The Bookseller's Secret

by Michelle Gable

  A few minutes later, Simon appears over her shoulder. “Hopefully you’ll find this one as non-horrible as the last,” he says.

  “Thank you.” Katie takes a sip. “Thank you for the beer, for listening, for taking me on your Nancy Mitford adventure. It’s been...” Her words fade away.

  “The pleasure’s all mine,” he says, then studies her for a second. “You’re still thinking about it, aren’t you? Why Nancy wrote about Lea?”

  “Yes!” Katie says, wondering if he has any idea that Nancy might’ve written with Lea, too. “I’m sure your grandmother was delightful, but it’s very annoying!”

  Simon laughs. “I’ve never met someone so interested in the motives of a writer,” he says. “You have some very unusual personality quirks.”

  As Katie opens her mouth, as she starts to say that writers are obsessive, and she knows this because she sometimes considers herself one, Simon takes her hand. “Let’s find somewhere to watch,” he says.

  Katie feels joggled, all mixed-up. “Oh. Okay,” she stutters, and trails after him.

  As Simon leads her deeper into the crowd, Katie hopes he can’t feel her pulse through her palm. Is the hand-holding a romantic overture, or a by-product of her height? Katie is small like a child and could easily get lost.

  “This should work,” Simon says. They stop beside a tall, lighted tree and he squeezes and then releases her hand. Katie’s arm drops and she stares up at him, dumbfounded.

  “Are you kidding me?” she says, and Simon looks down.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “This!” Katie says, making large circles with her hands. “You really think this is a good spot? All I can see are other people’s backs!”

  “No. Really?” Simon says, and squats to match her height.

  Katie presses down on his head. “It’s more like this,” she says.

  “Holy shit!” Simon gasps loud enough that three people whip around. “You can’t see fuck all down here!”

  “Yeah, no kidding. Literally welcome to my world.”

  Simon stretches back to full height and reaches over to playfully yank on her stub of a ponytail. “You’re so cute,” he says. “Everything about you is in miniature. Your stature, your voice, your hairdo.”

  Katie rolls her eyes. “It’s not a hairdo,” she says. “It’s a ponytail.” Also a way to deal with scraggly, dishwater hair that hasn’t been highlighted in months.

  “I’m sorry. Let’s find somewhere else,” he says, and again takes Katie’s hand. “If all else fails, we can pop you up onto my shoulders.”

  “You’re mean,” Katie says, and they find somewhere that seems better, so long as she’s willing to stand in a planter.

  “By the way,” Simon says, “I should be the one thanking you, for your help with the manuscript, and coming tonight, and, yeah, everything else.” His eyes dart away. “When did you say you were going back to the States? Saturday?”

  “Funny story. I mentioned missing my father’s so-called birthday party?” Katie says, and takes a gulp of beer. “That’s because I extended my trip. I’m staying in London until Wednesday.”

  A grin rips across Simon’s face. “Katie! That’s fantastic! The best news I’ve heard in ages. Uh, but why do you appear distressed? Are you sad to miss the party?”

  “Sad, no,” Katie says. “I hate fighting with my sister, but don’t feel the need to attend. She and my mom are big into the milestone shit, not me. I find it all a little weird. Congrats, I guess, on being dead for as long as you were alive.”

  “It is...unconventional...” Simon frowns. “Has this happened before? These celebrations?”

  “Only all the time,” Katie says. “When the math is compelling. I wish they’d stop it, but I can’t say anything. It’s always been everyone on one side and me over here.” She holds her hands apart. “When my dad died, my sister and mom hunkered down in their grief. I was a resilient child, and they sort of left me to fend for myself.”

  Katie feels Simon nudge closer. “Fend for yourself, how?” he asks.

  “Well, let’s see... For example, by age seven, I was making all my own meals. At ten, I was signing permission slips, and arranging car pools to practices and games.” Katie chuckles. “I’m lucky there weren’t any pervy coaches in the neighborhood at the time.”

  Katie was fourteen when Judy married Charles, and they all moved into Little Falls Farm. That summer, the newlyweds embarked upon a three-month European honeymoon while Britt, who was twenty, stayed in Chapel Hill to work and take classes. Katie was left alone, aside from occasional supervision by Nanny Carol, and several nights spent in Armie’s guest bedroom. The summer wasn’t all bad—Katie ate pizza four times per week and taught herself how to drive her stepbrother’s Toyota Celica.

  “Katie. That is terrible,” Simon says. “You were only fourteen.”

  “It’s not that big of a deal. Just a touch of benign neglect. My grandmother was around, and I, uh, stayed with an old neighbor for a good chunk of it.”

  “Yeah, but still. It could’ve ended very badly,” he says. “Is that behavior even legal in the States? Couldn’t your parents have been arrested?”

  “Nah,” Katie says. “Too rich and too white. It really wasn’t as bad as it sounds. No one could’ve called me deprived.”

  “There’s more than one way to have a traumatic upbringing,” Simon says. “Jesus.”

  “Are you trying to make me hate my parents?” Katie jokes, playfully elbowing him in the ribs. “Then and now, I refuse to let it bother me. Okay, enough about my apparently heart-wrenching childhood. Tonight, let’s forget about past injustices and have fun.”

  “Sounds perfect to me,” Simon says. He grins and puts an arm around her as John Cleese walks onto the stage. The crowd roars and tears begin to trickle down Katie’s cheeks.

  “John Cleese,” Katie says. “Goddamned Basil Fawlty.”

  Simon shifts toward her and, in a thick German accent, says, “Hors d’oeuvres...vich must be obeyed...vithout question!”

  “Don’t mention the war,” she hisses in return.

  “Yes, you did!” he shouts. “You invaded Poland!”

  Katie laughs, and so do the handful of people nearby who’ve picked up on the joke. Simon pulls her against him as John Cleese welcomes the masses.

  “I’m so glad you’re staying,” he whispers, and goose bumps shoot along her arms.

  “Three...two...” John Cleese counts. “One!” He flips the switch, and the lights turn on. As he pops a bottle of champagne, a trio of women in elf costumes walk onto the stage.

  Sleigh bells ring, are you listening?

  In the lane, snow is glistening.

  Katie and Simon pivot toward each other and exchange grins. Nose tingling, Katie looks back at the stage and her eyes fill with a different brand of tear, something close to joy, or maybe relief. Life was so scary and so awful for such a long time, Katie truly doubted the world would ever be the same. Of course, this isn’t her world, and exactly nothing is the same, but it feels full, and it feels whole, and that seems like a miracle.

  “Katie?” Simon says. “You all right?”

  “Yes.” She glances over. “Just a little...emotional.”

  Later on, we’ll conspire.

  As we dream by the fire...

  He nods. “I know what you mean.”

  Simon leans down, and Katie looks up, and their lips meet. A thrill rises and Katie thinks that, maybe, in a few key areas, life is even better than before.

  January 1943

  G. Heywood Hill Ltd.

  “Hullo, hullo!” Nancy said, dancing into the shop with a bagful of books. “I’m back! Anne, darling, where are you?”

  “Excuse me, ma’am?” said a customer as she brushed past. It was an American—no time for that today.

  “Sorry,
Gov,” she said. “A bit busy. Maybe come back later? How’s noon tomorrow, while I’m on lunch?”

  Nancy knew she was doing little to help the shop’s bilateral reputation—the doughboys had taken to calling it “the Ministry of Fear,” but they were bringing this on themselves. How Hellbags stood them was a question for the ages.

  “Anne!” Nancy called again, only to find her friend slumped in a chair beside the fireplace. “Oh, ducky, you look ever like death.”

  Anne Hill’s pregnancy had become a full-time occupation, and Nancy did not relish the added work. The burgeoning proprietress was more scattered than ever, slapping the wrong labels on the wrong boxes and sending payments to incorrect addresses. Somewhere along the way, she’d misplaced her family allowance pay book and hid sixty pounds in the shop, but could not remember where.

  “What are we going to do with you?” Nancy said, and batted Anne’s foot. “You still have several months left!”

  “Life has become untenable!” Anne wailed. “I literally cannot carry even a few books from one place to another and I need to get fitted for yet another maternity belt. I feel horrible!”

  “You’re not doing yourself any favors,” Nancy pointed out. “With that thing you’re wearing.”

  Anne glanced down at her three-quarter-sleeve, camel-hair maternity jacket.

  “I bought it for a pound last week,” she said. “You don’t like it?”

  “I might possibly vomit.”

  “I thought it was economical of me,” Anne said with a pout.

  “Economical is not always the right idea,” Nancy said, and set her bag on the ground. “Perhaps the goodies I snatched up at Hodgson’s will give you some cheer.”

  As she sat beside Anne, Nancy pulled several books from her bag. “Robert Louis Stevenson’s Not I, and Other Poems,” she said. “Life on the Mississippi by Samuel L. Clemens. Symptoms of Being Amused. Don’t worry, ducky, you don’t have that disease. This one I nabbed for Lady Dashwood. What do you think?” Nancy held up the book: The Sportsman’s Portfolio of American Field Sports.

  “Ugh,” Anne said, about this or perhaps some other thing.

  “Our Hellbags is a most sporting girl,” Nancy said with a titter. “I left bids for several more. Can’t wait to see if I’ve won. How much do we have in the account?”

  “About five hundred pounds?”

  “Not for long,” Nancy said. “What’d I miss while I was out?”

  “Nothing, everything,” Anne said. “It’s just effort, effort, effort, all the time. And now we’re dealing with air raids again. I thought we were past all that!”

  “It is frustrating,” Nancy agreed. To some extent, Nancy shared Anne’s mental weariness. Two weeks ago, the Luftwaffe launched its first air raid in almost two years, and hadn’t let up since. Fifty casualties one day, two hundred the next, and rumors that ran amok. A large bomb was said to have killed twenty at St. John’s Wood, and for days people swore Churchill was dead. After one drop, Mollie failed to report to work, sending them all into hysteria. As it turned out, she’d only been getting her hair done, but these near misses could distract a person for the whole day.

  Life was back to waiting for the next bomb to drop, and now the shop was responsible for fire watch, too. Three nights per week, Nancy and Mollie tromped up to the roof of Crewe House and waited for a fire to break out on Berkeley Street, or in Shepherd Market Square. At the first sign of a flame, they scampered into the blackout laden with buckets and a stirrup pump.

  Despite these infringements on Nancy’s schedule, the Colonel was soon leaving for an Allied conference in Casablanca, and thus Nancy might find some space. She hated the idea of him being gone an entire week, but she’d be able to focus on her writing, maybe even kick off some kind of streak. The missed holiday had disrupted everything.

  “Just remember,” Nancy said, rubbing Anne’s swollen leg. “We got through the last set of raids and the Christmas onslaught. We’ll get through this.”

  “But we were younger then,” Anne said. “Sprightlier and less worn down. Heywood was still here at Christmas, along with Hester!”

  Nancy made a face. “Hester Griffin is about as helpful as a head cold.”

  “What about you?” Anne said, her brown eyes choked with tears.

  “What about me? I’m sitting right here.”

  “This is only a wartime job for you,” Anne said. “You could leave at any time.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Nancy said. “I need this job! And I’m too old and decrepit for the war machine, so no worries there.”

  Sighing, Anne closed her eyes and leaned back into her chair. “Nancy?” she sniffled. “Do you think I’ve taken too much quinine for my cold? I’m worried that it might be one of those things that Doctor Saunders said not to do, like driving a hundred miles, or riding horseback.”

  “Surely you would’ve recalled if the doctor said anything about it.” Nancy jumped to her feet. “Enough of this hiver-havering. I’ve got a brilliant idea! Let’s close the shop early and catch dinner at Norway. I’m in the mood for something lowbrow.”

  “That would be excellent,” Anne said, rubbing her eyes like a sleepy child. “I do need a change of scenery.”

  “That’s the spirit. You sit tight.” Nancy dropped a blanket across her lap. “I have a few bits to sort for the shop and will be back in two shakes.”

  On her way to the office, Nancy popped into the lav and noticed one of Anne’s letters poking out from beneath a Penguin. Anne was careless with her private correspondence, likewise sellable books that should be on the floor, and Nancy would have to speak to her about this—again.

  As she lowered onto the seat, Nancy slid the paper from the book and gave it a scan. The letter was for Heywood and contained Anne’s usual inventory of maladies and discontents. Nancy was about to set it down, when a paragraph drew her eyes to the page.

  Jim was saying that Emerald Cunard is the only woman entertaining in all of London, but Cecil Beaton reminded him of Nancy’s midnight salons, and her constant trickle of friends coming into and out of the shop. Sadly, I think our little place increasingly has the imprint of Nancy’s personality and not ours.

  “Oh, you little demon,” Nancy murmured. The place needed some personality, didn’t it? She flipped to the back and read on.

  Nancy is being rather difficult, and I fear a bit bored and irritated by me, and by everything.

  Nancy gasped. Her fingers slackened, and the letter fluttered to the floor. For a moment, Nancy sat frozen, pondering what to make of what she’d just read. Finally, she completed her business and collected the discarded sheets. Hands trembling, she slid them beneath the book.

  In truth, Nancy was bored sometimes, and irritated, especially with Anne, but seeing it written down felt like treachery or, at the very least, an insult to Nancy’s efforts, and her canceled December writing plans.

  “Anne, darling!” Nancy called as she threw open the door. “Are you almost ready for dinner? By the by, I think you left something in the lav!”

  * * *

  “Goodness,” Nancy said, heaving, as she flopped back onto the bed. She was spending the rare night at the Colonel’s, which meant sleeping in her friend’s bedroom, among the pink lace and frills. “Having sex with you is like getting run over by a freight train. Religious people probably feel this way sometimes.”

  “Religious people don’t laugh half as much as you,” the Colonel said, and Nancy looked at him.

  “Don’t all women laugh during sex?” she asked.

  “With me, most of them cry,” he said. “Or call out for their mothers, or beg the Lord to forgive them.”

  “Oh, brother,” Nancy said, and rolled her eyes. “This is one of the many disadvantages to my upbringing. I never received the proper training about how to react to things.”

  “You are perfect
to me.” The Colonel rotated onto his side and dropped an arm across Nancy’s waist. “Tu te sens mieux maintenant, princesse?”

  “I feel physically better, though mentally is another matter. The gall of Anne to complain about me like that! I only wish I could bring it up, but she’s already in such a foul mood. What should I do?”

  “Maybe refrain from reading her private letters, to start?”

  “Colonel!” Nancy said, and gave him a loving swat. “She leaves them out!”

  “But you are bored and irritated, no? Is Anne Hill not correct?”

  “No, she’s right.” Nancy sighed. “And things are bound to get worse. Simpkin stopped supplies! He’s the chap who sells books to the trade at a discount. Now we’ll have to buy directly from the publisher, which will cut into our profits, thereby sending Anne into deeper pits of despair. Meanwhile, customers are more demanding than ever, as if we can somehow make up for the austerity measures. Harry Clifton rang me at home, hoping to buy a speedboat!”

  The Colonel gave one of his deep-throated laughs. “But you sell books!”

  “Yes, but we are one of the few businesses still operating normally, so they think we can get anything. Col, I must get out of that shop.” Nancy sighed again. “If there’s one advantage to finding that letter, it’s that Anne’s given me a nice smack on the rear. Time to get moving on my book! I got down two thousand words today.”

  “Excellent, my love!” The Colonel kissed her on the shoulder. “You see? It turned out all right.”

  “For now. But Anne will have her baby soon, and the war drags on and on.” It felt as though only last week Churchill was telling Decca not to give up hope, that surely her husband was missing in action and would eventually return home. Now her sister was set to marry again, this time an American lawyer who was even more of a pinko than the last. “That first summer,” Nancy said, “everyone swore this would be done by the end of the year. At Christmastime we were giddy to think 1940, the most awful year to date, was over and done. Two years on, nothing’s changed, and we’re all accustomed to the treachery.”