Bitter Betty and the ill-fated literary love

Inadvertent love in the dusty aisles?

I always flirt with men who work in bookshops. I don’t know why, they just seem to have an air of artsy intellectualism and a whiff of “good guy” about them. Today I was buying a book for the egocentric artist I am not supposed to be seeing. It’s a tough job. He is a bit of a literary snob, and I wouldn’t want to come across as daft in my choice of gift.

So I established an alliance with the shop assistant, who seemed like the same sort of type—long hair, stubble, skinny jeans and the kind of eyes that look as deep as a thousand novels. He had clearly had a long night out, so I figured he needed a smile and some friendly attention to get his backside off his chair. But then he devoted an entire half hour to finding the ideal present for my man. We found a perfect book about the art history of my artist’s neighbourhood. I persuaded the shop assistant to make some phone calls to get a first edition from his local supplier. We spoke about the neighbourhood, the artists and the poetry club the shop assistant frequented. I talked my way into a discount.

So far so good. But a surprise awaited me when I was walking home with my present and a bundle of grocery bags an hour later. I had turned around to look at a squirrel when I saw the shop assistant running towards me from afar. Panting and sweating, he reached me and asked if I wanted to go for a drink with him sometime.

As I watched him try to regain his breath, I realised that I wasn’t attracted to him in the slightest. Outside, in daylight and with no books around him, he was just an ordinary guy that I didn’t fancy—and unfortunately for me, one who was standing in front of me, searching my face for a hint of mutual affection and waiting for me to say something. I felt bad. Maybe he had wanted to say something in the shop, but felt too scared. Maybe he had just tried to be professional. Surely, he had had to ask his boss before chasing after me. Presumably, his boss and everyone else would be waiting for a verdict upon his return.

There was no way around it, so I lied and said I had a boyfriend. A little exaggeration doesn’t hurt. Hopefully, this “boyfriend” will like the well-chosen, literary piece of first-edition snobbery that the shop assistant dug out for him. I wonder if my shop assistant would have been this helpful if he had known who the book was for.