Lord Lucan, although I’d find it very hard to leave Marmalade behind. Why had I let Zach force me into this? Why wasn’t he doing it? I raised my eyes to the ceiling above me. Zach was the one in charge, after all, thundering about the shop like a matador ordering Eugene to move chairs and tables.
I tried to distract myself by writing my questions on Frisbee notecards, before unpacking four boxes of Fumi’s book and arranging them in even piles on a signing table beside the till. The door jangled and I looked up to see a gaggle of teenage girls come in and glance nervously around them.
‘’Scuse me,’ one of them asked. ‘Is this the right place for the Fumi talk?’
I looked at my watch. It was only 4.28. ‘Yep,’ I replied. ‘But it’s not for another couple of hours. Do you have tickets?’
They nodded simultaneously. ‘We just want to make sure we have good seats,’ said the ringleader.
‘The chairs aren’t out yet,’ I replied, just as there was a thump on the floorboards above my head and another shout from Zach. ‘Come back closer to six?’
They nodded again and left. But the door kept swinging open. Ring ring. Ring ring. Ring ring. Every few minutes another herd of fans would appear to check that they were in the right place, to see if there were any spare tickets or cancellations, to plead with me for a space.
Norris appeared upstairs from his office at one point to see what the ‘commotion’ was.
‘Close it early,’ he said, his face darkening at the sight of the crowd outside the shop windows. ‘Put up a sign. Too much noise.’
I pulled a sheet of paper from the printer and wrote in neat black capitals: ‘Please queue here for the Fumi event. Doors will open at 6 p.m.’ I stuck it to the door-pane, flicked the lock and texted Rory – Have locked door so if you get here early, ring and will let you in xxx.
Upstairs, Eugene was unfolding chairs in lines across the Turkish rugs. Zach was sitting on the floor, leaning up against the shelves, phone clamped to one ear, hands flying over his laptop keyboard.
‘OK,’ he said, ‘OK, great. Yes, all fine here. That’s perfect. Looking forward to it.’
‘That was Fumi’s agent,’ he said, lowering his phone. ‘They’re on their way. Can I just get you to do a sound check?’ He pointed to two chairs at the front of the room, a microphone stand between them.
I felt a wave of adrenalin soak my insides but said nothing. Mustn’t show fear in front of Zach. Instead, I walked forward and perched on one of the two seats, then positioned my mouth over the microphone. ‘Er, testing, testing, one two three.’
‘Bit more,’ shouted Zach, not looking up from his screen.
I couldn’t think of what else to say. And if I was this tongue-tied now, in front of a room which contained just Eugene and Zach, what would I be like in front of seventy people?
‘Tell me your deepest, darkest secret,’ said Zach.
‘What?’ I squeaked.
‘It’s only for sound. But never mind. Just tell me what you had for lunch.’
‘Nothing,’ I snapped, ‘because I’m so nervous I couldn’t eat.’
He grinned at me from behind his laptop. ‘You’re going to be fine.’ Then he shook his head. ‘Scrap that, not just fine. You’re going to be great.’
‘You sure?’
‘I am,’ he said, head back down, tapping at his laptop. ‘But that’s all good to record.’ He