Chapter 17
T heo seemed muted when he came back from his phone call, Mirren thought. And she was tired too. They should call it a night. As she stood up, though, she realised that for the first time in a long time – through the days of that awful spring, the endless hours spent sobbing and begging the holiday company, the relentlessness of work, her mother’s general low-level disappointment, then poor Violet getting sick – it felt like she was having a good time. She walked, a little unsteadily, into the lobby. A second huge, elegantly narrow Christmas tree stretched up through the winding staircase, decorated entirely in silver and glass, which made it look modern and glittering, like an ice palace. Mirren let her head fall back so the tumbling glitter and lights filled her vision end to end. Theo smiled, watching her.
‘Oh, it’s lovely,’ said Mirren. ‘I always forget how much I love Christmas, don’t you?’
‘And the dark and the cold?’ said Theo.
‘Well, that’s what I mean,’ said Mirren. ‘It’s dark and cold but then you go in somewhere warm, and the loveliness of that – the nice warm car, or pub, or home, or coffee shop – it is just the loveliest feeling. Or hopping into bed and getting cosy. Or having an electric blanket.’
‘A what?’ said Theo. The family he’d grown up in rather saw feeling the cold as a moral failing and never turned the heating on ever; it ate into the capital, apparently.
‘Oh, it’s just lovely to be cosy and warm, that’s all,’ said Mirren, smiling and moving closer to the fire by the entrance.
‘I think,’ said Theo, ‘you have had quite enough whisky and should probably head upstairs.’
Mirren grinned at him. She looked, Theo thought, uncommonly pretty in the flickering light. Outside, the snow was piling up on the window frames. He was feeling happily content after a big meal and the cheeriness of finally, potentially, pleasing his uncle. As for feeling guilty that he hadn’t come clean with Mirren ... well. Yes. He did feel guilty about that. Without having the faintest idea what to do about it that wouldn’t result in him being thrown out on the street. He’d think of something, surely?
‘Come on,’ said Mirren, feeling loose-lipped and devilish. ‘Let’s go upstairs.’
Inside the lovely old room, warm and softly lit, the top cover of the four-poster had been pulled back and everything was looking incredibly inviting.
‘I ...’ Theo cleared his throat. ‘I’ll take the trundle, naturally.’
But Mirren’s eyes were flashing. It had been so long, she thought, since she’d had an adventure. She had a missed call from her mum on her phone. She didn’t want to answer it.
‘You’ve been so kind,’ she said. ‘And it is your bed ...’ She smiled at him wickedly. ‘And it’s dark, and nobody knows we’re here ... We could share ...’ She patted the pillow beside her.
‘Don’t tempt me,’ he said. Then regretted it, because instantly the mood in the room changed. Mirren looked back at him, her gaze direct, and suddenly both found their breath had quickened.
Theo looked at her sorrowfully. She looked absolutely gorgeous there, her long hair different shades in the firelight, her cheeks pink; beneath her plain black dress, who knew what he might discover? And he would so much like the chance to find out. He was incredibly tempted.
On the other hand, she thought he was just a chap, looking for Dickens – a rich boy playing around who was just hanging out with her because she was fun and he didn’t have too much to do. She thought he was, what, a diversion?
Whereas of course he knew. When they found the book ... he didn’t want to look that far ahead. Of course he wouldn’t. Nothing would happen and this ridiculous wild goose chase wouldn’t go anywhere. But he knew what he’d have to do. He’d have to overbid for it. Or somehow get his hands on it. Otherwise, he knew what would happen. Him losing his home was one thing. His family suffering because of him was quite another. His father had been so pathetically grateful when Philip had extended his offer. This was his last chance to get something right. And if she did find the book, if they did, particularly if he helped, well ... this would be newsworthy. It would be something.
Also, having met Mirren, he couldn’t bet against her succeeding. He remembered her again, soaking wet, with a determined set to her face that said she would go on looking, regardless.
And now he’d got to know her, he couldn’t help himself: he liked her. He just liked her. No way around it. He was still going to make sure he got the book, he had to. It was just business. She’d understand when they got there. Plus, he’d identified the photograph. He basically was on the way to finding it anyway. Really.
He thought of his uncle again – ‘Honeytrap, eh?’ – and shuddered. He didn’t want to be like his uncle or his father, a silver worker, only just keeping the wolf from the door. He had broken his father’s heart when he’d studied English instead of something ‘useful and lucrative’, like medicine or law. He knew what Mirren meant about feeling like a disappointment to her family; he felt the same way about himself. He would have loved a bookshop, working in one; he had enjoyed the places they’d been. He just didn’t want to be as sharp and mean as his uncle. Or so desperately in need of money.
And if he went back now ... he’d be out on his ear, he supposed, while his uncle found someone better suited to the nastier side of the business. He’d have to take a job with his father, and even then he’d still have to live at home, he wouldn’t have any choice. While being berated by basically the same voice. This had felt like a little respite from a life he felt he was not handling terribly well so far. The pretty girl, the lovely restaurants. Some fun, in a life without much of it.
He glanced at the snowy window again. It felt like the entire hotel, this oasis of warmth and light and good cheer, could disappear like a mirage, leaving him huddling like the Little Match Girl on a street corner.
But there was one decent thing he could do, in his deceit.