The Bookseller's Secret

by Michelle Gable

  “You’re right,” Simon says. “I did promise, but you did almost marry the bloke, so it’s a bit of a mindfuck.”

  “You have no idea,” Katie says. It was a bit of a mindfuck to see the two men in one place, and Katie spent most of the night awake, head brimming with thoughts of Simon, and Armie, and the infinite ways her life might’ve gone. How bizarre to think she was in London, kissing Simon, when she could’ve married Armie years ago, or stayed at her corporate job. Katie might’ve tried for kids earlier, and been successful, or never pursued writing a novel. Between these and other paths, Katie has enough material for two or three versions of The Pursuit of Love. As the idea passes through her mind, it sticks for a moment. Goose bumps break out along her skin.

  “You should stay in London,” Simon says.

  Katie shakes her head. “What?”

  “That might sound abrupt,” he says, and Katie senses him shrinking against the phone. “But writers can live anywhere. Take a leave from your life in the States. Stay here, write another book.”

  “I’d love to stay in London.” Katie tries to rub the chill from her arms. “But I don’t think they let you turn a vacation into a permanent stay. I don’t want to be deported, or banned from the country.”

  “Get a six-month visa,” he says.

  “That is...an idea,” Katie says, thinking it ludicrous yet not entirely out of the question. Armie said it himself—she could (and should) let the house. If Katie does this, she’ll have to move somewhere. But a foreign country? This feels like a lot. Also, she can’t leave Millie, and definitely not for six months. Can dogs get visas? What paperwork did Millie use to travel from Thailand?

  Someone clears a throat. It’s Jojo, leaning against the doorjamb. She makes one of those “hurry along” motions with her hand.

  “Maybe I’ll look into it,” Katie tells Simon. “I should go. Jojo’s just walked in, and this phone is starting to burn the side of my face.”

  “That is...not good.”

  Jojo begins to dramatically tap her foot.

  “All right,” Katie says. “Mom is pissed. I’ll call you back later?”

  “You’d better.”

  Katie smiles. “I promise.”

  * * *

  “Ignoring your best friend?” Jojo says, sauntering into the room. “For a boy? Damn, that’s cold. I’ve held your hand while you cried, and your hair while you puked. I’ve walked in on you hooking up with a random dude while wearing nothing but penny loafers and never told a soul.”

  “Yet you mention it once a year, minimum,” Katie says. She flips around and sits up. “I’m not ignoring you. You were at your in-laws’ all day yesterday, and I went to bed before you got home.”

  “Fine, but now it’s time to discuss the men. There are only two, right? Or do I need a spreadsheet to keep track of these sexual escapades?”

  “First of all, I did not invite Armie to London. You saw him leave yesterday morning, and I haven’t spoken to him since.”

  “All right. Got it. Only the one escapade, then. No spreadsheet required.”

  “No escapades!”

  “Really?” Jojo sours. “You didn’t sleep with the extremely delicious schoolteacher? That’s upsetting. Oh. Wait. Was it one of those ‘everything-but’ situations?”

  “No!” Katie groans, and she feels a bounce as Jojo plunks onto the bed. “I slept with him, okay?”

  “Geez. That bad?” Jojo says. “The hot ones will trick ya. They don’t think they have to be good at it, but no one cares what your face looks like when the lights are out.”

  “He was good, okay?” Katie glances away. “Great, in fact. Lord knows what he’d say about me, but I didn’t expire from sheer panic, like I thought I would. So, that’s something.”

  When Simon’s hand had slid between her shirt and her skin, Katie’s chest tightened, and she found herself short of breath. But Simon pulled her closer, and Katie felt him hard against her, and all thinking stopped. They tumbled into bed like they’d done it a dozen times before.

  “What’s there to panic about?” Jojo says. “It’s only sex.”

  “I’ve known him a week! And the last time I slept with someone other than Armie, the iPhone hadn’t been invented yet. Also, there’s the height discrepancy. I didn’t know how it would work! Tell me you wouldn’t be panicked in that situation.”

  Jojo cackles “Whoa, slow down,” she says. “I hope things weren’t that fast in the bedroom.”

  “Forgive me if I was a stitch overwhelmed!”

  “So. Simon is good, apparently, but the real question is, how did he compare to Armie?” Jojo asks.

  Katie screws up her face. “Wouldn’t a fling almost always be better than what’s happening fifteen years into a relationship?” she asks. “I’m all for monogamy, but no one gets married for the sex.”

  “Who knew,” Jojo says with a decidedly wicked smile, and now Katie is forced to imagine whether Nigel is a tiger in bed. “Well, if you’re going to get back into the swing of things, Simon’s the right partner for the dance. Very nicely done. Ten out of ten. A-plus-plus.” Jojo kisses her fingers, like a chef. “I wanted you to find your writing mojo, and part of me is irritated he distracted you. But if you’re happy, so am I.”

  “Actually, I might’ve found some writing mojo after all,” Katie says, and taps her forehead. “There might be a new story percolating.”

  “A new story!?” Jojo claps. “Hurrah! Erotic fiction, yes? About a hot principal? I’d read that book. I’d read it every damned day. You can name the protagonist Jojo, if you want.”

  “Very generous,” Katie says. “And it’s not erotic fiction. I’ll keep my ‘sexual escapes’ private, thank you very much. The idea is just a tiny little germ of a thing. I thought of it this morning and immediately felt those good old writerly chills.”

  Jojo squeals. “The second-best feeling in the world!” she says.

  “It seems so obvious,” Katie says. “Too obvious. I was thinking...maybe...a modern retelling of The Pursuit of Love?”

  “Yes! Of course!” Jojo says. “Would yours be semi-autobiographical, too?”

  “I’m shocked you know that about the book,” Katie says. “Whenever I mention Nancy Mitford, I assume you’re only half listening.”

  “Oh, that’s true,” Jojo says. “But I finally read the thing. Between you and Nigel going on about it, I figured it was about time. Plus, he really wants to watch that dumb adaptation.”

  “You read The Pursuit of Love?” Katie slaps both hands over her heart. “This is a seminal moment. What a gift.”

  “Okay, calm down.”

  “You’ve made my day!” Katie springs forward and tries to tackle Jojo into a hug.

  “Enough of that,” Jojo says, wiggling free. “It was damned funny, I’ll admit, but the book I want to talk about is yours.”

  “Don’t jinx it by calling it a book,” Katie says. “I haven’t written a word, but the idea would be to play out different versions of my life, or someone’s life, I’m not sure. But, realistically, not in a time-hop, Sliding Doors kind of way.”

  “Not how I read The Pursuit of Love, but okay,” Jojo says.

  “Obviously, I’d take a lot more liberties than Nancy did,” Katie says. “My upbringing wasn’t as entertaining, and I only had the one sister, and no screaming fathers.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short,” Jojo says. “Your childhood was pretty wild. The outrageous lack of supervision, for one. And, really, Armie was like a sibling, before you slept with him. Maybe even after you did.”

  “I will not be having my protagonist sleep with her brother.”

  “That’s a relief,” Jojo says, grinning. “Well, my friend, you’re supposed to write what excites you, what gets you out of bed in the morning, and this definitely qualifies. Sounds like you found something better in
that shop than someone else’s book.”

  “We’ll see...”

  They hear a click. The door pops open and Clive appears bearing an expression of angry-browed distress. Katie smiles nervously, hoping he didn’t hear anything about sex.

  “Did you change the Wi-Fi password?” he asks his mom, and with some heat.

  “You can have it after you finish your schoolwork.”

  “I need the Wi-Fi to accomplish that,” he says. “We’ve been over this.”

  Jojo throws Katie a look. “The way things are now, it’s impossible to know if your kid is doing homework,” she says, “or faffing about on Twitch.”

  Katie nods, wondering, What the hell is a Twitch?

  “If you bothered taking five minutes to google it,” Clive says, “you could easily figure out how to block certain websites. I’d show you, but...” He shrugs. “Probably best to keep that information in my back pocket.”

  “Go set up in your father’s office,” Jojo says. “Where you can be supervised. I’ll be up in five minutes, with the password.”

  Clive sets a timer on his Apple watch. “Five minutes starts NOW!” he says.

  With great flourish, he swirls around, but pauses one last time, just outside the door. “Hello, Miss Katie,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. “I didn’t mean to be rude. I like your sweater. Very beige.”

  Clive advances toward the elevator with great pomp and determination, like a miniature general.

  “His mum must be a total nightmare,” Jojo mutters.

  “I’m sure he’s not the easiest person to live with—”

  “Ha! That’s one way to put it!”

  “But I love that kid,” Katie says. “There’s no one like him in the world.”

  “He is indeed one of a kind. Brilliant and exhausting.” Jojo closes her eyes and touches her temples, as if she feels a headache coming on. “Eventually, Clive is going to realize he’s smarter than his parents, and then we’re truly fucked.” She opens her eyes again. “It’s probably happened already and he’s toying with us, like a cat with an injured mouse.”

  “His schemes seem more practical, or financial in nature,” Katie says. “As opposed to diabolical.”

  “It’s a very fine line,” Jojo says. “Feel free to take him home. We don’t have to formalize it or anything. Happy to agree to a very flexible arrangement.”

  Katie laughs. “Not sure I have the capacity to take on the whole of Clive,” she says. “But if you ever need to off-load him for a bit, send him to DC. I’m pretty sure I can keep him alive for a week or two.”

  “Careful, or I might take you up on that.” Jojo freezes for a second before swiveling toward Katie. “Oh. My. God,” she says, smiling so wide she’s showing nearly all of her teeth. “Now, hear me out before you say no.”

  “Oh, no...”

  She grips Katie, cutting off the circulation in her hand. “I have the best idea,” Jojo says. “Not only will it solve both of our problems, but it just might change your life.”

  “I feel like I’ve heard that before.”

  “Maybe you have.” Jojo grins. “The good news is I’m never, ever wrong.”

  March 1945

  Oxfordshire

  Nancy arrived at Faringdon House after the grimmest Christmas in years.

  The shops were empty, the celebrations desultory, and everyone was tired, and wan. The lone bit of excitement came from next door, when Trumper expired during a trim. As he went down, he sliced off his customer’s ear and the shop closed for a week.

  “I wish it had been Dearest,” Nancy joked to Mollie, and by “Dearest,” she meant their boss. But as much as she complained, Nancy had to give Heywood his due. He was not entirely made of denials and tyranny.

  “You may take off from January through March,” he’d said when, upon taking Hellbags’s advice, Nancy raised the idea of a leave.

  “Three months?” Nancy said, stunned he’d agreed, but worried he’d ultimately rescind this holiday, too. “Are you sure the shop can afford to be shorthanded? I do the work of two people, you know.”

  “So you tell me,” he’d said. “Every day, it seems. I think we’ll manage nonetheless.”

  Mollie was pleased to shoulder the extra work and Handy, their new employee, offered to help with the accounts and fire watch. Either he was very generous, or had his eye on Mollie, which seemed the more likely case.

  Her last night at the shop, Nancy giddily locked up the cash, the ledgers, and her old manuscript. With a hatbox filled with letters to the Colonel, Nancy sailed out of Heywood Hill and proceeded directly to her writing sanctuary, otherwise known as Lord Berners’s home in Oxfordshire.

  There were a million ways to describe Faringdon House, the gray eighteenth-century home built by the father of Britain’s worst poet laureate. The estate was a mixture of high and low, the serious and the absurd, starting with his collection of storks, shrimp-fed flamingos, and doves dyed pastel to resemble confetti in flight. Dogs scampered about the property in pearl necklaces that were constantly snapping and needing to be replaced.

  Inside, the home was just as irrational, featuring an unholy combination of gilded furniture, antique carpets, mechanical toys, and crass joke books. Several bedrooms had Dali-designed bureaus that cocked to the side, and signs were posted throughout.

  VISITORS ARE REQUESTED NOT

  TO LET OFF FIREARMS BETWEEN

  THE HOURS OF MIDNIGHT AND SIX A.M.

  And:

  OWING TO AN UNIDENTIFIED CORPSE

  IN THE CISTERN VISITORS ARE REQUESTED

  NOT TO DRINK THE BATH WATER

  And:

  MANGLING DONE HERE

  Flowers were cultivated in the kitchen garden, as were melons and the most delicious peaches Nancy had tasted, which Berners claimed were “ham-fed.” For supper, the chef kept a pre-wartime menu of caviar, foie gras, and plovers’ eggs to feed an entertaining rotation of guests.

  Nancy spent her days in the red bedroom, writing beside an enormous four-post bed, Milly and the puppy Rififi snoring at her feet. From her desk, Nancy could look out across the spectacular patchwork of fields, a landscape not unlike Asthall, her childhood home, renamed Alconleigh in her book. Beautiful Asthall-turned-Alconleigh, with its covered walkways and rolling hills. Alconleigh, where life was all summers, and Nancy could restore her family, if only in words.

  “You are now called Lord Merlin,” Nancy said to Lord Berners. They were in his green drawing room, surrounded by dark olive walls, towering piles of books, and butterflies and birds—some alive, others stuffed, or pinned under glass. “Mainly because of your warlock-inspired attire, and your home’s magical effects. It’s produced an entire novel, after all.”

  As in her letters to the Colonel, Nancy’s sentences had come swiftly, and without much fuss. Three months at Faringdon, and she was nearly finished.

  “Faringdon is thus named Merlinford,” Nancy continued, glancing down at her paper. “I’ve described it as a house to live in, not a place from which to shoot animals, as opposed to the type of home Farve prefers.”

  “Perfection!” Lord Berners said, with a chuckle. “What else can you reveal?”

  “Fanny is my narrator,” Nancy said, sorting through her work. “I gave her the most delightful guardian—Aunt Emily, a kindly figure who supports a girl’s right to an education. Though Fanny envies the Radletts’ ‘freedom from thrall and bondage,’ she does feel a priggish satisfaction in not being forced to grow up unlettered.”

  “Did you decide on a name for the protagonist’s much-derided firstborn?” Lord Berners asked, and Nancy beamed.

  “Linda Radlett’s daughter is called Moira,” she said. “In honor of Hellbags. It’s her middle name.”

  “I hope Lady Dashwood doesn’t mind.”

  “That’s the beautiful thing about Hellbags,�
� Nancy said. “She never minds much.”

  Lord Berners giggled, and it was good to see him in such a jovial mood. Since turning sixty, he’d been through many trials, including two grave illnesses, and a visit to the eye hospital. He now had to wear dark glasses full-time, though insisted it wasn’t a medical necessity but because his “kind eyes caused beggars to swarm.”

  “Hallo!” a voice said, and a young man’s head poked through the partially opened door. “I’m escorting Pansy Lamb on a walk ’round the lake. Does anyone else need a dog taken out?”

  Their visitor was Lord Berners’s companion, the twenty-eight-years-younger Robert Heber-Percy, otherwise known as Mad Boy. Three years ago, Mad Boy married a woman, thereby transforming their duo into a ménage à trois. They had a daughter together, but the wife and child soon tired of the arrangement and left last year.

  “If you don’t mind taking Milly and Rififi, that’d be grand,” Nancy said. “But if Milly puts up a fuss, leave her be. She’s been a brat since Rififi’s come along.”

  Mad Boy nodded and disappeared. A few minutes later, Nancy saw him through the French windows, near the fountain, dragging along four dogs of comically differing presentation: a retriever, a dalmatian, a pug, and a baby French bulldog.

  “In the book, your dogs are whippets,” Nancy told Lord Berners. “And they wear diamonds instead of pearls.”

  “Nancy! Diamonds would be so excessive!”

  Nancy smirked. “Yes, quite different to pearls.”

  Lord Berners stood and smoothed the wrinkles from his green crêpe de chine pajamas. “I think I’ll join Robert by the lake,” he said. “I need to get in my exercise. Are you still available for the party tonight?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for anything,” Nancy said.

  She tried to divine the thoughts Farve—Uncle Matthew in the book—would have about the event.

  “...a lot of aesthetes, sewers from Oxford, and I wouldn’t put it past him to bring some foreigners.”

  Incredible, Nancy thought, as Berners stepped out of the room. Everything was finally coming together—her book, this war, life in sum. Nancy couldn’t remember the last time she felt so gay, so uplifted, so filled with a sensation she could only describe as “hope.”