Every Bookshop Needs a Cat (Fleckney Fields Series, Book 2)

Yolanda vs James

It was only when she saw Varya, she realised how scared she'd been. Anya rushed to the girl and leaned to Varya. Worried Russian squawking poured out of her.

"Варя, ты куда делась? У меня чуть сердце не разорвалось!"

It had been ages since she unconsciously started speaking the language. Last time, she'd been severely sleep deprived and in the middle of her divorce. She'd been working in the deli already, and she'd started slumping on the ground, and apparently she'd tried to tell a customer that she was fainting, and it came out in her native tongue. Admittedly, this time she'd also had a rough couple of weeks. Months? Years? Decades? To think of it, when was the last time when life wasn't 'rough?'

Then she remembered that Varya's Russian vocabulary was limited to naming a few dishes and exclamations such as 'Боже мой!' which she used exclusively to mimic and tease Anya.

"Varya, what were you thinking?!" Anya switched to English. "I looked away for one second, and you weren't there!"

"Persimmon ran away," Varya said defensively. "And also, I found you a job. Yolanda wants to hire you to work in her bookshop," she added, this time with pride in her voice, and pointed at one of the women standing nearby.

"I do," the one with magenta hair said. She had a beautiful Spanish accent. "But only if you bring Persimmon with you to work."

Anya slowly rose. "I'm sorry, I don't understand."

"Mum, but you need the job! How are we going to pay that man from the woods?" Varya said and bumped her shoulder into Anya's arm. "He was so scary," Varya addressed the second woman. "I just needed to get Persimmon out, so I climbed into the window, and Persimmon started running around, and pushing things off the shelves, and apparently we broke some very expensive things, and I spilled paint on his painting. It was on the floor! Who puts a painting on the floor?! And he screamed, and it was so scary! And he had yellow eyes! I've never seen a man with yellow eyes!"

"Wait, what do you mean by 'yellow eyes?'" the redhead asked.

She was posh, put together, and possibly one of the most attractive women Anya had ever seen before. Anya was immediately reminded of Leslie Caron, her father's favourite classic French actor - and not just because the redhead had the same unique shape of a mouth. There was the same air about her: the mixture of sophisticated coldness and underlying sensuality. Anya's father always said that only French women could truly possess both. The redhead looked unwell, though: pale and exhausted. Suddenly a mobile rang in her stylish handbag, and she excused herself.

"So, what is your name?" the second woman asked, and Anya turned to her.

"I'm Anya. Anya Rosenfeld," she said.

"Not Ferguson, ¿neta?" The woman laughed. "Fair enough. So, Anya Rosenfeld, will you work in my shop? You see, I know you will, but you, of course, need to consent." She gave out a throaty chuckle. "I'm Yolanda Roel. Your little one here– Varya, was it? What are your pronouns, Varya?" she asked.

"She, her," the girl answered confidently.

Anya threw her a surprised look. It was easy to forget that Varya wasn't a baby anymore, probably because Anya didn't see her interacting socially and being an independent being enough. Having moved to Fleckney, they virtually spent more time together than they had in the past few years, since, before, Anya had been working pretty much around the clock.

"Varya told me that you live at your brother-in-law's farm, on the Bjornsson's land, if I remember the local geography correctly. And you're looking for a job," the one called Yolanda said. "So, what do you need to agree? A reference? That's Dr. Viola Holyoake there." She pointed at the redhead who was frowning, listening to someone on the other end of the line. "She's Rhys 'Wanker' Holyoake's ex, if this helps. Shouldn't that make my offer sound legit?"