“Absolutely,” I said. I’d never smoked a cigarette, and in England my coffee came out of a jar.
“So, what can I do for you?” You paused and looked at me, your unshaven chin tucked down and your eyes up. “Ingrid.” You were twice my age, a university professor; my university professor.
“I came to return your book,” I said, sitting in the middle of the sofa.
“Book?” You said from behind me, where you were flinging coffee dregs from the window. The machine rumbled and hissed on the desk.
“Sorry I took so long. I hope you haven’t missed it.” I fished the novel out of my bag and held it flat across my white legs where my dress had ridden up.
You put the cups down and, sitting on the arm of the sofa, took the book from my lap. I pulled again at my hem. You flicked through the pages, stopping at several points and smiling to yourself.
“I found your notes very helpful . . . ” I trailed off.
“What?” you said, looking at me as if only then remembering I was there. You shook your head.
“Your margin notes,” I said.
“Margin notes? You didn’t think they were mine?” You laughed, head tilted back, showing your teeth—an infectious laugh, so that, despite feeling young and stupid, I smiled.
“Oh Christ, they’re not mine. I was trying to show you another reader’s interpretation—that we all take different things from books. I may have underlined a few phrases in my time, folded over some corners, but I can honestly say I’ve never drawn a cock and balls in the margin of a book.” Heat was rising up from my neck. You bent back the page you had open and held it up to me. “Juvenile marginalia,” you said. “Drawn by a boy, about fifteen, a virgin, never been kissed, masturbates frequently. Cocks aren’t ever drawn by girls. And they are always drawn by their owners—have you ever seen a frenulum in a margin?”
I shook my head because that seemed the correct response. I’d no idea what a frenulum was. I knew my face was red, but you were gracious enough not to comment.
After a moment you said, “I take it you didn’t like the book?”
“No, I didn’t,” I said. “It was one of the worst books I’ve ever read.”
“You read it all?”
I nodded.
“Oh dear. You weren’t meant to read it—it is dreadful. I shall have to make it up to you.” You stood and put the book on a different shelf from where you’d taken it, stuffing it into a gap. “How do you like your coffee? Actually, don’t bother to answer that, there’s no milk and no sugar.”
“Black would be fine.”
“I know . . .” You turned once more and sat again on the sofa’s arm. “Let’s not have coffee; let’s go out and get a proper drink.” You slid over the rounded arm of the chesterfield and landed beside me in a puff of dust. “You didn’t have any other plans, did you?”
I’d never been so close to your peppery smell before. “I have to go to the library,” I said, “but I can go later.”
The side of your leg, your jeans, was touching my bare leg. In that moment after I replied, you looked down at my knees, my short dress, and your legs, wide open, pressing against me. And you jumped up.
“The library?” you said, staring out of the window although there was nothing to see except blue sky. “I have some library books that need taking back. They’re here somewhere. I don’t suppose you could return these while you’re there, could you?” You picked up a pile of folders and a stack of papers and dumped them on the floor, uncovering six plastic-wrapped books. “They’ve been on at me for ages to get them back.” You put them in my hands. “God, I need a cigarette,” you said.
There was a queue in the library, and I swore at you under my breath, and I swore at myself for being so ridiculous—for reading every signal wrong and for coming so close to embarrassing myself. “He’s an idiot,” I said, and realised I’d spoken aloud when the plump woman in front of me in a grey cape swivelled her pigeon head.
At the front of the queue I handed your books over.
“Eight pounds forty,” the librarian said. Eight pounds forty. That was forty-six loaves of bread, or about forty boxes of eggs, or twenty-eight glasses of Cinzano in the Duke of York. It was more than I’d ever had in my purse.