The Book Ninja Read online

  Exhibit A – her last Tinder experience:

  Michael: Hi there, Frankie. Whereabouts do you live in Melbourne?

  Frankie: Richmond. You?

  Michael: I just got out of prison and my ex changed the locks. I could really use a place to stay?

  Exhibit B – her last blind date: ‘It’s real silverware, touch it!’ he said as he stashed the fancy restaurant cutlery in his pockets.

  Exhibit C – her last random hook-up: ‘Frankie, your vagina is like a velvet taco.’

  And then there was Adam. It had been eighteen months since Ads had broken up with her after two and a half years together. Their relationship had been hot and heavy, until it wasn’t. They’d fallen hard and fast, but external stresses weighed heavily on their young, blinded-by-love shoulders.

  When reviews for Frankie’s second book slammed everything from her characters to her use of semi-colons – ‘Hilary’ rated Something About Jane 0 stars, stating she would ‘rather have severe, week-long diarrhoea than have to read this book again’ – an intense bout of writer’s block settled over her.

  Ads got promoted to junior partner at his top-tier law firm and was too preoccupied to notice Frankie’s devastation over her career falling apart.

  Ads: Hey Franks. It seems like you’re in a bit of a transition phase, and I don’t think I can help you with what you’re looking for. I think it would be better for both of us if we were just friends. See you around. Ads x

  Frankie: I hope you fucking die.

  Frankie: Sorry, I didn’t mean that.

  Frankie: I love you.

  Frankie: Fuck you.

  Frankie: I miss you …

  Frankie: I’m deleting your number.

  After surviving a tumultuous grieving period, Frankie was at an all time low. She lost not only all confidence in her ability to write, but also her part-time role as a primary school library assistant following a breakdown complete with expletives during Year 1 book club after discovering, via Facebook, that Ads had a new girlfriend. Months of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream and The Notebook viewing sessions later, Frankie braved the dating world again, only to be assailed by failed date after failed ego-bruising date. Had these sexless and waking-up-spoonless months finally led her to lose her mind? Not to mention made her so self-absorbed that she no longer knew what was going on with her best friend?

  Arriving at Lune Croissanterie, Frankie inched her way through the waiting crowd, scanning the tables. There, hidden in the back corner, she spotted Cat. In front of her lay an assortment of partially eaten croissants. With a final shudder, Frankie pushed aside the visual of the bookstore nose kiss, and slid into the chair next to her best friend. Startled, Cat looked up, and Frankie’s heart broke at the sight of her friend’s teary, croissant-crumbed face. She pulled Cat towards her, rubbing her back and consoling her with soothing whispers.

  ‘How did this happen, Catty?’

  ‘It’s these baby hormones! They’ve invaded my body and have me doing all kinds of crazy things,’ blubbered Cat, dabbing her eyes with a crumpled serviette. ‘And the worst part is, I’ve literally never felt hornier. And Claud insists on being super cautious in the bedroom. He’s worried he’s going to dent the baby or something! But all I want to do is have loud, inappropriate, break-the-bed-in-three-places sex!’

  ‘Well, it’s certainly no pickles-and-peanut-butter at 3am,’ Frankie said. ‘So, you’re high on hormones and, what, you just fell on his penis after class?’

  Cat smiled guiltily, blushing. ‘It just sort of happened. I was all pent up after the K-Pop session. He was just so dreamy. It was almost magnetic,’ Cat gushed. ‘After the class, he came over to help me stretch. You know that stretch when you lie on the floor and you have somebody push against your hip bone and leg? He was practically straddling me and, I don’t know, I was just overcome with desire. I’ve never felt such a pull like that before! And the next thing I know, we’re doing it in the bathroom squashed between the toilet and a Dyson Airblade.’

  She sighed and buried her face in her sticky hands. ‘Oh Frank, I’ve been racked with guilt ever since. Especially because Claud’s been extra attentive since we found out about the baby. He tries so hard to make sure I’m comfortable and happy. And then there’s you, Frankie! We just don’t keep secrets from each other.’

  Frankie squeezed Cat’s leg. ‘Does he have any idea?’ Frankie asked as evenly as she could manage.

  ‘God no!’ she hissed, looking up. ‘You know how he’d get. He’d be completely devastated.’

  Frankie had always known that Claud adored Cat, but he was sensitive and, at times, unforgiving. It wasn’t unusual for Frankie to arrive at The Little Brunswick Street Bookshop and find the two of them still simmering over the previous night’s argument. They were two strong-minded individuals who lived together and worked together three days a week. They were bound by love and bookkeeping, and after many intertwining years their relationship had become less passionate and more practical. But still, Frankie was having a hard time believing what she was hearing. ‘Do you still love Claud? You want to be with him, right?’

  At that, Cat’s whole body seemed to cave in on itself. She hesitated for a moment, then said, ‘Yes, of course. We’re having a baby.’

  Frankie sighed again, now at a complete loss for words. She wanted to protect her friend and keep her calm; Cat had precarious blood-sugar levels at the best of times. And was she really expected to throw away a twelve-year relationship after a moment of hormone-induced insanity? Even though they didn’t always see eye-to-eye exactly, Frankie felt a sense of loyalty to Claud, and wanted to protect him from this newly discovered infidelity. Cat had always been a little addicted to life, moving from one infatuation to the next. This has to be another one of her fads, Frankie told herself, a momentary lapse in judgement.

  ‘And it’s over with this guy?’ she gently prodded.

  Cat’s bottom lip quivered. ‘It’s over with this guy.’

  ‘Have you read Esther Perel’s new book? The State of Affairs?’

  Cat shook her head. ‘But with an accent like hers, I’d believe just about anything she said.’

  ‘She wrote about how sometimes people stray not because they don’t love their partner, or because they are looking for somebody better, but because they are searching for another part of themselves, a part which has become lost in the folds of a safe and comfortable relationship.’ Frankie rubbed Cat’s arm and picked up a half-eaten pain au chocolat. ‘Sweet Jesus, this is heaven in my mouth!’

  And there they sat, arms resting against each other, quickly sampling the treats before them. Cat checked her watch, deciding they could spare another few minutes, then turned the interrogation around. ‘So, you sexually assaulted a customer?’

  It was Frankie’s turn to bury her face in her hands, cringing and laughing in equal measure as she recounted the incident in all its excruciating glory, periodically blurting out, ‘On the nose, Cat! On the fucking nose!’ Cat was beside herself with laughter, regularly spraying the table with crumbs and bits of custard.

  ‘And I thought I had problems,’ Cat said between gasps for air.

  ‘It was hands down the most embarrassing moment of my life.’

  ‘Was he at least easy on the eyes? Or nose?’ Cat winked at Frankie, who rolled her eyes in return.

  ‘You have no idea.’ They both broke into a fit of giggles. ‘Oh, but you won’t believe which book he bought.’

  ‘High Fidelity? Wuthering Heights? Rosemary’s Baby?’ Cat inquired.

  ‘Worse.’

  ‘Fifty Shades of Grey?’

  Frankie raised her eyebrows, egging Cat on.

  ‘Fifty Shades Darker?’

  ‘New Moon!’ Frankie guffawed.

  ‘No! I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m partial to hot vampires seeking to avenge death and the odd sexy werewolf, but New Moon? Are you sure this was an adult-sized man whose nose you pashed?’

  ‘I know. Why are all the good-loo
king ones such terrible readers?’ Frankie despaired as she attempted to make I’ll-have-a-strong-cappuccino eyes at the nearest waiter.

  ‘So, what are we going to do about it?’ Cat said to the back of Frankie’s head.

  ‘Do about what?’

  ‘This horrible man-drought that’s doing weird things to your fine-motor reflexes.’

  ‘Nothing. I’m not fit to date!’

  A young waitress in distressed jeans and a black tank top finally approached their table, and they ordered a cappuccino and peppermint tea to go.

  ‘Frank, did you ever consider that you need to be more open-minded? We’ve talked about your “gap”,’ Cat said. ‘Even with Ads, you kept him at arm’s length. Maybe you’re not being open enough, not willing to let anyone in. You know, romance isn’t all Mr Bingley and Atticus Finch!’

  ‘Well, at least they were well-read.’

  Back on the street, Cat clung dramatically to Frankie. ‘I’m too exhausted to walk!’ She fluttered her eyelashes. ‘Can we catch the next tram back? Please?’ Frankie couldn’t help but laugh as they meandered over to the nearest tram stop and collapsed on the bench.

  ‘You know, Frankenstein,’ Cat said as Frankie bent forward, peering down the street in search of an approaching tram, ‘we’re brought up being told not to judge a book by its cover. Maybe you should start applying the same logic to men.’

  ‘That’s rich coming from you, Cat Cooper. You just about deck anyone who comes into the store asking for Nicholas Sparks.’

  ‘Mr Sparks needs to diversify!’ Cat retorted. ‘Fine, you have a point.’

  ‘See, you can tell a lot from what a person reads.’

  At the familiar clang of the approaching tram, the two friends rose from the bench and began their furious hunt for their travel cards. As they tapped on to the packed vehicle, Cat took one look at the teenagers lounging across the priority seat and powered towards them. She stood directly in front of them, legs apart, hands on hips and coughed unsubtly. Looking terrified, they skittered away and Cat sat down with a satisfied grin. Even though she wasn’t showing yet, pregnancy had given Cat a whole new appreciation for the concept of power posing. Frankie sheepishly followed and hung onto the rail next to her smug friend.

  ‘So,’ Cat said, suddenly sitting up straighter, as if an idea had been beamed into her, ‘use books to find a man!’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Boooooks!’ Cat cooed, as if it were obvious.

  ‘What are you on about, woman?’

  ‘Seriously, Frank. If you think you can tell so much from a person’s bookshelf, why not put it to the test? Get your mates John Willoughby and Jo March to veto your men.’

  Frankie scoffed. ‘So, I should force my way into men’s homes and peruse their bedside tables to decide whether they’re marriage material? If I’ve learned one thing today, it’s to not invade people’s personal space.’

  ‘I didn’t say anything about a break-and-enter. Frankie, think about it. Literature is your life. You’ve been trawling Tinder looking for well-read intellectuals, but it’s not working. Let’s shake things up! Just use your favourite books to find a man.’

  ‘Just use your favourite books to find a man? You’re losing your mind.’ Frankie stared absently out the window, allowing her eyes to relax and move back and forth with the tram’s movement.

  ‘Yes, start a book club. You can put a sign on the front door saying, “Hot men with a grasp of classic and contemporary fiction wanted!” You can lead it, write notes, test them on their analytical skills … At least it would get you writing again.’

  Frankie rolled her eyes, but then, as the rhythm of the tram lulled her into a gentle daze, an idea flashed before them.

  —3—

  * * *

  A Train of Thought

  * * *

  I was standing in a train carriage, clinging to a (I hope that’s not human residue) moist handrail and a worn copy of Persuasion. There was a man sitting opposite me playing a ukulele, wearing only a pair of green briefs and a top hat (to keep it classy). I could hear a distant banging in the background. Bang. Bang. Bang. You’ve. Hit. Rock. Bottom. It seemed to taunt.

  What am I doing here, in this vast, open, new-to-me world of the blog, you’d like to know? After accidentally kissing – ahem, molesting – a stranger’s nose at my place of work, I have been forced to seek alternative methods of finding a mate. So, I hopped aboard the 5.42pm to Alamein, armed with a good book and just a shred less self-respect. My plan? Use my deeply judgemental bookish self (because let’s be honest, we do actually judge books by their covers) to sift through the bad boys, the bad-in-beds and the bad readers. Using the heroic and hopelessly romantic words of some of my favourite novels, I am determined to find a half-decent-looking man who makes me laugh and is capable of sitting through an entire dinner party without using phrases like ‘ROFLMAO’ and ‘That’s what she said’. Surely I’m not asking too much?

  So, after surreptitiously raiding the shelves at the bookstore at which I work (#kleptomaniac #shelfie #bestbossever) and taking just a few from my personal collection, I flipped to the seventh-last page of each one and scribbled the following:

  You have great taste in books. Fancy a date? Email me, Scarlett O’ x [email protected]

  Over the next few weeks I will stealthily ninja said books (everything from Atkinson to Zafón) on various train and tram services travelling in and out of the city. My hope? For a man to find one, read it, and be so deeply and irrevocably moved by the words (because he has superb taste in books, is obviously intelligent and has his shit together) that he is compelled to contact me. We shall then hit it off. Date for a few months. Move in together. Get married. And before you can say Fitzwilliam Darcy, live happily ever after with three kids, two Dalmatians and an American walnut veneer bookshelf, of course.

  Now, I know what you’re thinking … Does this woman not have a shred of dignity? What about feminism? Her concern for privacy and security? Does she realise that her life’s worth is not measured by the man in it?

  I’ll admit it: I’m lonely. I haven’t had sex in too many months to count, and the last time another human being held me, really held me, was when I tripped entering a 7-Eleven at 11.40pm to collect a second bucket of Ben & Jerry’s. Don’t get me wrong, it’s okay to want more than the warmth of a stranger late at night. But in actual fact, I’m willing to open myself up to you (whoever and wherever you are) because I need to find a way to bridge ‘the gap’ (as my best friend so eloquently terms it) that I put between myself and other people, and just take a punt at life, and love. I need to get over my desperate fear of failure and put pen to paper again, and maybe along the way I can find the man of my (fictional) dreams.

  Oh, and the other thing you must be wondering is: HOW COULD YOU PART WITH YOUR BOOKS?! For that, I have nothing. It’s the single flaw in the plan.

  It’s been four days since I released Persuasion to the rails. Tomorrow I’ll put The Goldfinch out there, and the day after that, Catch-22. And all the while I will obsessively refresh my browser until something either expected or (I hope) unexpected comes of this strange social experiment. All notable correspondence and dates will be documented here.

  To protect my identity, and by that I mean to prevent my mother from tracking this down, over the next few months you’ll come to know me as Scarlett O’ – the woman whose sanity has Gone with the Wind.

  Until next time, my dears.

  After all, tomorrow is another date.

  Scarlett O’ xx

  * * *

  Leave a comment (3)

  Cat in the Hat > I’d date you. Now get over here already so we can watch Outlander.

  * * *

  No offence but … > Going to all this effort to find a man? As an independent woman, this does strike me as slightly anti-feminist.

  * * *

  Stephen Prince > @Nooffencebut … I think you need to Google the definition of feminism. Scarlett O’, you’
re my queen.

  * * *

  —4—

  Lost and Found by Brooke Davis

  City Loop train to Parliament Station

  Frankie had never been surrounded by so much lycra in her life. She watched on in amazement as striped glittery leggings and sweaty lime-green crop tops danced around the room.

  ‘I cannot believe I let you drag me into this,’ she shouted over the loud Korean pop music that thundered throughout the warehouse.

  Cat slid down to the ground and put her leg out at a ninety-degree angle, tapping it ferociously. She rubbed her belly, pulsating to the beat. Frankie crouched next to her and stuck out her leg, trying awkwardly to keep up.

  ‘I don’t think you understand how bad you are at this,’ Cat said, laughing.

  ‘I don’t think you understand how much I hate you right now,’ Frankie said between a hip grind and a hair toss.

  The purple-haired dance instructor, wearing a white tracksuit and orange sneakers, cranked up the music. ‘Now stand up and Arrogant Dance! One-two. One-two. One-two.’

  All eighteen dancing Koreans stood up at once. They shimmied effortlessly into position, legs apart, hips swaying, followed by the very non-Korean Frankie and Cat, who were dancing inelegantly at the back.

  ‘That’s it! Arrogant Dance! Arrogant Dance!’ yelled the instructor with so much enthusiasm Frankie thought he might explode into a puff of glittery smoke.

  Everyone crossed their arms and sashayed their bodies towards the front of the class. Everyone except Frankie, who was concentrating on not falling over.

  ‘And now the Butt Dance. Quickly, Butt Dance! Butt Dance!’ commanded the instructor seriously, as if he were teaching them how to perform CPR, not wiggle their behinds.

  Everyone turned their back to the instructor, and as Frankie looked around at the lycra-clad, fluoro-haired, exceptionally coordinated dancers, along with her red-haired, red-faced, exceptionally uncoordinated pregnant friend, shaking their bums as if their lives depended on it, she suppressed a laugh.