‘What on earth are you doing here?’ I said, standing in the entrance hall and blocking Miss Pritchett’s way.
‘Opaline.’
He simply said my name and it all came flooding back. Paris, his apartment, the touch of his lips on my skin, the scent of his hair wax. It was intoxicating. He looked deeply into my eyes until I broke my gaze. I thought I had put my feelings for him far behind me, but seeing him again, I realised that I had merely hidden them. All of the longing and the hurt were still there, as strong as ever. He took my hand and kissed my wrist, then, still holding it, moved closer and kissed me on each cheek.
Miss Pritchett began to clear her throat behind me.
‘Mr Hassan, is it?’ she asked. ‘I have the books you wished to view set up in the drawing room.’
I stood back and let them discuss their business. I couldn’t help but watch him; he was dressed impeccably, as always, in cream linen trousers and a navy sports jacket. His skin was rich and darker now, thanks to his travels, no doubt. His hair shone like onyx and it was all I could do not to reach out and touch it.
‘I’m here to view some illustrations for a client. However, I am attending an auction in Sotheby’s tomorrow afternoon if that is of interest to you.’
‘Sotheby’s!’ I repeated, failing to keep the excitement from my voice. I couldn’t possibly go. It was too risky to go to London. My smile crumpled.
‘No, I must return to Ireland.’
He looked at me as though he was searching for memories in my eyes. I looked away.
‘You still wear my necklace, I see.’
My hand instinctively went to touch the golden hamsa pendant he had given me on my departure from Paris. A brief smile came to my lips unbidden.
Of course, I should have refused him. But I told myself that I needed news of Paris and Sylvia. That he was one of the few friends I had left, that without his help I would probably be back in London now and trapped in an arranged marriage.
‘Well, maybe it wouldn’t hurt,’ I said.
How wrong I was.
He held open the door of a gleaming black car. If I didn’t know better, I would say that he had come into some money, but it was too vulgar to ask.
‘My client,’ he said, replying to my unspoken question. ‘She is quite generous.’
She. I looked out of the window, concealing the prickle of jealousy that pierced me. It had been several months since our time together in Paris; how could I still feel this way?
‘I am so very glad to see you, Opaline. Many times I have wondered about you.’
And yet he had never sent a letter.
‘Are you still in Dublin?’
‘Of course,’ I replied, quite terse. Where else would I be? Did he expect me to have travelled the world, finding a lover in every port, like him? I sulked for much of the journey and wondered why I had bothered to go at all.
We pulled up on a busy and grimy street full of eighteenth-century houses and shops, with trams trundling past at one end and the buses of High Holborn at the other.
‘I thought we were going to Sotheby’s,’ I said, looking around and pulling my cap down to hide my face. I had decided to dress head to toe in men’s clothing, with my giant overcoat concealing my form.
‘Just a quick stop, I think you’ll enjoy it.’
‘Are you always so enigmatic?’ I asked, as if I wasn’t charmed by it. He knew how to reel people in. Women, more specifically.
We stood in front of a tiny bookshop, with the usual dusty barrows of unsellable stock outside. Next door to a junkshop, it had an old-style window divided into tiny square panes. There I spotted a sign:
THESE ARE THE ONLY DIRTY BOOKS WE HAVE.
PLEASE DO NOT WASTE TIME ASKING FOR OTHERS.
‘What in heaven’s—’
I looked up and saw the name printed above the door: The Progressive Bookshop, 68 Red Lion Street.
‘Shall we?’ Armand held the door open for me.
I wasn’t sure what kind of den of iniquity we were entering, but I had a wonderful sense that we were going to find something out of the ordinary.
A nervous-looking fellow of similar vintage to ourselves was kneeling on the floor with his head halfway inside a cardboard box, quietly muttering expletives as he searched for something within.
‘I understand you are distributing works that breach the British obscenity law,’ Armand said in what was quite a passable London accent.
The man jumped up and propelled his wiry frame towards us with such haste that I took a step backwards (which was quite a feat in itself, as the shop left little room to manoeuvre).
‘Armand Hassan, you bastard!’ he cried, which caused Armand to smile broadly and then both men hugged like long-lost brothers reunited.
‘I knew it was you,’ he said with a slight German accent, laughing.
‘Herr Lahr, may I present my colleague, Mademoiselle Opaline—’
‘Gray,’ I interrupted. ‘Miss Gray,’ and I proffered my hand.
‘Freut mich,’ he said, which I interpreted as a good thing.
He offered to make us some coffee, but Armand declined, saying that we didn’t have much time before the auction.
‘I have your copy here. Price as agreed – I must cover myself for any legal repercussions, you understand.’
‘Of course,’ said Armand. ‘My client is very eager to have it.’
My curiosity was almost a fourth presence in the room! When he handed over the small rectangle wrapped in brown paper and Armand began to count out the notes, I asked if I might open it.
‘Why not?’ Armand replied.
I unwrapped it slowly, tantalisingly, and saw the title, Lady Chatterley’s Lover.
‘D.H. Lawrence,’ Armand confirmed.
‘The man is a literary genius and yet we must sell his books illegally like this,’ Herr Lahr opined.
I wanted a copy very badly. I wanted twenty. Yet I was aware of how selling such controversial literature might bring unwelcome attention to my little shop. But I simply had to read it and so I negotiated a price with him for a copy of my own before we drove to Sotheby’s carrying our prohibited literature on the back seat.
Through Sotheby’s dark passages an excited throng tumbled into the large auction gallery, sweeping us both along with them. Armand took my hand and led me to a little alcove at the side of the room, where we stood pressed up against each other and the wall. For one heady moment, I inhaled his scent and again was transported back to that night and the heat of his body. I coughed several times and tried to count the number of people in the room to distract myself.
‘Gosh, what a scene! I wonder what is up for auction.’
‘You did not see the catalogue? It is the original manuscript of Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland.’
‘Good grief!’