The Bookseller's Secret

by Michelle Gable

  “How goes it?” Felix asks, striding into the room.

  Katie peers up from her crouched position. “Okay,” she says. “I haven’t found much. I think you accidentally locked this drawer instead of unlocked it. Do you have the key?”

  “No, no, don’t worry about that,” Felix says, flapping his hands. “Nothing in there. Here, let me help you up. I hate to rush you, but Stoker is due to stop past and, delightful though you are, he wouldn’t relish seeing a random American pawing through his files.”

  * * *

  Katie is deep in Simon’s book of letters when she hears a clicking, a soft but ardent tap. She tenses and looks around her basement room. It’s windy tonight, and the sound could be from a branch hitting a window, or a thousand other things. Just in case, Katie stands to peek out onto the street, but sees nothing.

  As she goes to send Jojo a slightly hysterical text, Katie notices two small shadows beneath the door. “Coming!” Katie calls out, surprised to have a visitor, her shock doubled upon discovering the guest is Clive.

  “Might I come in?” he asks when she opens the door. He looks serious, and uncomfortable, the overall effect that of a constipated process server.

  “Yes, of course,” Katie says. “May I take your coat?”

  Clive declines and marches toward the bed, loosening his tie. “What are you doing?” he says. “What’s all this?” He gestures to the note cards, Nancy’s book of letters, and Katie’s collection of multicolored sticky flags. “Mum says you should be writing a book. It appears you are not.” Clive takes a few more steps and halts in his tracks. “Oh. My. Word,” he says.

  Katie cranes around his unusually large head. “What’s wrong?” she says, praying that an innocent Google search hasn’t inadvertently unlocked twenty-seven pop-up windows of porn.

  “Is that your mobile?” Clive says. “An iPhone 6S? It’s not even a Plus,” he adds, miserably.

  “I don’t really care about technology,” Katie says, and Clive stalks closer, like an animal toward its prey. “I only bought that phone when I dropped my prior one in a footbath while getting a pedicure.”

  “What, was that, like, six years ago?”

  Katie shrugs, which she often does around this kid.

  “At least it’s an S.” He blubbers his lips. “Can I have it?”

  “My phone? Uh, no. I kind of need it. I’m on my own, in a foreign country.”

  “That’s your only mobile?” Clive says with a withering look. “Miss Katie, your phone is older than all of my siblings.”

  “In fairness, your siblings are pretty young. Honestly, it’s fine. Perfectly sufficient.”

  “Oh, well, that’s damning praise.” His eyes drift toward the bed. “How old is the laptop?”

  Katie laughs. “Sorry, buddy, I need the laptop, too.”

  Sighing deeply, Clive reaches into his smoking jacket. “This is my card,” he says. “If anything breaks, I run a tech support business. One hundred quid per hour.” Clive returns to his coat. “Here’s a coupon for ten percent off. It expires on Monday.”

  “‘JUNK TRASH CRAP’?” Katie reads. “That’s the name of your business?”

  “A family joke. It’s what Mum yells whenever she opens my electronics cupboard. Where do you get all this junk trash crap!?”

  “Your mom yells?” Katie smiles. “Nice.”

  “If she’d let me rent a real warehouse, I wouldn’t have to keep my clothes on the fish tank. Alas, here we are.”

  “While I am impressed with your entrepreneurial spirit,” Katie says, “I can’t afford one hundred pounds per hour.”

  “You get what you pay for,” Clive says, and flops onto the bed. Katie looks around, wondering what she’s supposed to do, and when he’s going to leave.

  “I have another business,” he says. “I make bow ties for dogs.”

  “Now that sounds like something I can afford. I even have a dog.”

  “Yes. Mum told me about your Thai trash dog.”

  “Street dog, I think you mean?”

  “No, she definitely said trash.”

  They stare at each other. As Clive tries to solve some unknowable riddle in his brain, Katie frets about whether Jojo is bad-mouthing Millicent behind her back.

  “How come you’re not married?” Clive asks.

  Katie shakes her head. She is suddenly missing her dog. “What now?” she says.

  “Shouldn’t you have a husband by now? I’m not trying to pressure you, but Mum has four kids.”

  “I am aware.” Katie clears her throat. “I was engaged, almost married, but it didn’t work out. Millions of people don’t ever wed, by choice. Nancy Mitford never married the love of her life.”

  Clive nods, earnestly, and Katie softens toward the boy. If she had a kid, she’d probably prefer him to be a touch strange, a mild pain in the ass.

  “Do you want to be like Nancy Mitford?” he asks. “Or do you think you’ll get married? I guess you need a boyfriend first.” He smacks himself in the head. “Clive! Idiot! Boyfriend or girlfriend... Mum told me not to make assumptions.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself!” Katie says. “I like boys, but I appreciate your sensitivity. As for future boyfriends, or marriages, we’ll just have to see.”

  “What if you don’t have another boyfriend?” he asks. “Like, ever? What then? Will you just live alone with your trash dog? Dogs have much shorter life spans than do humans.”

  “Jesus. You’re really putting me through the wringer tonight. The short answer is, I don’t know, about any of it. For now, it’s me and the dog.”

  Clive lowers his eyes and seems to chew on this for a while. “Maybe people don’t get you,” he says. “Maybe that’s why you don’t have a new boyfriend.”

  “We didn’t break up all that long ago...”

  “But it’s okay! They all say that about me. It’s okay, Clive, you’re a great kid. People just don’t get you sometimes. I don’t have a ton of friends, but eight-year-olds are dull, on the whole. Do you think it’s true, though? That it’s ‘okay’?”

  “Oh, Clive,” Katie whispers, unable to say much else. “Yes. Absolutely. People who are ‘easy to get’ are boring. Who wants to be predictable? You said it yourself. Other people can be insufferable.”

  “Mum says you have a ‘hard time with kids,’ but I don’t think that’s true.”

  “She said what?”

  “Anyway.” Clive pops onto his feet. “I should probably get ready for bed.”

  “Yes. Okay,” Katie says. “I’m sure it will feel good to get out of that tie.”

  Clive stomps toward the door. “Now that I think about it,” he says, and stops, “you came to London once, with a man.”

  “Armie. Yes. You have an excellent memory. That was the man I was engaged to.”

  Clive’s face drops into the deepest of frowns. “So it’s all over, then?”

  Katie jiggles her head, unsure what he means by “over”—her relationship with Armie, or the likelihood of experiencing something like that again? “Why are you so curious about my love life, mister?” she asks.

  Clive shrugs. “I don’t want you to be lonely, I guess.”

  With that, he struts off and Katie stands, addled, unable to move. Suddenly, she hears a ding. God love him, Clive Hawkins-Whitshed is taking an elevator to bed.

  “Good night, kid,” she whispers, and slowly shuts the door.

  Katie closes her computer, pushes aside the book, and picks up her iPhone 6S (not Plus). It’s just after nine o’clock in London, which means it’s only four back home. She begins to scroll and is soon deep in her messages, hovering above Armie’s sunglasses-clad face. She tells herself she’s calling the dog, not the ex-fiancé, though Millie’s proven herself terrible at FaceTime.

  Just as Katie is about to click, her phone buzz
es, and Simon’s name lights up the screen. “Hello?” she says, and cringes, realizing it’s possible Simon’s phone rang less than one time.

  “I saw your text,” he says. “About the mysterious drawer. That is dodgy as hell.”

  “Right?! He was so quick to shoo me away,” she says, though Katie is still unsure how to feel about the bottom drawer, or this adventure on the whole. Felix was dismissive, but he’s under no obligation to show her anything, and the only proof of the manuscript is a letter mentioning a few pages of a book. “So, what’s next?” Katie asks. “I’m not sure where to go from here.”

  “My mum sent over some scans I think you should see,” he says. “It’s a few pages from a draft of the manuscript, along with a note. I’m forwarding them right now.” Simon stops and takes a breath. “I know it’s last minute, but are you free for breakfast tomorrow?”

  Katie grins. “Yes, of course,” she says. I thought you’d never ask.

  * * *

  The day I learned Lea Toporek was pregnant, I was hosting a Christmas ball. We’d dubbed it the “Feast of Queen Esther,” at the refugees’ request. By then, we had more than fifty staying at Rutland Gate.

  The guest list included the evacuees, and Peter’s fellow Welsh Guards, and I used every drop of my ingenuity and pocketbook to procure food and decorations. We even put up a Christmas tree, which looked splendid until the Luftwaffe dropped yet another cache of bombs. The tree was toppled, the ornaments shattered, and two windows blew out nearby. It was the holiest of messes and, still, the band played on.

  Midway through the festivities, Lea was nowhere to be found. Truthfully, the young lass had been a bother since arriving on my doorstep weeks before. She wouldn’t eat, she barely slept, and she never helped with the chores. I’d offered to take her to Weston Manor on multiple occasions, but she refused, even though the rest of my household was desperate for the countryside. My housekeeper was so perturbed by the situation she undertook an exploratory expedition. After a “very thorough cleaning” of Lea’s room, Gladys found an identity card indicating the girl was only sixteen. This didn’t explain Lea’s reluctance, necessarily, but maybe it did her middling social skills. And it certainly drew my attention.

  As the weeks wore on, Lea’s attitude did not improve and, by the time of the Christmas ball, I’d had rather enough. As my evacuees sang and danced, I charged off to the small dining room, where I found her staring gloomily through the window.

  “You could at least pretend to enjoy the party after I went to all this trouble,” I said. “By the by, you’ll need to do something at some point. Not even I will be staying at Rutland Gate forever, and you don’t want to be here when my mother returns. If you think the Luftwaffe is frightening, wait until you meet Muv.”

  My mother was at that juncture throwing a fit, claiming that Farve had to sell Rutland Gate, now that so many Jews had stayed there.

  “I understand the world is bleak right now,” I said. “We are all shaken, weary, depressed. Everyone’s lost something but, I say this with great empathy, it’s time to buck up, dear.”

  Lea released a sob and I dropped down beside her feet. “You might as well tell me,” I said, rubbing her arm. “You can’t sit around crying for the rest of your life.”

  Lea snuffled and batted those eerie blue eyes. Meanwhile, my knees began to smart. “You don’t blame yourself, do you?” I said. “For what happened to your parents? They’re the ones who refused to go to the shelter. You did the safe thing.”

  Lea squirmed in her seat. Her lips parted, and my heart sang. Hallelujah! I’d gotten through. “That’s the way...” I said, encouragingly. “Tell Missus Rodd.”

  Lea leaned forward, and so did I. Our heads were inches apart when she vomited directly into my lap.

  “Oh,” I said, quite idiotically. I rose to my feet, holding my dress taut to contain the mess. Lea Toporek was pregnant. I should have guessed.

  Once we got everything cleaned up, she asked me for the name of a doctor who might “regulate a cycle.” It was a shocking request. After all, I hardly kept a roster of abortionists in my address book though. I suppose she noted my childless state and simply assumed.

  “You don’t need all that,” I told her. “You’re a pretty girl. If this Greenie person doesn’t pan out, just find a country rube to wed, and give birth to one of those mysteriously hardy, four-kilo premature babies.”

  Lea never mentioned the doctor again and, the next day, Gladys and I drove her out to Weston Manor. I asked Peter to inform Greenie of the relocation, only to discover the erstwhile fiancé had died.

  According to Danette, when she relayed the grim news, Lea was unusually composed. It seemed she’d already come to terms with Greenie’s absence, and written him off as dead, one way or another.

  * * *

  1 September 1942

  You can’t say I didn’t warn you!

  I hope you don’t mind the bit about your social skills, or your medical desires. It’s all true! If you wrote to me every once in a while, maybe we could shape this story to be more to your liking. It’s an idea, anyhow.

  Overall, the writing is not going as quickly as I’d hoped. I’ve been a bit distracted at the shop. I also have a friend staying with me, and my nephews are coming tomorrow. While this is sure to be a drag on my time, Jonathan and Desmond are better than most children, though they’re all either prigs or gangsters, and there’s no winning, either way.

  On top of all this strife are the ongoing war concerns. You must know what I mean! My husband is away in East Africa, which didn’t bother me until Lady Worthington got into my head. Now I’m paranoid he’s been shot! I’ve even sent a dispatch to Captain Roy—a beloved Frog of mine—asking if he could track him down. I’d like to know that he’s alive, and also why I haven’t heard a peep!

  Setbacks aside, I’m determined to press on. And so I return to my paper and pen.

  More soon.

  Love from

  NR

  September 1942

  G. Heywood Hill Ltd.

  The wartime autobiography was slow going, thanks to the war itself, the shop, and all the other obligations assaulting Nancy each day.

  Nonetheless, she did her best and today was squirreled away in the storage room, scratching out as many words as her hand allowed. As she completed one page and flipped to the next, Nancy heard Anne Hill barreling through the shop. She slid the notebook into her purse.

  “Nancy!” Anne screeched as she burst through the door. “What are you doing? You’re supposed to be working, and your nephews are running amuck in the shop!”

  “Goodness, Anne,” Nancy clucked. “Don’t lose your wig. For someone always prattling on about wanting to procreate, you have rock-bottom tolerance when it comes to children.”

  “I love children,” Anne insisted. “When they’re at home, where they belong. Are you going to bring them every day?”

  “I really thought you were more charitable,” Nancy said. “It’s only for two weeks, and it’s much easier for the boys to visit their mother while they’re here, with me, in London.”

  “You took them to Holloway?” Anne balked, and Nancy couldn’t tell if her expression was one of surprise or excitement. The prison was wretched, but most people loved to hear about horrible things. “Is it as bad as they say?”

  “I’ve taken them thrice,” Nancy said. “And, yes, the conditions are appalling. Think puddles on the floor, a straw mattress, one bucket of water for a week’s worth of hygiene.” Anne gasped and Nancy nodded. “All that and piles of rotten sandbags blocking the windows,” she said.

  Even for a traitor, it was harsh treatment. On the other hand, Diana had no one to blame but herself, and she did seem to enjoy the pageantry of suffering. Winston arranged for her to be allowed a bath each day, but she refused.

  “Well, it really is terrible about Diana,” A
nne said. “But I am running a commercial enterprise, not a day care.”

  “You have to admit, the boys are awfully nice,” Nancy said, and she meant it. Jonathan could be haughty for a twelve-year-old, but he spent most of his time reading The Peerage in the red selling room. Eleven-year-old Desmond was handsome like his father, and shared his gentle disposition, and therefore never made a peep. Though her sister would hate to hear it, their stepmother had done a magnificent job.

  “The boys are very polite,” Anne allowed. “But Lady Dashwood is also here, on the loose. She’s at present flirting with not one but two doughboys!”

  “Oh, brother,” Nancy said. “She does seem to attract them. Usually there’s more than two, so this is an improvement.” Americans were everywhere lately, running around in their perfectly pressed trousers, and shouting to one another in their obnoxiously loud voices. So prolific were these men that Mayfair was now referred to as Eisenhower Platz, and Half Moon Street was more or less an American dormitory.

  Nancy didn’t care for the type, but Hellbags ate them up, and in large quantity now that she’d come to the city to work at a Mosquito fighter plane factory and flirt with strange foreigners. The idea was to provoke Johnny, but he hardly cared. British men were far more concerned with their clubs and boat races than whether other people—especially their own wives—were having sex. Nancy didn’t know what Hellbags saw in the Americans. They hadn’t been anything close to what was promised on-screen. Where were the cocktail-swigging millionaires and gun-toting gangsters? The ones who’d descended upon London were cocksure, and governessy, and generally hopeless.

  “But they’re so good,” Hellbags insisted. “You can see it in their eyes!”

  “That’s only their contact lenses,” Nancy explained.

  “All right, dear,” Nancy said to Anne, and patted her head. “I’ll go check on things. It’s always my pleasure to chase away Americans.” She trotted off.

  Sure enough, the doughboys were loitering about the front selling tables, hee-ing and haw-ing and hanging all over Hellbags. Nancy sniggered. These kids stood no chance against a sultry, early-forties brunette who always kept a few tricks up her sleeve.