I was so immersed that I failed to notice a tall man surveying me from a doorway at the back of the shop.
I jumped at the sight of him, and snapped the book shut, wondering if it was an ‘impropriety’ – as I had just read in Austen – to open it.
‘An Austen fan, are we? More of a Bront? devotee myself.’
‘I love both.’
‘Of course, you must know that Charlotte was not a great admirer of Jane’s work. She deplored the fact that the literary supplements swooned over Ms Austen’s more . . . shall we say, “pragmatic” prose. Charlotte wrote with her romantic heart on her sleeve. Or, should I say, in her pen.’
‘Really?’ As I spoke, I tried to make out the man’s features, but the shadows were too heavy to see more than the fact that he was very tall and thin, with reddish-blond hair, wearing a pair of horn-rimmed glasses and what looked like an Edwardian frock coat. As for his age, in this light, he could have been anywhere between thirty and fifty.
‘Yes. Now then, are you looking for something in particular?’
‘I . . . not really.’
‘Well, browse away. And if there’s anything else you wish to take off the shelves and read, please feel free to sit in one of the armchairs and do so. We are as much a library as a bookshop, you see. I’m of the belief that good literature should be shared. Aren’t you?’
‘I absolutely am,’ I agreed fervently.
‘Do call up for me if you need help in finding something. And if we haven’t got it, I am bound to be able to order it in for you.’
‘Thank you.’
With that, the man disappeared through the door at the back, leaving me standing in the shop alone. This would never happen in Switzerland, I thought to myself, given that at any second I could snatch a book off the shelf and make a run for it.
A sudden noise pierced the dusty silence and I realised it was my mobile ringing. Mortified, I made to grab it and switch it to silent, but not before the man reappeared, putting his finger to his lips.
‘I do apologise, but it’s the only rule we have here. No mobiles allowed. Would you mind awfully taking the call outside?’
‘Of course not. Thanks. Bye.’
My face flaming red in embarrassment, I left the shop feeling like a naughty schoolgirl who’d been caught texting her boyfriend under the desk. It was also ironic as my mobile hardly ever rang, unless it was Ma or CeCe. Outside on the pavement, I looked down and saw it was a number I didn’t recognise, so I listened to the voicemail.
‘Hi, Star, it’s Shanthi. I got your number from Marcus. Just keeping in touch. Call me when you get a chance. Bye-bye, lovely.’
I felt irrationally irritated by the fact her call had led to an undignified exit from the bookshop. Having spent so long plucking up the courage to actually go in, I knew I wouldn’t find any more of it today. When I saw the bus that would take me back to Battersea, I crossed the road and jumped onto it.
You’re pathetic, Star, you really are, I berated myself. You should have just walked back inside. But I hadn’t. I’d even enjoyed the brief conversation I’d had with the man, which was a miracle in itself. And now I was on a bus back to my empty apartment and my empty life.
Arriving home, I stared at a bare wall, and decided that I needed to buy a bookshelf for it.
‘A room without books is like a body without a soul,’ I quoted to myself.
But as I was stony-broke until next month after all the plant buying, I also knew that I must do something about finding a job. Relying on Pa Salt’s posthumous funds wasn’t helping anything, especially not my self-esteem. Perhaps tomorrow I would walk down the high street and ask in bars and restaurants if there was any work going as a cleaner. Given my lack of communication skills, I definitely wasn’t cut out to be front-of-house.
I went upstairs to shower, and noticed the bottom drawer of my chest of drawers was still open from when I had retrieved the plastic wallet containing Pa Salt’s letter, the coordinates and the quotation. With a horrified jolt, I couldn’t remember when I’d last seen it. I ran downstairs to search for it, my heart beating like a proverbial drum against my chest as I tipped out the entire contents of my leather rucksack, but it wasn’t there. I tried to think whether I’d had it in my hands when I’d stepped into the shop and remembered that I had. But after that . . .
I could only hope that I had put it down on the table in the bookshop when I’d idled amongst the shelves.
Going to my laptop, I searched the bookshop’s website to look up a telephone number. When I rang, it clicked through to an answering machine, the distinctive tone of the man I’d met telling me that someone would call me back as soon as possible if I left them a number. I did so, then prayed to God that he would call. Because if that plastic wallet was lost, so was the link to my past. And, perhaps, my future.
6
The next day, I woke up and immediately checked my mobile to see if there was a message from the bookshop. As there wasn’t, I realised I had no choice but to retrace my movements to Kensington Church Street.
An hour later, I entered Arthur Morston Books for a second time. Nothing had altered since yesterday – and thankfully, on the table in front of the fireplace, lay my plastic wallet. I couldn’t help but give a small cry of relief as I picked it up and checked its contents, all of which were present and correct.
The shop was deserted and the door at the back of the room was closed, making it perfectly possible for me to leave without disturbing any occupant behind it. But however much I wished to do this, I had to remember the reason I had sought out this place originally. Besides, the tinkling bell must have alerted someone to my presence. And it was only polite to let them know that I had found what I needed before I left.
Again, my mobile shattered the silence and I ran to exit the shop before answering it.
‘Hello?’
‘Is that a Miss D’Aplièse?’
‘Yes?’
‘Hello, it’s Arthur Morston Books here. I’ve just received your message. I’m going to go downstairs now and see if I can find your missing item.’
‘Oh,’ I said, confused. ‘Actually, I’m standing outside. I was in the shop a few seconds ago, and yes, I found it on the table where I’d left it yesterday.’
‘I do apologise. I must have missed the bell. I opened up, you see, then dashed back upstairs. There’s a book coming up in an auction today—’ A ringing noise interrupted him. ‘That’s my representative on the landline now. Do excuse me for a moment . . .’
All went quiet at the other end, before I heard his voice again. ‘Forgive me, Miss D’Aplièse, I just had to decide on my maximum price for a first edition of Anna Karenina. Fabulous copy, best I’ve ever seen, and signed by the author too, although I’m rather afraid the Russians and their roubles will most likely win against my paltry pounds. Still, worth a punt, don’t you think?’