She paused. It felt important to describe the inside of the shop and her dream for it: the books, naturally, plus the mellow music, the low lighting, the coffee and cakes and art on the walls. ‘I want to open a bookshop, Mark. A bookshop that only sells … cookbooks.’
He blinked slowly at her. ‘What? Is this a joke, Dell?’
‘No, it’s not a joke. Look, I know we can’t keep Mum’s books. They’re always toppling over, scattering all over the floor …’
‘Ah, so you’ve noticed,’ he remarked dryly.
‘And it’d be amazing,’ she charged on. ‘The sort of place where people would want to hang around and browse for hours.’
‘So that’s your business model, is it?’ He chuckled infuriatingly. ‘It’s pretty flawed, darling. It’s just not viable. Browsing doesn’t put any money in the till.’
‘No, no, listen. What I mean is, it’d draw people in. It would be like a cosy living room full of, oh, I don’t know … ideas and memories and inspiration.’ Aware of him staring at her, as if anticipating a punchline, Della pulled out the Recipe Sharing Society memo from her pyjama pocket.
‘Right, so cooking with lard and dripping and refined sugar, that’s really what people want these days, is it? Inspiration for heart disease and type-2 diabetes.’
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