Chapter 4
M irren assumed this would be a matter of internet sleuthing, which she was rather looking forward to. But she found there was almost nothing more written on the matter. She dived down a few rare book rabbit holes, but their definition of rare books generally centred quite a lot around Mein Kampf and various old witchcraft and pornography titles, so she didn’t stay very long.
She also wondered how on earth she could find out where Violet’s mother would have sold the book. Did she even know that she had something quite precious on her hands? Where would she have taken it? They lived in London; would she have gone to a book dealer? There used to be so many, on Charing Cross Road, but they had mostly all gone now, turned into coffee shops just like everywhere else.
Mirren chose the ‘premier antiquarian bookshop in Europe’, in Kensington, and decided to go in and have a look, not wanting to phone – who does that? – and also she feared feeling like a total idiot if they had never heard of it or thought she was being stupid. Her plan was to just wander in after work on Monday and have a look round, then leave.
After a quiet weekend, and an equally quiet Monday, Mirren finished early, at 4 p.m., and marched up the wide high street. The weather was getting cold – cold enough for boots – and there were posh lights hanging all the way up the high street, big shiny chandeliers. Not like the tacky balls and sponsored illuminations on Oxford Street. These were proper lovely lights, pale whites and yellows sparkling in the early evening gloom. Designer shops displayed tiny expensive handbags surrounded by twinkling lights, and thick nests of fir tree branches covered in snow, with sparkling jewellery or oversized watches. In one, beautiful little stuffed birds were casting beady eyes over glistening bracelets on realistic frosty twigs.
The people walking by – mostly women – were incredible. Beautiful, long-limbed, fresh-faced. Even in early December, some had bare tanned legs that obviously weren’t outside in the cold for long enough to get remotely goose-bumped. Others wore white jeans and big furry gilets – with real fur? Surely not. And high ponytails and seemingly unnecessary sunglasses and everyone was blonde and about nine feet tall as they clopped past her on wedge trainers. Mirren, with her hard-to-tame curly mop and Next suit, felt very small and suburban among them.
Finally, Mirren reached the shop she was after. It was painted a dark green, with Palliser those that were there were big and heavy, without prices. Mirren pushed on the door before realising, feeling foolish, that you couldn’t just walk into this shop. You needed to ring a little bell, presumably so they could come down and inspect you first. Suddenly feeling nervous, she pressed the button.