The Bookseller's Secret

by Michelle Gable

  Katie thwacks Jojo’s leg. “That’s not true! I said that they were dangerously wholesome, too pretty, the kind of girls Ted Bundy liked.”

  “Exactly. Homicide victims.” Jojo laughs through her nose. “I can’t fathom why your sister was so aggrieved.”

  They approach the city, and the streets and sidewalks become more jammed. There are hostels, and hotels, and quintessentially British brick pubs. Mawson Arms. The Fox and Hounds. When Katie sees signs for Chiswick, and Hammersmith, she knows they’re getting close. Everything becomes grander, more ornate.

  Katie watches people push strollers and swing shopping bags, wondering if they ever marvel that they live here, in a city as great as London. Katie thinks this about DC during certain times of year, like when the Tidal Basin is pink with cherry blossoms, and tourist buses line the streets, but that’s Washington, which isn’t nearly the same. Katie knows she’s supposed to say Paris is her favorite city but, really, London beats it every time.

  As they enter Kensington, passing first the Victoria and Albert Museum, and a McLaren showroom, Katie thinks about how far Jojo has traveled from the girl she once was: Jodi Boyers of Boones Mill, Virginia, “Moonshine Capital of the World,” population 285. Jojo claims she’s from Appalachia, which is true but said mostly for effect.

  Alas, Boones Mill never really agreed with Jodi Boyers, and so she used her basketball prowess to catapult herself out and up to Cornell University, where she and Katie met on move-in day. They became such fast and conjoined friends that the men’s basketball team called them “Muggsy and Manute,” a reference to their stunning height discrepancy.

  After graduation, they lived in New York, though Jojo soon traded the drudgery of investment banking for the London School of Economics, where she met Nigel Hawkins-Whitshed, London born and bred. They were engaged within months and now she is a mother of four and author of twelve living in one of the swankiest places on earth.

  “The Queen’s childhood home used to be there,” Jojo says, pointing to the InterContinental Park Lane. “The family moved out in 1936, when King Edward abdicated, and her father assumed the throne. It was bombed four years later, during the Blitz.”

  “Look at you! A history nerd!”

  “Hardly. I know you like that sort of crap. Beyond that line of trees—” she gestures “—is Buckingham Palace. We’re almost home.”

  Jojo lives in Mayfair, which boasts the city’s greatest concentration of Michelin-starred restaurants and five-star hotels. It’s home to Bond Street, and Savile Row, and brands like Tiffany, Dior, Gucci, and Chanel. All day long, Bentleys and Maseratis sit in front of the shops, drivers loitering around in earpieces and sharp suits, waiting for their bosses to emerge.

  They turn left at a vape shop and, after passing several blocks of charming cafés and boutique hotels, the driver stops halfway onto a curb in front of a bow-fronted, multistory white Georgian townhouse.

  “Welcome to Mayfair,” Jojo says.

  Katie peers through the window, taking it all in, as the driver sweeps up her bags and disappears into the house.

  “I’ll give you the full tour when the littles are up from their naps,” Jojo says.

  They walk inside and Katie ogles the high ceilings and polished wood floors, likewise every incredible room: his-and-hers libraries, a twenty-person cinema, the drawing room (there is a drawing room), which is dominated by a green marble fireplace. At the end of it all, Jojo presses a button to summon the elevator. The guest suite is downstairs.

  Katie heart warms to see how Jojo’s life has panned out. She can’t hate her for it, even though she’s competitive, even though she’s tried, because Katie understands how hard Jojo worked to get to a place where things come easily. Growing up, Jojo’s weekends were basketball tournaments, her weeknights devoted to homework and practice and free throws in the driveway after everyone went to bed. She can recall attending only three birthday parties after age twelve, her own celebrated by wolfing down store-bought cupcakes with her teammates after a game. Everyone in Jojo’s small town was impressed that she’d be playing basketball at Cornell, but what was truly impressive was all she’d done before.

  “Your home is beautiful,” Katie says. “Your family. All of it. I’m so happy for you.”

  “Thanks,” Jojo says, and they walk into the guest suite, where Katie’s things sit on a luggage rack. “We were lucky to get this house.”

  “I didn’t just mean the house.”

  As Katie flips open her suitcase, Jojo plonks onto the bed. She tucks one broomstick leg under her butt and scrunches her wild mane of hair. “All right,” she says. “Spill it. What’s happening with the writing? When we spoke a couple of weeks ago, you seemed super into the manuscript you were working on.”

  “I was into it,” Katie says. “And my editor liked it well enough, but she insists no one wants to read a book that takes place in an Old West whorehouse.”

  “I’d read it, and I don’t even like historical fiction. What does your agent think?”

  Sighing, Katie extracts a handful of lingerie from her suitcase. “Bianca would never tell me what to write,” she says. “But she sees two options. Either we keep pushing this rock up a hill...or we play ball.”

  “And by ‘play ball,’ I assume she means Paris?”

  “Or something like it.”

  Katie turns toward the dresser, which is adorned with pictures of her and Jojo. There must be a vault of framed photographs that Jojo trades in and out, depending on the guest.

  “Just write the damned sequel,” Jojo says. “And be done with it.”

  Katie drops her lingerie into a drawer and spins around. “First of all, I have no desire to write a sequel. Second, I have no faith I even could. Nothing’s working for me. Either the setting isn’t right, or the story, or some other thing. Maybe I should just accept that I’m a shit writer and go back to what I do best.”

  “Give me a friggin’ break,” Jojo says. “You’re not a shit writer. You’re acting like a shithead writer, but your writing isn’t shit.”

  “I dunno. Every single publisher rejected A Paris Affair when Bianca shopped it. The only editor who was willing to take me on has since left the industry and is currently residing in a commune in Aruba.”

  “Fun!”

  “Meanwhile, two editors later...” Katie blubbers her lips. “I’ve blown past my deadline, and lapped that deadline, and am about to lap it again. My publisher is anxious to see something.”

  “Uh, yeah. Because you promised ‘something’ in a contract.”

  “But it’s like no one believes I can write more than one thing! I really think it’s less about A Paris Affair and more about its sales.”

  “Of course it’s about the sales,” Jojo says. “It’s called a business. Has it ever occurred to you that it sells well because it’s good?”

  Katie shrugs. More than once she’s thought of paying someone—a book reviewer, a professor, an eager undergrad—to dissect all three of her books. Maybe this fictional person can clue her in on why A Paris Affair connects with people to a degree her other two books do not.

  “You can’t predict what people are going to latch onto,” Jojo says, as if reading her mind. “There’s really no point in trying, and I don’t know what to tell you beyond what I’ve already said. What does Bianca want you to do?”

  “Reassess over the Thanksgiving holiday. Oh. Get this.” Katie clips two skirts onto a hanger, which are two more skirts than she’s worn in years. Also, it’s freezing in London, and Katie doesn’t know what she was thinking in packing them. “Bianca told me to have fun,” Katie says. “Can you believe the nerve? Fun. Of all things.”

  Jojo snickers. “Wow. That’s just mean,” she says. “Has Bianca met a writer before?”

  “Then she told me to stop being a baby and act like a damned professional.”

 
“True enough,” Jojo says, and shakes her head. She’ll say nothing more on the subject. For all her success, Jojo recognizes when another writer doesn’t want to talk about their work. “So, who’s watching Millie?” she asks. “I still can’t believe you left her. Remember when Armie had that trip to the Dominican Republic, and you wouldn’t go because of the dog?”

  “The trip was ten days long, and we’d only had her a few months,” Katie says, and ducks into her suitcase for a stack of jeans. “She’s staying with Armie now.”

  “Oh, Lord. Here we go.”

  “No. Not here we go.” Katie whirls around and drops her jeans into a drawer. “He picked her up after I left, so no conspiracy theories, please. It was actually good timing. He’d been wanting to see her, but we hadn’t arranged anything because I’ve been trying to give him space.”

  “Yet you appear to be in some kind of dog share?”

  “We’re not sharing dogs.”

  “Are you still in love with the guy?”

  “You’re a real ballbuster,” Katie says.

  “You haven’t answered the question,” Jojo says as one eyebrow spikes.

  “It’s not a matter of loving him or not. I’ve known him since I was five. How I feel about him is not something I sit around and contemplate. It’s just...there. Like how you love a sibling.”

  “Ew. Gross.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  In many ways, Katie is closer to Armie than she’s ever been to Britt. He was her best friend from the moment he moved in next door, a few months after her father died. Together they started kindergarten and learned to ride bikes. They joined Little League and partnered on ninety percent of school projects. Meanwhile, Britt was in her room, trying on makeup and prank calling boys. Because of the six-year gap, the sisters weren’t close until they were adults, and competitiveness never factored in.

  Armie and Katie, on the other hand, acted like siblings on their worst behavior, vying for grades, athletic awards, and really anything that could be commemorated with a trophy or plaque. Once, Armie wrote a letter to the president of the McLean Little League, insisting that Katie should play softball instead of baseball, since she was a girl. The real problem wasn’t Katie’s gender but her higher batting average, which was four-four-two, compared to Armie’s three-eighty-nine, not that she remembers the specifics.

  The rivalry didn’t let up when Britt left for college, or after Judy married Charles and Katie moved into Little Falls Farm. They applied to the same colleges, but Armie was wait-listed at Cornell, which felt pretty great. Although he was eventually accepted, he chose Georgetown instead. They hooked up for the first time between sophomore and junior year, which people viewed as inevitable or ruinous, depending on who was asked. Only in hindsight did Katie realize the tension was there all along, waiting to break. All it needed was for both of them to consume an indecorous amount of tequila on the same night. Finally, after several years of flings, Katie moved back to DC, and their real relationship began.

  “You’re really done?” Jojo says, twisting her hair into a knot on top of her head. “Done, done? As opposed to the previous fifty times you broke up?”

  “It wasn’t fifty. Five, maybe,” Katie says. She removes several magazines from her carry-on and pitches them onto the desk. “Things have changed, and we’re older. Shit or get off the pot, and all that.”

  “Hmm,” Jojo says. She picks up Architectural Digest. “Why so many magazines? Where are the books? What are you reading lately?”

  “You’re looking at it,” Katie says. “It’s not merely a writing funk, but a reading one, too. I don’t like anything, and I can’t concentrate for more than five minutes. Sometimes fiction seems...absurd? It’s like, how many hours have I spent on people who don’t exist?”

  Jojo looks at Katie like she’s just announced plans to move in, or become a Scientologist. “I can’t believe I have to say this to a novelist,” she says. “But fiction is important. Books teach us about ourselves. They teach us about humanity.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” Katie says, and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Anyway, I haven’t been in the mood. Hence, the magazines.”

  “Bloody fine time to get into print journalism,” Jojo scoffs.

  There’s a knock and Jojo’s husband appears. Nigel Hawkins-Whitshed can be stuffy, and he’s pale, and skinny, and none too appealing, yet he’s utterly charismatic all the same. Katie adores the man.

  “Sorry to be a bother,” Nigel says, after hugs are exchanged. “Felix just called and I’m going to buzz over to Heywood Hill. They’ve got in Casino Royale.”

  Jojo’s face perks up. “You’ve been waiting for months! Don’t tell me the price, though. I don’t want to know.”

  “Understood,” he says, grinning. “Bryonie is up from her nap and Imogen is getting her dressed. She’s already darling but, in five minutes, should be ready for full display.”

  “Goodness, that fourth child might pay off, after all.”

  “Would’ve been cheaper to get a show dog,” Nigel jokes. “All right, cheers, you two. See you soon.” He blows his wife a kiss.

  “That’s who I’m taking you to see,” Jojo says as her husband’s footsteps retreat.

  “Imogen? The nanny? That’s okay, I’m good.”

  “Felix Assan. He works at the divine little bookshop around the corner. He’s Head of Libraries, I think?” She chuckles. “Doesn’t matter. We go to him for everything. The shop is called Heywood Hill. You’ve heard of it, yes? They curated our collection, matter of fact.”

  “Curated?” Katie says, and wrinkles her nose.

  “Trust me, it’s a thing,” Jojo says. “They’re literary geniuses who can find any book, for any person, guaranteed. Heywood Hill specializes in bespoke collections, but—”

  “I hate you for having said that word.”

  “It means customized,” Jojo says. “They put together libraries for hotels and offices, and wealthy people’s vacation homes, but their subscription service is just as specialized. According to Felix, the team will spend hours debating the perfect book to send to a specific client. I’m going to write it down.”

  From the bedside table, Jojo swipes a pen and a notepad adorned with a sketch of her new house. “Lionel has a birthday party this afternoon,” she says, and tears off a sheet. “Teddy bear picnic, for God’s sake. While I’m there, you must visit the shop. It’s on Curzon. Less than a five-minute walk.” She extends the paper toward Katie, who eyes it, skeptically. “Look for the blue awning,” she says. “A blue plaque next to a black door. Whatever your state of mind, however confused... I promise, the minute you step inside, things will start to make sense.”

  Saturday Afternoon

  G. Heywood Hill Ltd.

  Katie stands in front of a narrow Georgian townhouse—four-story and brick, with a charcoal-painted ground floor façade. A bike is latched onto a black wrought iron fence, and the awning reads “G. Heywood Hill Ltd.”

  As she approaches the entrance, Katie reads the round, blue sign posted beside the door. Heritage plaques are a common sight in London, meant to honor a noteworthy person who lived or worked inside a particular building. Usually it’s some unknown actor, composer, or field marshal, but this name is familiar, and it feels like a hug.

  NANCY MITFORD

  1904–1973

  Writer

  worked here

  1942–1945

  Before walking inside, Katie brushes her fingers across the letters for good luck.

  A bell tinkles when she enters the shop. Stopping to let an older gentleman hurry past, Katie takes in the maze of blue-carpeted interlocking rooms. Books are piled everywhere—on tables, in shelves, on the floor—and the effect is more cozy, chaotic home than commercial enterprise.

  Wending through circular tables and curios filled with knickknacks, Katie
scans the shelves. Between A.S. Byatt and Truman Capote, she spies a familiar white spine and her name in blue letters. KATHARINE CABOT. One copy of A Paris Affair, bien sûr.

  Katie rotates back toward the empty rooms and creeps further into the shop, her eyes sweeping the books, the dusty chandeliers, the cobweb-tinged corners and nooks. She hesitates in front of a mountain of gifts wrapped in tan paper and bound by blue ribbons.

  Someone clears their throat. “Can I help you?” the voice says, and Katie jumps.

  “Hello!” she yelps. “I didn’t see you there.”

  The man rises to his feet. When he re-caps his pen and drops it onto the desk, Katie realizes she’s stumbled into an office. She blushes—hard—but, in Katie’s defense, there are books everywhere, and this very much feels like part of the shop.

  “I’m so sorry!” Katie says. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. Or trespass. I wasn’t paying attention.”

  “I do appreciate you stopping in,” the man says. “But we are technically closed on Saturdays. The only reason I’m here is to catch up on work. I hadn’t meant to leave the door unlocked.”

  “Oh! Oh shit!” Katie flies into a panic. “I’m really sorry!”

  “It’s fine,” the man says with a warm smile. “You’re welcome to browse for a few minutes. Did you have something specific you were looking for, or a question, perhaps?”

  “I do have a question,” Katie says. “Though it’s not why I came in. I saw the plaque.” She gestures toward the front of the shop. “Nancy Mitford. I’m surprised she worked here. I thought she published several books before the war broke out.”

  “Four, to be precise.”

  “Weird,” Katie says, with a squint. “I know she didn’t really hit her stride until The Pursuit of Love, but wasn’t her father a peer? Was she just killing time during the war or something? She must not have needed the money.” Katie’s pink cheeks turn to red. “Sorry if I’m being gauche.”

  The man gives a quick laugh. “Her father was indeed the 2nd Baron Redesdale. Alas, theirs was more of a crumbling gentry, an upper-class poverty, if you will. Nancy’s first four books never earned any royalties. Poor girl had to find some way to pay the bills. Luckily, her friends Anne and Heywood Hill were desperate for help.”