Chapter 13 Carly
CARLY
Flynn and I are the last two standing at the King’s Cross taxi rank after a fleet of black cabs has taken the rest of the passengers, Mum, Elsa, Frank and Marleen included, to the hotel in Bloomsbury.
‘Looks as if this one’s for us,’ says Flynn, holding the door open for me.
‘I’ve never needed a seat more,’ I say, collapsing into the black leather upholstery, exhausted but elated that we pulled off the cake and book debacle without any of the passengers, or Nicolas, knowing.
‘Thank you, Carly,’ he says, his tone heartfelt. ‘Without you we might not have had such happy customers.’
‘I’m just glad the train made up time so Ginny could meet Chris Rose by six p.m.’
‘Marleen turned out to be right.’
‘The whole thing was fun!’
‘Fun?’ he laughs with a cock of his head, and I laugh too.
‘How far to the hotel?’ I ask.
‘Just a couple of minutes,’ he says. ‘I only booked taxis because I didn’t want to shepherd guests across the mayhem of the Euston Road.’
‘You know London well?’ I ask, watching the crowds of pedestrians from the cab window.
‘I’ve lived here on and off throughout my life so, yeah, I do.’
‘What brought you here?’ I ask, trying to pull bits of the Flynn puzzle together.
‘My dad’s had a flat here since he was young, so I was back and forth as a kid, then here for university and now work. But I’ve been feeling the pull of home for ages, especially with my mum being on her own most of the time.’
‘Is Edinburgh home?’
He nods then explains that he’s split between both cities, and I remember that the company he works for has offices in both London and Edinburgh.
‘What stops you returning full-time?’ I ask as we drive past the British Museum, the elegant terraced houses and gardens of Bloomsbury reminding me of home.
‘You know . . . life, work, the usual stuff.’
I’m about to ask him a bit more when the taxi pulls up next to an imposing red-brick Regency building.
‘This is us,’ he says, opening the cab door for me then leading the way to the covered entrance. ‘Perhaps—’ he begins but is cut short when a passenger approaches and he’s taken away to solve the next problem of the day.
‘It’s official, I’ve died and gone to heaven,’ I say to Mum and Elsa as we arrive at the hotel library for the evening reception, having spent a couple of hours chilling in our luxurious rooms. Jude was right, good things do exist away from Edinburgh.
‘You and me both,’ says Mum as Elsa is greeted by Marleen and they head for two winged armchairs in a corner of the book-lined room.
‘Imagine if the bookshop looked like this,’ I say to Mum, admiring the elegant cream shelves, two window seats and chesterfield armchairs, and a polished parquet floor ideal for off-setting tables of books.
I snap a photo to send to Dad with the message: Check it out.
Formal and feminine. Perfect décor for the bookshop!
He replies instantly: Very nice. Looks pricey.
To which I reply: You gotta dream big.
‘What did he say?’ Mum asks over-keenly.
‘That it looks expensive,’ I say, more conscious than ever of Dad’s loan and the secret I’m keeping.
‘Right,’ she sighs resignedly.
‘Evening!’ sings Daisy, bounding up to me with a cheerful smile, Joe following up behind. Mum breaks away from me to browse the books.
‘Hi,’ I say. ‘Isn’t this beautiful?’
‘Oh my God,’ enthuses Daisy, a cocktail already in hand. ‘I swear I’ve fallen into a Virginia Woolf novel. All we need now are flapper dresses and Joe in a tux and the picture would be complete!’
‘I love that image,’ I laugh, accepting a daiquiri from a passing waiter.
‘Wasn’t the train ride sublime?’ says Daisy, pulling Joe and me over to a table and chairs in a nook of shelves. ‘I’m so excited about Paris tomorrow. Can you believe we’re actually going to be in the most goddamn romantic city on the planet?’
‘Agreed,’ I say, unable to compete with her high-octane enthusiasm which makes Jude’s brand of pep look positively flat. ‘Have you been before?’
Daisy finishes a slurp of her cocktail. ‘Nope.’
‘Joe?’
‘I’ve barely left Birmingham.’
‘You don’t live in Edinburgh?’
‘I wish!’ he says, and Daisy explains that she’s living in Edinburgh where she works as an interior designer, and that Joe had been up for a visit before joining the train.
‘So how do you know each other?’ I ask, intrigued by their friendship – Daisy clearly the one who wears the trousers.
‘I was visiting the Library of Birmingham, which is totally my jam, by the way – did you know it’s the biggest public library in Europe? Anyway, Joe gave me a guided tour and we’ve been best buds ever since.’
‘You still work there?’ I ask Joe.
‘Guilty,’ he sighs.
‘You don’t sound very enthused.’
‘Don’t get me wrong, it’s great,’ he shrugs. ‘It’s just getting a bit old. I fancy a change of scenery, time to get Joe out of Birmingham, that’s all.’
I want to ask him more about where he’d like to be, but we’re interrupted by Flynn, chinking a spoon against his glass.
‘Good evening,’ he says when the babble of chatter has died away, tugging the cuffs of his crisp white shirt.
‘I hope you’ve all had a chance to settle into your rooms. Dinner this evening can be taken at any time in the hotel restaurant, followed by a chance to explore the neighbourhood.
If you’d like to join the literary walking tour, please meet at eight p.m. outside the main entrance, where you will be met by a local guide.
But for now, continue to enjoy the company of your fellow travellers, the refreshments, and this beautiful library. ’
His announcement is followed by a smatter of applause and a slow crescendo of conversation.
‘God, he’s hot,’ says Daisy, watching Flynn put the microphone stand aside. ‘Not many guys could turn me, but . . .’
‘You think?’ I ask, watching him mingle on the other side of the room.
Joe nods his approval.
‘You don’t?’ asks Daisy incredulously.
I remember our first encounter in the shop – casual and tussled – that there was something intriguing about him, but somehow I can’t quite marry those attributes with this version of Flynn, so starched and detached.
‘May I join you?’ asks Marleen, interrupting my contemplation of Flynn, both Daisy and Joe making a beeline for him.
‘Of course,’ I reply, gesturing for her to take a seat.
‘Elsa was just telling me you’re considering new opportunities,’ she begins. ‘Having seen how you managed the situation on the train today, I wondered if you might be interested in working for me, as my assistant.’
‘Gosh, thank you,’ I say, slightly bamboozled by her offer, so out of the blue. I think immediately of Jude and how, if she were here, she’d be nudging me into grabbing the opportunity. ‘Where are you based?’
‘Here, in Bloomsbury,’ she says. ‘Australia is home, but I’ve been here for many decades.’
An image of living and working in London, as Mum did for a few years and her mother before her, flits in front of my eyes.
‘What would the role entail?’ I ask, thinking if Mum and Grandma managed it, I surely could too, that it might turn out to be just the adventure I need.
Marleen tells me that she’s been considering hiring someone for a few years, since her last assistant retired. Someone who can not only help her professionally – replying to emails, updating social media, chasing royalties – but also domestically, too. ‘A sort of Girl Friday, if you will.’
‘I’m really flattered that you should ask,’ I say, not quite able to find the courage to accept the offer straight off the bat, knowing full well that if the same job had come up at home, it would be a no-brainer.
‘Take your time, consider it over the next few days. See what you think at the end of the trip.’
Marleen is pulled away by a reader and I am left wishing that Mum or Elsa might find me so I can bounce the idea off them.
But Mum is hosting the three Americans, and Elsa is deep in conversation with Frank, so I sit, watching the room, the huddles of travellers, the rotating waiters, and Flynn, professionally working the room while discreetly keeping an eye on his phone.
Across the floor, Daisy catches my attention and makes ‘go on’ eyes at him.
I laugh and roll my eyes, amused by her persistence.
‘Bonsoir, mademoiselle.’
‘How are you?’ I ask as Nicolas kisses me on both cheeks.
‘Good,’ he says, sitting opposite me, his chin lifted, showing off his strong neck and jaw.
‘You look very comfortable in these surroundings,’ I comment, to which he smiles, a smile that suggests he’s entirely at ease wherever he goes.
He looks at me for a moment, just long enough for a butterfly to stir in my stomach. ‘Your beauty would complement any room.’
‘Hardly,’ I laugh, not quite sure where to look.
‘Nobody has told you that before?’ he asks, his eyes locked on mine.
‘No,’ I answer, my cheeks flushing, feeling distinctly Scottish to his French.
‘But you have such poise, and style.’
‘Maybe it’s all the yoga I do,’ I laugh, trying to brush off his attention. ‘And any style I have comes straight from my mum.’
‘Your mother is also beautiful, but you have that je ne sais quoi, no?’
Nicolas is not the first to comment on my supposed ‘air of mystery’, which is in fact the opposite – shy, reserved, often uncertain – a world away from aloof or mysterious.
I’m searching for the right thing to say in response, aware of Flynn chatting to someone beside me, when Nicolas takes out a card and hands it to me.
‘Call me, let me take you out for drinks,’ he says, and he stands to leave, leaning in to kiss me again on my cheek.
‘Thank you—’ I begin, a little breathlessly.
I’m about to tell him I plan on taking the walking tour, but I’m cut short when the doors to the library are thrown open and a man, with immaculate silver hair, hawk-like eyes and a cravat, who I can only presume is Christopher Rose, enters with an exhausted-looking Ginny behind him.