I’m glad to be in England, her sister had told the swarm of reporters. Even if I’m not on your side.
“This is ever so difficult,” the Colonel said, and reached for Nancy’s hand. “It is impossible when people we love make decisions that seem so wrong.”
Nancy sniffled, her eyes burning with tears. The Colonel squeezed her hand again and asked which sister followed Unity. “Please, Non-cee,” he said. “Tell me more of this notorious family.”
“Decca was born a few years later,” Nancy said, dabbing her eyes. “You might’ve read about her, too. Or red, as in the color, our dear little Communist. She and Unity were the closest growing up. They invented Boudledidge and shared a room. Try to picture it: one half decorated with hammers, sickles, and Vladimir Lenin, the other with swastikas and Hitler.” Nancy believed it was this very closeness that pushed each girl to her eventual extreme. They wouldn’t have been so heels-dug-in without a foil on the other side. “Goodness,” Nancy said, feeling wiped out. “Aren’t you bored? There are so many beautiful women here, and you’ve barely glanced at any of them!”
“Non-cee,” the Colonel said, studying her face with great earnestness. “This is the most delightful conversation I’ve had in years. I’ve been counting and there is one sister left.”
“Deborah,” Nancy said. “Our parents’ last chance at a boy. My mother was so upset to have another girl she didn’t write the birth in her engagement book, and Farve refused to look at Debo for three months!”
“No! That cannot be true. It is too hateful and cruel!”
“That’s Farve for you,” Nancy said. “And Muv as well.”
Unlike her husband, Lady Redesdale wasn’t a raving lunatic, and her company was mostly pleasant, when she wasn’t reciting Fascist propaganda, or browbeating everybody that windows must stay cracked all twelve months of the year. Sydney was beautiful, and intelligent, and possessed a financial sense her husband sorely lacked. She actively encouraged her daughters to pursue their interests and remain independent of men. While Farve liked to scream and shoot things, Muv’s hobbies included writing to newspapers about “murdered food” and the pumping of “disgusting dead germs” into bodies, otherwise known as vaccines, as well as avoiding any activity related to home and family. Farve relished the company of his children, but Muv remained cold and remote, forever disappearing into her cloud.
“Everyone cried when Debo was born,” Nancy said, and the Colonel gasped. “Nonetheless, she made the perfect baby of the family—always content, never desperate to escape like the rest of us. She loved hunting, and walking the pheasant coverts with Farve, and is the only one of us who claims a happy childhood.”
“But it sounds happy to me,” the Colonel said. “Or else very much fun!”
“It was. I probably didn’t need to be quite so anxious to get away.”
“I love this all so much, but how will I keep it straight?” he said. “There are so many of you!”
“It’s easier than you think,” Nancy said. “Just remember that I’m the oldest, and Diana’s the middle. The youngest three you can recall with nicknames. I used to say that our parents were so tired of children by then, they named them Nit, Sick, and Bore. Short for Unity, Jessica, and Deborah.”
“Nancy! You are wicked!”
“They loved the attention,” Nancy said. “Add Tom to the pile, and Pamela, if you feel like it, and there you have it—la famille Mitford.”
“Garçon!” the Colonel called out, snapping his fingers. He jumped to his feet. “I would like to pay my bill! Nancy Mitford and I are going dancing!”
“Dancing? Isn’t it too late?”
“This is my favorite time of night! I’m a bomber. I like the dark.”
“I have to work tomorrow,” Nancy said, though she was already standing, and following his lead. “I’m not a romper type.” On the other hand, Nancy was wearing her utility dress, with its ease of movement and glow-in-the-dark buttons, which lessened the chances of getting hit by an auto while on the street. Not that uncomfortable clothing and covered headlights were the only risks Nancy faced in staying out with the Colonel.
“This night is not over,” he said, and offered her his arm. “There will be more of you and me.”
“Oh, what the hell,” Nancy said, and looped her arm through his.
Together they walked out of the Allies’ Club and into the night, with Nancy feeling giddy as a schoolgirl and the Colonel humming to himself. The tune was “September Song,” one of Nancy’s favorites.
And the days dwindle down.
To a precious few.
September, November.
And these few precious days.
I’d spend with you...
Wednesday Evening
South Audley Street
“That pretty much sums up the arc for the new series,” Jojo says as she and Katie walk up South Audley Street, killing time during Lionel’s piano lesson. “It’ll be a bit more on the romantic side than usual, so fingers crossed.”
“You write relationships so well,” Katie says. “I can’t wait to read them.”
Jojo sighs. “That’s the hope,” she says. “Of course, I have a different book to worry about right now. I’m trying to focus, but the kids are giving me a run for my money. One kid, specifically. The first time hearing from authorities. What a milestone.”
The problem, of course, is Clive.
“At least his would-be crimes aren’t violent,” Katie offers. Though she doesn’t know the particulars, Katie understands Clive did something very technical and slick, an act that could’ve resulted in an indictment for wire fraud, were he not eight years old. “He’s not getting into schoolyard scrapes and fights.”
“Yeah, but I could probably stop that,” Jojo says. “The technology stuff is beyond my pay grade. And the evil genius schtick is far less amusing when Mum’s on two deadlines. See that building?” Jojo points to a small, brick church with arched windows and a mint-colored spire. “Grosvenor Chapel, the place where Keira Knightley’s character got married in Love Actually.”
“I know I’m not supposed to like that movie,” Katie says. “But I can’t help myself.”
“Same,” Jojo says.
They hook right, turning into a small cul-de-sac. To the left is Harry’s Bar, sitting brightly on the corner with its pink-green-and-white-striped awning, and matching pink, green, and white Christmas baubles.
“You’re not in danger of missing it, are you?” Katie says. “Your deadline?”
“I’ll have eighty thousand words by the due date,” Jojo says. “And that equals a book. Whether these words are decent is very much TBD, and Tansy is not doing me any favors. Clive suggested installing a tracking device on her phone, and this is beginning to seem like a good idea.”
“Tansy?” Katie’s ears ping. “Well, well, well,” she says. “What do we have here? May I presume this is the name of your top secret client?”
“Shit!” Jojo groans. “Shit! Shit! Shit!” She stops and throws back her head. “Ugh! Yes. Okay. I’m working with TansyTM. But you cannot tell anyone.”
“Not a problem,” Katie says. “By the by, what the fuck is a tan-see-tee-em?”
“That’s her name. Tansy, followed by T and M.” Jojo writes the letters in the air. “As in, a trademark.”
Katie looks at her cross-eyed. “I have literally never heard of this person,” she says.
“Sure you have,” Jojo insists, and they begin walking again. Through a gate flanked by two red phone booths, they enter Mount Street Gardens.
“This is incredibly disappointing,” Katie says. “When your best friend is ghostwriting a celebrity memoir, you expect an actual celebrity to be involved.”
“She’s a famous Gen Z YouTube influencer,” Jojo says. “Ask Dani and Clem. They’d know. She’s twenty-one.”
“As in, years?” Katie balks. “That’s too young to write a book! Her brain isn’t even developed yet! What on earth could she possibly ‘influence’? Does she sell makeup or hair products or something?”
“It’s really more of a lifestyle,” Jojo says.
“A lifestyle?” Katie repeats. “Good grief. Well, what is it? I’m dying to know.”
Up ahead the path splits, and they veer right. Along the way, signposts identify the garden’s birds: robins, goldcrests, magpies, and blackbirds. The palm trees and other greens are more vibrant than Katie would’ve expected this time of year.
“It’s hard to put into words,” Jojo says. “Picture a Gen Z version of a tech bro. You know how they are with their life hacks, and bio hacks, and all that crap. It’s a ‘tips and tricks’ situation, but her ideas are accessible. She’s not advocating keto diets or micro-dosing LSD, or anything too out there.”
“People do that?”
“You really need to get out more.” Jojo chuckles, seemingly to herself. “Tansy’s pretty clever. Turns out she was ignored a lot as a kid. She’s from the States, actually—West Virginia, which is why I was chosen to write it.”
“What’s she doing in London?” Katie asks.
“Moved here for a musician. I’d tell you his name, but you probably wouldn’t recognize that either,” Jojo says.
“Har, har.” Katie rolls her eyes. “Are they still together, Tansy and the musician?”
“They’re separated, but not yet divorced.”
“Divorced! Twenty-one and divorced!”
“Please. You cannot tell a soul,” Jojo warns. “I know you don’t talk to anyone, but still...keep your mouth shut.”
“Sure, you bet,” Katie says, and narrows her eyes. “I do consort with other humans, though. I’m not a total recluse.”
“If you insist.” Jojo stops to check something on her phone. “So, what’s going on at Heywood Hill, with Nancy Mitford? Have any good leads on the memoir?”
“Not yet,” Katie admits. “Although I did come across something that caught my interest, unrelated to the manuscript. It was in a published compilation of her correspondence.”
Earlier that day, as Katie read one of the letters for the second or third time, a footnote snuck up on her, appearing out of the clear blue, and Katie halfway believed it hadn’t been there before.
1Nancy’s affair with André Roy had resulted in an ectopic pregnancy.
“Nancy had an ectopic pregnancy,” Katie says. “At thirty-seven.” It was the first she’d heard of it.
“Wow.” Jojo blinks. “Same age as you.”
“Technically, I was thirty-eight.” Katie exhales. “But yeah.” She is glad for what they both know but don’t need to say. Had her own embryo implanted in the right location and survived, Katie would be expecting a baby, due next week.
They continue along the path. Though it’s not yet five o’clock, the sun is already falling, sending beams of light between the mansions surrounding the park.
“That must’ve been hard to read,” Jojo says.
Katie nods. “A lot of it is,” she says, thinking of another letter, this one written shortly after Nancy’s death.
I really think she had a FOUL life, Debo wrote to Decca. I know she had success as a writer but what is that compared to things like proper husbands & lovers & children—think of the loneliness of all those years, so sad.
No wonder Nancy’s sisters complained about sarcasm, and her cruel wit. She probably used it to get by.
“Do you miss him?” Jojo says, and Katie looks at her. “Armie, I mean.”
“We still talk, here and there,” Katie says. “We text about the dog.”
“You know that’s not what I asked.”
“Of course I do,” Katie says. “He was in my life for over thirty years, and now he’s not. He was my first friend, which means there’s a gaping hole that can never be filled. Plus, it’s hard to think about all those years I frittered away, and for what? A good deal on a house that I’ll probably have to sell?”
“Geez, give the guy some credit,” Jojo says. “He meant a lot to you, and you can’t consider the entire relationship a waste. If nothing else, maybe you needed to go through all that to end up here. It’s called personal growth.”
Katie looks at her friend. “Now you’re sticking up for Armie?” she says. “I thought you hated him!”
“That’s not true,” Jojo says. “He’s a good guy, when you get down to it. I just didn’t like the two of you together.”
“I know, I know. The competitiveness. The one-upmanship.”
“That was part of it, yes,” Jojo says. “But what really got me was the way he handled the—” She lets out a long and anguished breath. “What truly incensed me about Armie was how he made everything about him. First, he pressured you to have kids. When things didn’t go his way, he acted like it was his damned tragedy when you were the one who had to deal with everything physically.”
“Yeah, but they were his losses, too,” Katie says. “I’m glad he was upset. I would’ve been pissed if he wasn’t.”
“I guess,” Jojo says, nibbling on her bottom lip. “It kind of applies to everything, though. Like, with your dad. You’re incredibly stoic and matter-of-fact about his death. Meanwhile, this joker from next door—” she crooks a thumb “—he wells up at the mere mention of Danny Cabot. Dude never even met him!”
“I’ll admit it’s a little weird,” Katie says. “But it’s never really bothered me.” She pauses to consider why not. “Armie does get overly invested in things, but that’s part of his appeal. He cares because he knows it was something that impacted me. As for the pregnancy stuff, I don’t need you to stick up for me, because the trying was harder on him than it was on me, since I was more ambivalent. Anyway, it doesn’t matter now. I’m not that great with kids, and Armie will be a fantastic dad, and everything worked out for the best.”
“I hate when you talk like that,” Jojo says, and her jaw hardens. “It’s irritating and complete bullshit. Not good with kids. What about your nieces?”
“Dani and Clem are the most likable people in the world!”
“You seem to do all right with the non-likable ones, too,” Jojo says. She gives Katie a pointed look. “If you know what I mean.”
“Clive is extremely likable, but I don’t do all right. He makes me very nervous!”
“He makes most adults nervous, because he’s smarter than them. Clive loves you,” Jojo says, and Katie snorts. “I’m serious. Because of you, he’s writing a book, and by hand. The last time I took away his electronics, he got his fix on my Peloton screen. That cute little aspiring white-collar criminal admires you.”
“You should hear what he says about my phone.”
“Oh, I have,” Jojo says. “He wants us to loan you money for a new one. Believe me, you have a higher Clive tolerance than anyone I know. Not for nothing, but for someone who is always so against sequels, you sure do love to stick to the same damned narrative.”
“That’s not fair,” Katie says as they exit the gardens. “I broke up with Armie, didn’t I? And I came to London.”
“I’ll give you that,” Jojo says, begrudgingly.
They cross swanky Mount Street and stop beside an art installation—a raised-edge, granite pool. Every fifteen seconds, a mist forms over the illuminated water, giving an eerie, dreamlike quality to the street.
“I’m branching out in another way, too,” Katie says, looking toward the Connaught Hotel, instead of at her friend. “I have a date tomorrow night.”
“A date?” Jojo says. “You have a goddamned date tomorrow night? GET. OUT.” She gives Katie a playful shove and Katie nearly topples over into the water feature. “My little minx! I like this version of Katharine Cabot. I like her very much. Would’ve been fun to have a peck more of her at school, but
here we are. Who’s the lucky fellow? The manuscript bloke? He’s a teacher, right?”
“Head teacher but, yeah, that’s the one.”
“Well, you should probably be working on a book right now instead of shagging hot schoolteachers, but I’ll give you a pass, and it does beat your prior pastime of stumping about morose. Where is this lothario taking you?”
“It’s very casual,” Katie says. “Barely even a date. We met for breakfast this morning, and he mentioned the Christmas lighting at Shepherd Market, and now we’re going. I was the one who suggested it. It sort of...came out.”
“NICE. Taking charge. I like it.”
“It’ll never go anywhere, but I enjoy being around him,” Katie says, wondering if this feeling she’s presently having might be described as “butterflies.”
“What’s his name again?” Jojo says, and whips out her phone.
“Simon Bailey. Are you googling him?”
“Don’t pretend you haven’t.”
“I don’t need to pretend,” Katie says.
Jojo looks up, alarmed. “God, you are really bad at this, and that’s coming from four people’s middle-aged mom. What am I going to do with you? Where does he work?”
“He’s a head teacher in Burwash, East Sussex,” Katie says. “I don’t know the name of the school. It’s in High Yield or something? There are letters. OMB.”
“Eastern High Weald,” Jojo says as she types into the phone. “AONB stands for Area of Natural Beauty, not Office of Management and Budget. You really are a Washington creature. Oh, my! Here he is.”
Lips pursed, Jojo takes approximately forever to study the screen and Katie panics, contemplating the potential horrors. Unsavory political affiliations? A wife and family? Documented beliefs in ill-founded child-trafficking conspiracy theories?
Katie cringes. “What? What is it?”
The Bookseller's Secret Page 15
