The Bookseller's Secret

by Michelle Gable

“Hello, friends!” Nancy called out. “Can you believe this terrible weather? It’s so windy and dry. It’s as though London never wants anyone to be comfortable for more than a minute or two.”

  “What is happening here?” Eddy said as he studied Nancy, his top lip curled. “Are you wearing a disguise?”

  “It’s called fashion, darling,” Nancy said. She popped off her sunglasses and brand-new hat—a straw affair with immense velvet bows—and tossed them as well as her handbag onto a nearby chair.

  “I’m glad we arrived ONE HOUR AGO,” Jim grouched. “I thought this was supposed to be a farewell party, yet the guest of honor was on the lam.”

  Mollie peered around the corner. “We’ve all been terrifically concerned,” she said.

  “Goodness, Mollie, you, too? I told you I had some bits of last-minute business, though it’s ever so nice to be missed!” Nancy turned back toward her friends. “I do extend my greatest apologies. A delay could not be avoided. I was at Drummonds, seeing about my passport and exit papers. Apparently, they were trying to be as inefficient as possible, and to wild success. One more stamp from the Foreign Office, and it’s off to France!”

  Nancy’s dreams, out of reach for so long, were on the brink of coming true. Within weeks she’d be in Paris, and The Pursuit of Love would publish at the end of the year. Nancy had the money to do what she wanted, thanks to Farve, and a two-hundred-fifty-pound book advance, which she considered enormous. She’d mailed half to Lea, since she didn’t anticipate ever putting out their war memoir.

  Thanks also went to Peter, who relented to Nancy’s plan under three conditions: Nancy never demanded a divorce, the memoir would remain locked up, and he could stay on at Blomfield Road. Peter probably got the better end of the stick but, when it came to Paris, Nancy would give anything.

  It wasn’t merely Nancy’s life that was falling into place, but the world at large. Hitler was dead, her friends were coming home, and last week peace was officially declared. While Evelyn had celebrated by being drunk from eight o’clock in the morning until midnight, Nancy and Hellbags swarmed with the masses outside Buckingham Palace, chanting for hours for the King and Queen to appear. The royal couple came out soon after midnight and treated everyone to ninety seconds of listless hand-waving before slipping back inside.

  “The best night of my life!” Helen declared.

  Nancy wouldn’t have figured her for packing in among the hoi polloi, but Hellbags relished the bonhomie.

  Jim and Eddy had been less enthused by the day’s events. The relentless drizzle, crowded streets, and lack of buses vexed Jimmy, and Eddy’s stomach had gone into full revolt after he ate an éclair.

  “How has everyone been enjoying the peace?” Nancy said, and sat on the arm of Evelyn’s chair. “Isn’t it incredible? Some mornings I wake up and can’t believe the thing is done.”

  “Nothing is over,” Jim said. “The world has been left a victim of chaos and heinous turpitude. The treachery will go on and on.”

  “That’s my sunshine,” Nancy said with a grin.

  “And people like Nancy aren’t helping things,” Evelyn said.

  “Oh, really? What have I done now?”

  Evelyn snatched Nancy’s handbag from the chair. “What’s yours is now mine,” Evelyn said. “It’s official. Labour has begun.”

  “I see,” Nancy said. “Socialism, all that. I was fearfully pleased with the election results. It’s time for this country to move forward.”

  “I hate to agree with Evelyn,” Hellbags said. “The only reason you can be so blithe is because you’re leaving.”

  “Ten thousand votes against Churchill in his own constituency,” Evelyn griped, “for a man who’s a lunatic. The British citizens have demonstrated new levels of stupidity. Another tithing for me!” Evelyn swiped Nancy’s hat and plopped it atop his head. Between the ribbons and his jowls, he rather resembled a Victorian spinster. “Jim agrees with me, don’t you, old chap?” Evelyn said. “About the results?”

  Jim shrugged but also shook his head. “My delight in Churchill’s defeat is equaled only by my despair that the Socialists have won.”

  “That’s our Jimmy,” Hellbags said. “Able to view anything from multiple bad sides.”

  “You do realize,” Evelyn said to Nancy, “that this book you’re planning to release puts on a pedestal the old guard, the land-owning gentry. When you voted Socialist, you voted against your own self-interest.”

  “I’m not concerned,” Nancy said. “The Radletts are hardly old guard and, if anything, people will relish their struggles. So, who brought the champagne?”

  “I did!” Hellbags chirped. “And a lot of it. Cleaned Johnny out of his best collection. He’s going to be furious.” She was positively lit from within.

  “And the memoir?” Evelyn said as he tried to swat the dangling bows from his periphery. “That’s well and truly done?”

  Nancy nodded. “I’ve moved on,” she said. She’d debated sending the manuscript to Lea, but the girl was married and likely didn’t want to get dragged back to the past. For now, it remained locked in the storage room, a bit of insurance, should Nancy need it. “I’ve come to realize,” she said, “not every book should be published, and the autobiography did have its use. It got me writing again, which paved the way for my Radletts, and for Paris.”

  “I’ve never met anyone so excited to leave civilization,” Jim said.

  “There are things I’ll miss,” Nancy said. “My friends most of all. I’ll also miss our customers, and Mollie, and the midnight salons. Of course, I’ll have to ring Evelyn regularly, just to hear him complain about his children and brag about his sales.”

  “Brideshead Revisited is doing tremendously well,” Evelyn said, in case they hadn’t caught the news any of the prior thirty-seven times he’d brought it up. “I’ve become a literary star!”

  “I still don’t understand,” Eddy said. “How can you leave your home, a place you’ve lived forty years, to be with a man you were only involved with for a few months?”

  “Our ‘involvement,’ as you call it, has lasted three years and counting,” Nancy said. “Mollie! Yoo-hoo! Would you mind getting everyone champagne? There are coupes in the storage room.”

  After passing Nancy a slightly winnowed look, Mollie hurried off.

  “Though I don’t agree with your decision to leave,” Evelyn said, “the Radletts are something to celebrate. Writing half of a good book is harder than most people assume. Well done!” He lifted an imaginary glass.

  “God, Evelyn, you’re the worst,” Helen said.

  “What? I just said parts of it are good.”

  Nancy tittered. “When I move to Paris,” she said, “I really need to befriend one of those jolly drunks people are always going on about. What must that be like?”

  “I think you have to go to Ireland for that,” Hellbags offered.

  “I was complimenting you!” Evelyn snapped. “The book is actually quite strong in places, albeit planless, hasty, and flat in others. It’s probably too late for edits to this edition, but maybe before the Penguins come out?”

  “I’ve told you,” Nancy said. “I won’t be doing that.”

  “The chief difference between a journalist and a real writer is that a writer cares to go on improving.”

  “Call me a journalist, then. There are worse things.”

  “I give up!” Evelyn said. He tossed up his hands, knocking Nancy’s hat from his head. “I’ve done all I can! You say I’m your mentor—”

  “No, I do not.”

  “Yet you never take my advice! I came up with the title, didn’t I?”

  “Yes.” Nancy smiled. “And I appreciate it.”

  “My Cousin Linda. God-awful.” Evelyn sighed. “Why won’t you listen to me on the rest? Brideshead has sold twenty thousand copies and everyone loves it, here
and abroad.”

  “I doubt everyone loves it,” Eddy said.

  “Perhaps not people who are embittered by class resentment, but they don’t count.”

  “Do you ever just shut up?” Hellbags said.

  “It’s as though you are trying to sabotage your career,” Evelyn went on. “First, you refuse to make the appropriate edits.”

  “I thought you were ‘giving up,’” Jim pointed out.

  “Second, this Paris nonsense,” he said. “Only you would leave England after telling everyone it was their obligation to stay during the war. Only you would leave after voting Socialist, and rendering it uninhabitable for the rest of us.”

  “Goodness, Evelyn, I didn’t know you’d miss me so much,” Nancy said, and Hellbags snorted. “I’m rather tingly at the thought.”

  “I’m warning you,” Evelyn said as Mollie and Handy approached with the champagne. “If you move to France, you’ll never write a decent novel again. You are radically English, and even the most bookish minds decay in exile.”

  “I wouldn’t say radically.”

  “You are England,” Evelyn insisted. “And England is you. That’s what your entire book is about! If you want to write another masterpiece, you cannot change your environment.”

  “Masterpiece? The last I heard, I’d written only half of a good book.”

  “You know I think it’s genius,” he mumbled, and for a moment Nancy thawed.

  “Thank you, Evelyn,” she said, quietly. “That means a great deal.”

  “What does Prod have to say about all this?” he asked.

  “Don’t worry about old Prod,” Nancy said. “We’ve come to an arrangement and, anyway, he’s off to Spain. He’s hoping for a revolution, which would mean loads of refugees for him to save. A real dream scenario.”

  “Brilliant.” Evelyn grunted. “Laura and I are going to Spain next month. Do you think you could ask him to postpone his invasion?”

  “I’ll try, but he is very hard to reason with.”

  “Don’t go,” Evelyn said, pleading. “You can’t. This country has nourished you. It’s turned you into the writer you’ve become. If you want to survive, you must maintain an English diet.”

  “An English diet?” Nancy said, laughing, as Mollie passed around the champagne. “Don’t be silly. Everybody knows that if a girl wants nourishment, Paris is the place to feast.”

  Wednesday Afternoon

  London Heathrow Airport

  As they follow the signs marked “Departures,” Katie’s heart sits in her throat. She’s trying to think of a clever way to say farewell, but keeps drawing a blank. Nothing too jokey, nothing too meaningful. It’s an impossible note to hit.

  “That must’ve been their last contact,” Simon says.

  It takes Katie a second to remember what they’re talking about. “Oh. Right,” she says, and clears her froggy throat. “The April letter. I can see why your grandmother was put off by it. Nancy was a little dismissive, then she bailed for Paris.”

  “I suppose it was a bit curt,” Simon agrees as he pulls alongside the curb. “Though, to be fair, Nancy was going through a lot at the time. Her brother died. She was waiting to hear about the book, and figuring out a way to get to Paris.”

  “Look who’s defending Nancy now.” Katie smiles slyly and hops out of the car. As Simon pulls her bag from the “boot,” she tries not to think about the fact that he left work early, drove ninety minutes from Burwash, and another thirty to the airport. How is she going to end this? Kissing someone at an airport feels like a lot, but she can’t tell him to “take care” like he’s a Lyft driver she just met. “Next I’m going to change your beliefs about happy endings,” Katie says, peering into her laptop bag to check for her passport again.

  “Not likely,” Simon says, and her suitcase thumps onto the ground. “Hey. I have something for you.”

  Katie glances up as he reaches into his pocket.

  “It’s nothing big,” he says. “A trinket to commemorate your trip.”

  In Simon’s outstretched palm sits a small, rectangular object that’s red, and silver, and glittery. Katie stares a beat, trying to make sense of it. “Are you serious?” she says, starting to tear. “A Christmas ornament?”

  “The phone box you were eyeing at that terrible carnival.”

  “I didn’t see you buy it!”

  “I went back,” he says.

  Sniffling, Katie takes the ornament from his hand. “This is one of the nicest presents I’ve ever been given,” she says.

  “You need to get new friends,” he says, blushing, looking away.

  Katie wraps her fingers around the ornament, holding it against her heart before laying it gently in her bag.

  “Any idea when you’ll be back?” Simon asks. “Or is that an obnoxious question to ask when you’re literally still here?”

  “I’m not sure.” Katie smiles through the still-bubbling tears. “Soon, hopefully. Jojo’s hatching all kinds of plans.”

  In truth, Jojo has only one plan and it is fairly well mapped out: Katie will let her house, obtain a visa, and stay six months in Jojo’s guest suite. Her monthly rent will be in the exact amount of “helping with Clive.”

  “This is a horrible deal for you!” Katie had balked when Jojo brought it up. “I don’t know the first thing about kids, and there’s no way I can help with homework.”

  “Clive does not need help in school,” Jojo said. “All I’m asking is that you entertain him, and partially bear the brunt of his monologues about Minecraft and organizing iPhone components.”

  “I’m not sure...”

  “Why not? It’s what you’ve been doing for the past ten days,” Jojo said. “He’s attached to you, and I’m clearly struggling to give him the attention he needs. My patience—” she pinched her fingers together “—razor thin. If anything, you’d be doing me a favor, instead of the other way around.”

  “I guess I can see about renting out the house...” Katie said, her pulse racing as she said the words.

  “What a genius idea!” her agent said, when Katie called to float the concept. “I love it! Especially if you write the book while you are in London. It’ll be great backstory when it comes time to promote.”

  Katie hasn’t mentioned any of this to Simon yet. She is happier, more clearheaded than she’s ever been, and though Katie’s not afraid of the future anymore, she’s not looking for any jinxes, or ways to tempt fate. She’ll tell Simon later, after a few more ducks are lined up.

  “So, this book you’re writing,” Simon says, scanning the area for any security guards who might tell him to move on. “Does it have a theme?”

  Katie thinks about this. “It’d be similar to one of the main themes in The Pursuit of Love, I guess. Something can have meaning, even if you have little to show for it. In other words, a road can go nowhere and still be worth the trip.”

  “A good theme for a book, and for life.”

  “Also,” Katie says, and gives him a pointed look, “a departure or ending can still qualify as happily-ever-after.”

  Simon smirks. “Don’t mince words, Cabot. Just say death. You really are dark up there,” he says, and pats her head. “Linda Radlett did not have a happy ending, but at least Nancy Mitford got hers.”

  “As far as we know,” Katie says. “I do think it was the right ending, for her.”

  “And how will your book end?” Simon asks. “Which plotline will work out? Pray nothing that involves the Gestapo, or the expiration of all main characters.”

  “Not everybody dies. Not Fanny, or Uncle Matthew.”

  “Thank God for small mercies.”

  “I have no idea how it will end,” Katie says. “This time, I’ll figure it out as I go. As for the perfect ending...” She inhales and throws on a smile. “I’ll know it when I see it.”
r />   It’s all she has, but it’s enough, for now.

  April 1946

  The British Embassy, Paris

  It was a delicious spring evening at one of the most magnificent homes in Paris: 39 rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, otherwise known as the British Embassy.

  Nancy’s close friends Duff and Diana Cooper had moved in after liberation, when Duff was appointed ambassador, and the Embassy had become one of Nancy’s favorite haunts. Tonight, the festivities were bright as ever, thanks to the company of an old friend.

  “I’m honored you made time to stop on your way back from Nuremberg,” Nancy said. “I know how much you hate Paris.”

  “It’s not the place,” Evelyn said. “It’s the people. The French have been destroying Europe for the past two hundred years.” He glanced around at the Louis XV architecture, the Borghese decorations. “Though, I must admit, this is a beautiful home. How is it the Germans never wrecked it?”

  “They were probably preserving it for some evil-doing Fascist to keep as his weekend pied-à-terre,” Nancy said. “Apparently, the place was a disaster when Duff and Diana arrived. No water, no electricity, and filled to the rafters with furniture left by fleeing Nazis—pianos, hat stands, bath mats, boxing gloves, much of it stolen or looted, no doubt.”

  Because Diana was Diana, the Coopers were hosting garden parties and nightly free-for-all drinks within weeks of moving in. The aim—Franco-English relations, much strained due to the animosity between Churchill and de Gaulle. It was the only situation in which Evelyn made for an easier date than the Colonel, who usually spent the evening pointing out collaborators, while Nancy spent it avoiding confrontations.

  “Is that Philippe de Rothschild?” Evelyn said. “I have a few opinions for him, about what constitutes good wine. Oh, my! It’s the Windsors.” He made a face. “David looks like a balloon, and Wallis like the remains of a small bird.”

  “Drat!” Nancy said, ducking behind his left shoulder. “Don’t let them see me.”

  “What do you have against the Windsors?”