How To Choose a Sweetheart by Nigel Bird Page A

his till-code and then crouches behind the counter in the pretence that he’s looking for something.
    A familiar voice interrupts him. 
    “Excuse me. Do you know the way to the Statue of Liberty?” It’s Cath.
    He’s so happy to hear her that he pops up from behind the counter like a slice of toast. Then he remembers the state he’s in and holds his breath to try and stop the flow of alcohol fumes from polluting the immediate area.
    “Looks like you had a good time after you left yesterday.” There’s nothing accusatory in her voice, but he feels the need to clear things up.
    “You should see the other guy.” Max points up to the first floor and nods in the hope that she’ll understand. “I had a better time before I left, thank you. At least Alice was only pretending to be a monster.”
    “She’s been howling non-stop since you were there.”
    “It’s good that she’s been practicing.” His hangover seems lighter all of a sudden. It’s a miracle.
    “And last night I just couldn’t get her to go to sleep. She insisted I tell her a story about a flower and a prince.”
    “God, I’m sorry about that,” not that he’s sorry in the slightest.
    “Well I’m not,” which makes things even better. “I haven’t seen her like this since my father died. It’s like she’s learning to be a child again.
    The idea makes Max warm on the inside, like he’s done something good for humanity. “We all need that every once in a while.”
    “She even wanted to go and visit a friend this morning to show off her piano book.”
    “That does sound encouraging,” and it does, it really does. The only thing is he’s not a piano teacher and he’s not being honest. The hangover descends once more and he feels his nervous system wake up to the pain.
    “You bet. And it leaves me with some time on my hands and I thought you might be able to recommend something. It’s an age since I felt like I had the time to read anything, and seeing that you work in a bookshop I thought...”
    “I don’t really read that much to be honest. I’m not the best person to ask.” It’s not that he doesn’t want to help, he’s just nervous that he’ll touch things and shatter the beauty that has been created.
    “I’m asking you anyway. Anything will do.”
    “Then I’ll go and grab you something. Won’t be a sec.”
    Max walks casually up the stairs until he’s almost out of sight, then he runs. He rushes over to the back till. Chris appears to be flirting with Amelie in spite of her leanings.
    “I need a book quick. Something for a woman. Something that will impress. Make me seem intelligent.”
    “Don’t be daft. I can’t work miracles.”
    “Come on. It’s important.”
    “Poor bloke, he’s in love.”
    “And about time too,” Amelie chips in.
    “Then help me out here, will you?”
    Amelie always likes to play Cupid. “Don’t you understand anything?  If she wants you to choose a book, she might just be hoping to find something out about you, get a handle on who you are.”
    “You think?” It does make sense in a fuzzy logic kind of way.
    “Yes I do.”
    “I don’t think the Beano will give you much of a start though,” Chris says.
    Amelie’s elbow launches itself into Chris’s ribs and lands with a dull thud. “Shut up Chris. How about that Paul Auster?  I’ve never heard you talk so much about a book.”
    “Or one of your detectives.”
    “Or The Count of Monte Cristo.”
    The Count. Romantic and gripping and literary. It could be a winner. And they could talk about it afterwards. “Now there’s an idea. Great, thanks guys.”
    Max reaches over, takes each of them and squeezes. He turns and runs downstairs with his brain fizzing. When he gets to the bottom and within range of Trunchball, he walks with an exaggerated calm. He goes over to the fiction section, scans the shelf, finds the Dumas and pulls out The Count. Cath’s waiting patiently at the till, looking through the rack of cards