Tea in the Library (34 page)

Dismantling Tea In The Library was not a quick or simple task.

The first step was to advise the sorry and depleted Team In The Library, all of whom would lose their jobs (unlike me). In consultation with Kate and Damien, we chose a date: the Thursday before Good Friday, in March. This gave us about six weeks to process returns to the publishers, hold a fire sale, and let the young waitresses have a chance to find new jobs.

I don't think the decision came as a surprise to any of them, though the situation was more stressful for some than for others. Young Catherine, our little waitress, was basically supporting her equally-young husband as he completed his degree at the tender age of twenty. Kate helped her look for new work. Kate herself was facing a big change in her life: she had accepted a proposal of marriage from her Michelin-star chef boyfriend in the UK, and would be heading off for London soon. Bea The Fall Of Stars, bless her, decided in her calm way that the time had come to drift north to a commune to paint flowers, study crystals, and give lovely massages. Damien and Simone had other jobs lined up pretty quickly, though Damien generously worked on well past his notice date to help with the book returns. The chef moved on as chefs do
—
I know not where. Emma came back from her travels for a time and spent a few weeks getting the returns finalised
—
thank goodness, or we'd still be there.

Paul was perhaps left highest and driest. Although he needed only part-time work, he went without for about three months after we closed (more of Paul's future career later).

We also had to notify our customers, and an email announcement was sent to all those on our database, plus of course word of mouth quickly spread the news. We had many people expressing regret, sor-row, chagrin
—
a gamut of feelings. One of our regular customers was Judy, an American-born entertainer who had managed to spend a lot of time at the shop, despite appearing in a musical stage show on a long run in Sydney at the time. Judy came up to me at one of our last events, quite distraught, and asking what “they” (loyal customers of Tea In The Library) could
do
. Possibly she had heard rumours of the signage fiasco from the staff, because she offered to “petition City Hall”, which was very touching. Indeed, Judy was absolutely passionate about trying anything at all to keep us open (without knowing the full story of course
—
it was only I who knew it all).

By dint of a lot of hard work, we were able to return a substantial quantity of the book stock to publishers, who gave us credit (to offset bills owing). The publishers were helpful and professional about this process. (All but one, that is, which had a policy of “no refunds” and which is still sending me credit notes for $270 even today. They offered to give me the value in books, but as I explained to them, I had quite enough books!) The accounting was rather a nightmare, but got through. That left about 2,000 volumes remaining
—
an eclectic selection, too. Not too many duplicate titles
—
a lot of biography and history. We had, as soon as the decision to close had been made, put up our infamous “20% discount” signs, and sold whatever we could. Right at the end, I invited all my friends and colleagues down one evening to pick over the remains at 50% off. I went through the stock and took home anything I might ever want to read or give away as a gift (one tall bookcase full, as it turned out). That left about 1,200 books.

Paul had packed them in boxes. We thought they might have to go to a remainderer for $1 a book. But I was trying to sell them to another bookseller, so one day I went to the now-closed shop, and all alone, I re-shelved them all. I used the shelves around the fireplace. The chesterfields were still in place; the Tea In The Library lamp was on the mantle. That corner of the shop was re-created in its former image.

When he saw it, Paul called it “Haversham's Bookshop”
—
a fitting literary epitaph, I thought. We laughed, as we so often had.

The dear supporters from Abbeys came to rescue the books. They took them all as a job-lot for a very fair sum. Possibly quite a few ended up on their annual sale table, but I hope they made some money on the deal. It was a generous gesture, more to my benefit than theirs.

As to the kitchen and café equipment, it was sold off piecemeal at first, through ads I ran in the classifieds. I managed to get a fair price for the coffee machine
—
it went to a (very) young couple who were setting up a hole in the wall café in the city. I was glad to see it go to a good home. A chap named Louis, whose wife was a bookseller at Adyar, bought quite a bit of café equipment and furniture, including a refrigerator. He had a café at Cammeray. I am a lousy bargainer, and the things went very cheaply, but what was the choice? Louis gave me a bottle of red wine at the end. We became quite chummy, as he kept returning for more bargains. The gas cooker, commercial dishwasher and another fridge were sold for fair prices. Some of the furniture was purchased fairly. The rest of it went to an auction house where it fetched almost nothing, barely covering the cost of transporting it to the auction warehouse. The upshot was that about $20,000 was raised, to offset against the remaining debts from the fitout of about $260,000.

So far I haven't mentioned the lease
—
the heartbreaking predicament of being in a “distress sale” position, with no bargaining chips and everything in favour of the other party. But the lease was, in the end, assigned: to an antiquarian bookshop. At this stage, I turned to Peter for help
—
the consultant who worked with Keith and Sandy. Peter was experienced in negotiating retail leases, and could see the pitfalls and understand what the objectives should be. He was a great help to me in negotiating the lease assignment, although I was dragged kicking and screaming all the way, as the saying goes.

Once it was known that we were closing, we had several enquiries from people interested in taking over the lease, of which there was 18 months still to run. It was financially imperative that I assign the lease, if at all possible, otherwise I'd have a $10,000 per month outlay for an empty shop, plus the obligation to “make good” the premises at the end of the lease – i.e. rip out all the fittings and return the premises to its pre-bookshop state (completely empty).

Peter took over the task of contacting and “vetting” the various offers that came along. Some were more viable than others, but they all had one thing in common: an unwillingness to pay the level of rent that I had contracted for.

The antiquarians emerged as the only possible option. The two ladies who owned the business had been in the trade for about twelve years
—
indeed, in a curious full circle, it was the same business that our first bookseller Louise had part-owned at one time! So they had experience, a track record, and a customer base, which all helped to make them an acceptable alternative to the landlord, whose agreement was needed. In the upshot, they took over the lease at a reduced percentage of the rent, and I paid the difference for the remaining term of the lease in a lump sum to the landlord. Since it was a full assignment all obligations moved to the new lessee, and they entered a fresh agreement with the landlord. I was out of it.

The distinguishing feature here was that Craig, the landlord's agent, very quickly dropped the “Mr. Nice Guy” persona. I was stuck for every dollar they could think of, such as thousands for the agent's services, unexpectedly high “outgoings”, etc. When another particularly outrageous bill or dodgy document (“just sign here”) would come along, I would lose my temper and the whole process would grind to a halt. But eventually, with Peter's careful guidance and my solicitor's watchful eye, we negotiated, paid up, and I was out from under.

By far the most distressing and humiliating part of the process was the list of “extras” that the antiquarians wanted added into the deal for nominal sums or in some cases for nothing. To have them take the lease off my hands, which was the focus and main objective, I was obliged to agree to this virtual larceny. This is the meaning of “distress sale”
—
and I learnt that it is way preferable to be the lucky person buying, not the poor idiot selling.

In the end, they paid less than 10% of the original cost for the entire bookshop fitout, including all those expensive shelves, carpeting, lighting, office fitout, a five computer network, safe, filing cabinets, front counter, audio, alarm and security systems. They kept asking for little additional things
—
the mirror over the fireplace, the small coffee tables. It was as if my shop was there to be picked over like scavengers at a carcass
—
which of course it was. At times I was so angry and frustrated
—
with myself at the failures which had got me here and at all the people out to exploit me
—
that I seriously considered calling off the whole deal, just out of spite. Indeed, long delays occurred. It was a close-run thing. I dreamt daydreams about keeping the shop and doing something with it myself. I spent quite a lot of time in the empty shop, as I met potential buyers of café equipment and attended to myriad chores. Peter gently but insistently reminded me of the dire consequences if I didn't off-load that lease, and slowly sanity prevailed
—
through gritted teeth. They didn't move in until several months after we closed.

We had to close down our web site, and remove Tea In The Library's name and logo from the premises. I insisted that none of the intellectual property was in the deal. When they asked for the two “Logo” lamps, I refused point blank.

The fireplace was one thing that they didn't want (even for free), so I had to have that disconnected and dismantled. I also ended up taking home the two chesterfields, after refusing to sell them for a song, although there were greedy people who tried to get me to do that. They look fine in my house!

If you visited the shop after the antiquarians took over, you might have thought that Tea In The Library was still alive, since it looked very similar at a casual glance, the colours and shelving all the same, and the front counter the same. Some old customers of ours told me that they wandered in and wondered where the café tables had gone. The antiquarian signage was low-key
—
good luck to them with that! But most spooky was that Paul took up part-time work there, so you could look into the shop and see his smiley face and long grey ponytail and have a déjà vu moment. I met him in the street outside one day, and asked how it was going. He said it felt much the same as before, but the coffee wasn't as good. I expect he missed his chai latte.

The antiquarians participated in the Sydney Book Quarter, and everyday I walked past their shop and every time I glanced in, or looked up at the trompe. But one year later I still hadn't been able to bring myself to step inside.

Later that year …

One day I walked by the antiquarian bookshop, glancing up at the trompe as usual, but there was a new element in the landscape 
—
a “For Lease” sign board, with Craig the leasing agent's details on it. So
—
the antiquarians had decided not to renew the lease past the end of the month. Was it the high rent, the basement location or the whiffy Ladies? Whatever the reason, their “Sale” signs indicated that if I were ever to venture into the bookshop one last time, it had better be done soon
—
there was barely a week of trading left.

Still unaccountably experiencing a bit of overwhelm at the thought of re-visiting Tea In The Library (because it still looked the same, really) I inveigled a friend or two to accompany me. As it turned out, the week wound to a close and still we hadn't met up to make the expedition down the steps. So late on the afternoon of the very last day of trading for the shop, I pulled myself together and ventured down. As I had imagined, it was like stepping back into the hey day of Tea In The Library. The books were old, the café tables were absent, and the Lamp Logo had been scratched off the blackboards behind the front counter, but it looked and felt so similar. Mixed feelings swirled about. I investigated all corners of the shop, noting the addition of a lot of extra shelves and display cases; that the absence of the fireplace left a rather ugly space, despite being filled with a shelf; that there was a sign saying “More Books This Way” with an arrow pointing into the erstwhile kitchen. The once-was-kitchen space was filled with more shelves, and the stainless steel bench where so many duck rolls had once been made was now a workbench for covering precious volumes with archival plastic. There were two other customers browsing, and a “For Sale” sign ($250) on the wall mirror that had hung over the fireplace.