Chapter 11
T he nice lady had brought them treacle tart and, stuffed to the gills, they had retired with coffee beside the fire, nattering away about other things – this and that, quite a lot about overbearing families, as it happened, and what they thought was going to happen at Christmas time. It was odd, Theo found himself thinking. Although he was theoretically meant to tail this person and then get the book off her, he couldn’t help liking her. She was funny, and frank, and had an infectious laugh.
Mirren, for her part, couldn’t help thinking that the rather pallid, posh-looking chap she’d first glimpsed when she arrived was, once you got to know him, rather chatty and fun, and his pale skin and dark eyes gave him a slightly vampiric aspect – particularly in the firelight – that she didn’t mind at all; in fact, she found it rather attractive. Also, the dog liked him and was lying under his hand as he stroked it gently. This was a big point in his favour. Even though dogs liked everyone, so this was not rational thinking. Well, unless it proved he wasn’t a real vampire.
As she talked about her mother, and he talked about his grumpy uncle, and how he couldn’t do anything about it as long as he had a place to live, they found themselves getting deep and personal and sharing more than they might have done had they not been the only two people in there, on a filthy night in front of a blazing fire, a long way from home.
Finally, the receptionist announced she was closing up. Mirren got up. There was a moment ... just a tiny moment, in the quiet crackle of the fireplace and the rain drumming on the roof ... where she almost thought ... maybe? Why not? She held his gaze and he looked back at her, looking amused. But then he jumped to his feet, made a polite bow and said, ‘Madam. A true pleasure to make your acquaintance.’
I do not , Theo thought to himself, need to complicate this any further . But he had very much liked making her smile.
The following morning, the rain had cleared, and the day was bright and sunny with a hint of frost. Mirren woke feeling surprisingly clear-headed, given the wine and the gin and tonic, and happy to see the frosty light through the mullioned window. She had slept excellently, and did her hair carefully before creeping down for a superb breakfast of Welsh cakes, porridge with syrup and local sausages and bacon. Sadly, there was no sign of the man she’d met the previous evening. It occurred to her that she barely knew him and they hadn’t swapped social media handles. She’d just assumed she’d see him again that morning, and was amazed by how deflated she felt. It had been a long time since she’d had a proper conversation with someone that had arisen naturally. Her colleagues and flatmates had tried to encourage her back out there with internet dating, but she’d had a couple of stilted conversations on dating apps and one awkward date where she spent the night half falling off an uncomfortable stool at an overpriced wine bar with smirking waiters, and had decided she wasn’t ready.
Oh well. She had a job to do, she supposed, so she finished her coffee and headed out. There were dozens of bookshops here and she had to at least start asking and stop being intimidated, even by the owner at one bookshop who had folded his arms and looked at her every time she dared to go past a shelf without buying something immediately.
She got very good at looking for a red hardback. She even got braver at asking booksellers for everything they had by Stevenson, every copy they had; asking if they’d ever heard of it. Most of them just stared at her. One, a particularly round elderly gentleman, laughed heartily, tucking his hands into his waistcoat pockets like a cheerful mole, and said, ‘Ah, the Beardsley brief! I haven’t heard that old chestnut for years! It’s up there with Cardenio !’
‘Well,’ said Mirren defiantly, ‘my great-aunt remembers it. She held it in her hands.’
‘And how old is she now?’
‘Ninety,’ said Mirren, shrugging.
‘Hmm. Well, I’m sure she saw the Charles Robinson ...’
‘It wasn’t the Charles Robinson,’ said Mirren firmly, for the ninth time.
Then the old man did a very curious thing. He glanced around the room – it was a very cold Tuesday in early December, they weren’t remotely busy – and said, very quietly, ‘If it’s real ... if it’s real, it’s worth its weight in gold, you understand? You would have to guard it with your life.’
‘It’s a book,’ protested Mirren.
‘Books change the world,’ said the old man, blinking behind his spectacles.
This gave Mirren pause. She had, honestly, been thinking throughout the day, as she passed so many thousands of tomes, so many blank faces, that this was both a terrible waste of her annual leave and not at all helpful to Violet, not really; she needed care and nursing, not indulging in wild goose chases.
Then she remembered how Violet had begged, and looked again at the expression on the bookseller’s face, and she vowed to herself that she would carry on.
‘Books ARE the world,’ said the old man. ‘Be very careful.’