The Book Ninja Read online

  ‘Hello, darlings!’ She rushed over to the party of three, airkissing Seb then Cat and finally Frankie.

  ‘Mum, what are you doing here?’ Frankie said coolly.

  ‘Oh, darling, can’t a mother pop in to visit her favourite child?’ she cooed, as she straightened the sign on the ‘Book of the Month’ display.

  ‘Plus, she needed to bring me a vial of Damiana.’ Seb put out his hand expectantly. Putu reached into her hemp bag and retrieved a test tube full of bright yellow liquid. Seb bared his braces-clad teeth, took the tube and stashed it in the front pocket of his shirt.

  ‘Do I even want to know?’ Frankie grumbled.

  ‘It’s a special herb for my love potion. I’m going to make myself irresistible to the girl of my dreams.’

  ‘Who, Frankie?’ Cat laughed.

  Frankie glared at Cat, subtly shaking her head.

  ‘No, Celeste Fitness. She’s in my English Lit class,’ Seb bit back.

  ‘Fitness? Surely that’s a fake name,’ Cat retorted.

  ‘It is not and she is not and, with the help of Frankie’s lovely mother, she is going to fall head over heels for me,’ Seb replied, defiant.

  Putu pulled Seb towards her so that they were embracing, shoulder to shoulder. ‘Exactly! Seb just needs to add these herbs to his little potion and then rub it gently behind her ears without her knowing.’ Putu smiled.

  ‘Without her knowing? Mum, that’s terrible advice! If Seb starts rubbing oil behind somebody’s ears, all he’ll get is a restraining order,’ Frankie snapped.

  ‘Oh Frankie, you’re always such a Debbie Downer. I’ll show you how to rub oil discreetly behind the ear, Sebastian. Just look at this.’ Putu leant over the counter and gently dabbed her finger behind Frankie’s ear.

  Frankie rolled her eyes. ‘That was hardly discreet.’

  Without warning, Cat pressed her finger behind Frankie’s ear too, making her giggle.

  ‘Cat!’

  ‘Sorry, I wanted to see if I could do it,’ Cat said dismissively.

  All of a sudden, Seb pressed his fingers behind Putu’s ear, who squealed with delight. It wasn’t long before all four of them were touching their fingers behind each other’s ears, laughing hysterically.

  ‘Er, hello?’ a man uttered, suddenly appearing right beside the pandemonium that was Cat, Frankie, Seb and Putu.

  Frankie jumped back as each of them quickly dropped their hands to their sides. She looked quickly at Cat and screamed silently at her: It’s him! Edward Cullen!

  ‘Sorry, have I come at a bad time?’ he asked.

  ‘No, no, not at all. Everyone was just leaving,’ Frankie said, flustered. Seb, Cat and Putu merely stared at the two of them, giving no indication of moving.

  ‘You must be Train Boy. I’m Cat, Frankie’s best friend of all time,’ Cat interjected, holding out her hand.

  He smiled. ‘You heard about that, hey? I’m Sunny, with a U. Nice to meet you.’ He shook Cat’s hand as Frankie tried not to stare at his luminous face, his sparkling eyes.

  Sunny turned expectantly towards Frankie, eyebrows raised. ‘And you are?’

  ‘Frankie,’ Cat said, nudging the gawking Frankie forward.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ she managed. ‘So, have you come in for City of Bones? Divergent, perhaps?’ she asked, regaining her senses.

  ‘Please, I’ve already read both series. Twice. They were robbed of Man Bookers, if you ask me.’

  ‘You disgust me,’ Seb gasped.

  ‘Seb!’ Frankie glared at her young friend, then managed to turn back to Sunny. ‘Don’t mind him. He detests anyone who picks up a book that doesn’t revolve solely around government dissent and civil liberties. And as I just said, he’s also leaving right now.’ Frankie looked expectantly at Seb, who again remained stationary.

  ‘Sooo,’ murmured Putu, flinging her arm around Sunny, ‘tell me, how does a handsome man like you know my beautiful daughter, Sunny-with-a-U?’

  Sunny laughed. ‘I really am meeting the whole crew today. First, your best friend and now your mother.’

  ‘Yes, but they all really should be going,’ Frankie repeated with growing urgency. ‘Cat has a bookstore to manage, and Mum has … Mum?’

  ‘Nonsense dear, I don’t have anywhere to be.’ Putu edged her face closer to Sunny’s, her arm still wrapped around his waist.

  ‘I helped her out of a train fine.’ Sunny grinned.

  ‘If by “helped” you mean “snogged”!’ Seb blurted out.

  ‘Sebastian, get out!’ Cat snapped.

  ‘He kissed Frankie?’ Putu released Sunny, stepping forward to prod her mortified daughter.

  Frankie groaned and flung her head in her hands.

  ‘Frankston Rose! Why didn’t you tell me you kissed such a good-looking man? Does he want children?’

  Frankie glowered at her mother.

  ‘Well, does he?’ Putu smiled cheekily.

  Cat stifled a laugh as Seb nervously patted the vial just visible in his pocket.

  ‘I’m so sorry about this, Sunny. Everyone is in a bit of a weird mood today,’ Frankie said, turning to face him again. But Sunny was nowhere to be found. ‘Where’d he go?’

  ‘I didn’t see.’ Cat shrugged apologetically.

  ‘He ran out at the mention of a nuclear family. What a loser, Frank. He thinks Veronica Roth should’ve won a Man Booker? You’re better off without him,’ Seb sniggered.

  Frankie inhaled deeply, then turned to her mother and best friends. ‘Out! Everybody out! I’ve had enough. Why can’t any of you just be normal for one bloody minute?’ Frankie yelled. Seb, Putu and Cat stared back at her in stunned silence.

  ‘But—’ Putu protested.

  ‘Putu, Seb, let’s go.’ Cat grabbed them both by the arm and they scuttled out of the bookstore, the bell of the front door calling out after them.

  Frankie sighed. The bookstore was empty. All she could hear was the gentle purr of the air conditioner. She tilted her head, gazing at the beautifully coloured books lining the shelves in front of her, and exhaled. Fitzwilliam Darcy, Mark Antony, George Emerson, Edmond Dantès, Prince Charming. She was surrounded by these poetic heartthrobs every single day. Maybe that should be enough for her? Maybe she was only destined to be in love with literary leads? Frankie picked up Northanger Abbey, which she had left lying next to the Eftpos machine, ready to return to cheeky, yet adorable, Henry Tilney, when something fell out of the book and fluttered to the floor. Frankie picked it up. It was a bookmark, and in fine blue scribble it read:

  Frankie, let’s book in a more private date. 0455 718 281 – Sunny

  Frankie couldn’t hide her smile as she held the bookmark to her chest.

  Frankie: Hey, it’s Frankie :)

  Sunny: Hey, it’s Sunny :)

  Frankie: Sorry about before … My friends and family are nuts. Completely, utterly bonkers.

  Sunny: I love bonkers. Much better than boring.

  Frankie: Ha. So, about that date …

  Sunny: Yes, let’s get down to business. Are you free Saturday night at 8? I’ll pick you up.

  Frankie: I am indeed. 8/12 Bell Street, Richmond. Where are we going?

  Sunny: ‘Time will explain …’

  Frankie: A Jane Austen quote?!

  Sunny: Yep, I googled it. Still never read a thing by the so-called author.

  Frankie: All in good time. See you Saturday, Mr Sunny.

  Frankie: PS Katniss Everdeen is a Thomas Hardy tribute, did you know? (I googled that one for you.)

  Sunny: LOVE The Hunger Games.

  An hour later the front door to the bookstore was flung open and Cat tiptoed in, her red hair a crazy mess on top of her head. She stood behind Frankie’s chair, wrapping her arms around Frankie’s shoulders in a tender embrace.

  ‘I’m sorry, Frank,’ she said. ‘Sorry we scared Sunny away. But you were right. He is John Knightley, Mr Darcy and Edmund Bertram all blended into one.’

  ‘You didn’t scare him away.’ Frankie smiled
, sliding her phone towards her.

  ‘Oh my God,’ breathed Cat as she skimmed the messages. ‘You’re going on a date with that handsome man? You’re going on a date! You’re going on a date! You’re going on a date!’ she chanted, jumping up and down.

  Frankie leapt up from her seat and took Cat’s hands. ‘I’m going on a date! I’m going on a date! I’m going on a date!’ she joined in, bouncing up and down with her friend.

  ‘And don’t you have a date with that yummy-sounding Brit tomorrow night?’

  ‘I sure do. Just call me Madame Bovary,’ Frankie gushed.

  ‘You’re on fire, girlfriend! You know what you should do now?’ Cat said, breathlessly.

  Frankie looked at Cat, wide-eyed.

  ‘Write! Something more than your blog. A new novel. You’re always waiting for that spark. And look at you, you’re glowing.’ Cat grabbed Frankie’s cheeks between her hands, squeezing them affectionately.

  ‘No, I can’t,’ Frankie said, nudging Cat’s hands away.

  ‘Do it, Frank. You’re a brilliant writer, and we all know it. Don’t worry about the reviews, don’t worry about any of it. Just get back into it and show them what you’re made of. There’s no harm in trying.’

  ‘Should I?’ Frankie asked tentatively.

  ‘Yes! The bookstore is literally a graveyard right now. Grab this, go out to Stagger Lee’s and start bloody writing,’ Cat demanded, unzipping Frankie’s bag and taking out her laptop.

  ‘Okay. Okay!’ Frankie laughed as Cat thrust the computer against her chest. ‘Yes, I’m going! I’m going!’ she added excitedly.

  ‘So long, Madame Bovary!’ Cat called after her.

  ‘Thanks, Cat. For everything. I love you.’ Frankie blew a kiss as she skipped out of the bookstore.

  Okay, writing, writing, writing, Frankie thought, staring at the blinking cursor on the blank computer screen. She was sitting in a corner of her favourite Brunswick Street cafe. She loved it because the baristas were lovely, the coffee was bloody excellent and it was relatively quiet. Though recently, like the fate of any good cafe on Brunswick Street, it had begun swarming with hipsters in tight jeans and scraggly beards. Frankie took a bite of her avocado toast, dropping crumbs on her white jeans.

  ‘Another coffee?’ a shaved-headed waiter asked, his lip piercing twinkling in the light.

  ‘No, thank you. This was my fourth today. I think I’ve just about overdosed,’ Frankie said.

  ‘Have you tried our beetroot latte? It’s delicious and caffeine-free.’

  ‘Caffeine-free? What’s the point?’ Frankie laughed.

  ‘Trust me, you’ll love it.’ The waiter winked.

  ‘You know what? Why not! One beetroot latte, please.’

  ‘Coming right up!’

  Okay, Frank, she schooled herself, back to it. If you can write some piffle in a blog, surely you can get through a chapter of a book.

  ‘Here you go!’ The waiter reappeared, cheerily placing a steaming cup of red frothy liquid in front of her.

  ‘Wow. That’s bright.’

  He smiled, waiting for her to sample his offering.

  Frankie took a small, hesitant sip. ‘That is delicious,’ she said, savouring the refreshingly sweet liquid. ‘I can practically taste the antioxidants.’

  ‘What did I tell you!’ The waiter sashayed off to hand a man a long black and fruit toast.

  Okay, back to writing. Back to writing. Frank, you can do this. She closed her eyes and inhaled, waiting for creativity to strike, but mostly the thoughts that came were reminders of why she had let her writing go. Just a couple of years ago she was living her dream: a published writer in a long-term relationship with the love of her life. Then it all fell apart, piece by piece. She hadn’t written since her second book received the worst possible reviews of all time and her editor, Marie, had stopped returning her calls. She loved working at the bookstore with Cat, but sometimes she feared that it was all there would ever be to her life. Her mind floated back to what it had felt like to first be offered a book contract with Simon & Schuster. Pure, unadultered joy. She wanted that feeling back. More than anything.

  Which is why now, for the first time, she was trying to open up; to give life, love and writing another shot. It was true, she was afraid to start writing again. She was scared that she was a terrible writer, just like the reviews had said. But today was all about starting fresh, about turning a new page.

  Frankie placed her hands delicately on the keyboard, wiggling her fingers over the letters. Okay, just start, Frankie. What would Jane do? She typed: Today was the first day that Evie had really lived. Frankie smiled. It was no ‘It is a truth universally acknowledged,’ but it was a good start. I can work with this. She placed her hands back on the keyboard, ready to continue, but somehow found herself opening Facebook. Just for a moment. Just to see what everyone else was up to.

  Baby photo.

  Dog photo.

  Bride and groom photo.

  Political rant.

  Dog photo.

  ‘What’s your flow? A five-minute quiz to find out what sort of period you have.’

  Ooh, thought Frankie as she clicked into the quiz. It only takes five minutes! What’s the harm in that? The cursor hovered over the link. But back to the book, she told herself, straight after this. She took another sip of her pungent beetroot latte and cupped the hot drink in her hand, using the other to click through a series of menstruation-related questions.

  ‘Three tampons a day,’ muttered Frankie, flicking through the questions briskly, one by one.

  ‘Fetal position.’

  ‘Cramps.’

  ‘Maxi pad.’

  Frankie clicked submit on the quiz, waiting for her period type to promptly pop up. Oh, the wonders of technology! A flashing answer appeared in the middle of the screen.

  ‘Heavy period? Heavy period my arse!’ Frankie said a little too loudly, leaping up and spilling her bright red latte all over her white jeans. Frankie yelped, feeling the burn of the hot liquid seep through her pants. She grabbed a serviette and tried to dab her jeans, but this only spread the bright red liquid more. A snigger from across the room dragged her attention away and she noticed two schoolgirls, covering their mouths and laughing, tears streaming down their faces. They both held phones in Frankie’s direction.

  ‘Hey! Hey!’ Frankie shouted. ‘Are you filming me?’ The girls continued to laugh, phones unmoving.

  ‘Stop it!’ Frankie shouted. The girls kept chuckling, not reacting to her in the slightest. Frankie groaned. She grabbed her laptop and bag and stormed out of the cafe, forgetting to pay for the stupid beetroot latte.

  —9—

  * * *

  Senselessness and Insensitivity

  * * *

  Once again, it was one of those dates that just read oh so well on paper.

  Architect. Tick!

  Volunteers in spare time. Tick!

  Loves dogs. Tick!

  Promise of an accent. Tick! Tick!

  Having recently relocated from Oxford (A British accent? All hail the Queen!) this date had ‘exotically debonair’ written all over it. Could it be that a seemingly mature, ethically minded and pooch-loving bachelor had stumbled across one of my literary train-trotters? Thank the Lord, George Wickham, maybe there was a dating god after all!

  So, optimistic, but totally-not-invested, I braved the date armed with an effortlessly cool ‘no make-up’ make-up and just a dash of Jane Austen swagger. I arrived at the bar a few minutes early and, as arranged, placed my well-loved copy of Sense and Sensibility on the table.

  After a few non-Ashleys sauntered past my post, I was kept occupied by a couple of flirtatious nods from a Roger-Federer-circa-2014-cum-Jamie-Fraser lookalike (talk about a Grand Slam) sitting across the room. Man, was I feeling good.

  Until this happened.

  A petite-framed woman draped in purple velvet and chunky resin beads slithered into the seat opposite me. And it went a little like this: r />
  ‘You must be Frankie,’ she purred with an unmistakable British lilt.

  ‘Sorry, you must have the wrong person. I’m actually waiting for a friend,’ I replied, a little too defensively.

  ‘Ashley? Sorry I’m late.’

  I was all, This cannot be happening!

  It turns out Ashley is an architect, volunteer, dog-lover, dyed-in-the-wool Austen tragic from Oxford. It also turns out that Ashley is a lesbian.

  I spent the next hour and a half sidestepping the elephant in the room. How was I going to break it to her that, as much as I might have once tried to become a lesbian in 2009 after swearing off men post a particularly traumatic second date with a frisky barista, I would never be hot under the collar for this lithe English rose?

  In a bid to distract her from my feminine allure, I steered the conversation towards neutral, totally non-romantic topics. During our time together we covered:

  The gas crisis of 1998.

  Michael Jackson’s death.

  Bookmarks versus The Dog-ear.

  The royal wedding.

  Moby Dick.

  Man buns.

  Not even recounting the story about how I once didn’t shower for two whole weeks seemed to repulse her. I could feel her feet slowly encroaching towards my side of the dusty floorboards. (Have I mentioned my foot phobia?) ‘Do you think Michael Jackson really was a paedophile?’ Her hand delicately grazed my knee. ‘And how about that Kate, doing her own make-up!’ I felt her squeeze my thigh. Damn it, I was utterly beguiling! Where had this newfound allure come from? While Ashley was lovely and engaging and oh-so-well-read, she was unfortunately not my type and I decided it wouldn’t be fair to lead her on any more.

  So, with a subtle daintiness, I found myself suddenly and uncontrollably blurting out, ‘I LOVE DICK!’

  So, one humiliating drink in the face later, it’s back to the tracks for me. Stay tuned for another bumpy edition of ‘How I managed to derail my love life and alienate perfectly good people’ soon.

  Until next time, my dears.