Cecile Chicken runs a second-hand bookshop just off Charing Cross Road, specialising in rare dust jackets and misprinted editions.
Her most loyal customer is Audrey Hootsoftly. The two bonded over their mutual appreciation for moth-eaten mystery novels.
She wears little glasses and taps the till with precision – but don’t ask about the card payments. She’s firmly old-school (and fax machines still baffle her).
