The morning air was crisp and a mild breeze made Nikki’s hands tingle. On the train, she picked up a copy of yesterday’s Evening Standard and busied herself with reading old news.
The shops were still closed by the time Nikki arrived at Notting Hill Gate station but a stream of tourists flowed towards the Portobello Road market. They stopped to pose for pictures in front of the pastel-painted homes.
Nikki headed in the opposite direction towards the cinema, which was still screening the French film that she and Jason had missed. She still had half an hour to kill before the show started so she carried on ambling. At a traffic light, a family of American tourists stopped to ask where Hyde Park was. She pointed in its direction but they wanted her to show it to them on a large, unfolded map. She was trying to see where they were on the map when a gust of wind hit the centre crease and ripped it. ‘We’ll figure it out,’ the mother of the family said. She took the map back and folded it. ‘We need this to last us our whole trip,’ she said.
‘That’s all right,’ Nikki said. As the tourists walked away, Nikki overheard the woman telling her husband. ‘We should ask a person who’s from here.’
Nikki was dumbstruck by their rudeness. The husband turned around then and gave Nikki an apologetic nod. Nikki continued walking but she was half tempted to go after the woman and tell her that she was from here, thank you very much. She was so lost in a cloud of indignant thoughts that she overshot her mark and found herself on the end of the street, having passed Sally’s Bookshop. She returned to it and lit a cigarette. Having her claim to Britain taken away from her by an ignorant tourist warranted a satisfying smoke.
Nikki peered into the bookshop’s window, her eyes trained on the Sale bin at the back. Then suddenly, a face appeared in the window, and she jumped back, dropping her cigarette on the ground. It was the bookshop’s cashier, the woman she’d spoken to last time she visited. The woman knocked excitedly on the window and gestured for Nikki to come inside. Nikki stubbed out her cigarette and went in.
‘Sorry for scaring you like that,’ the woman laughed.
Nikki smiled tightly. Now only two cigarettes remained in her pack and she was meant to quit after that. The one she had dropped was only half finished and as she thought of it lying on the pavement, a wave of grief washed over her.
‘I just wanted to make sure that I didn’t lose you,’ the woman explained. ‘You’re Nikki, aren’t you? I’m Hannah.’ She disappeared suddenly behind the counter and popped up again, placing a book in front of Nikki. The Journals and Sketches of Beatrix Potter.
‘Oh my goodness,’ Nikki gasped. She reached for the book and hesitated, almost afraid to pick it up. Her fingers gingerly turned the cover. The first image was a portrait of Beatrix Potter. Her plump face was slightly angled and there was a tinge of mischief in her small, pursed lips. ‘Where did you end up finding this?’ she asked.
‘Special order. It came all the way from India.’
There it was, a tea stain the size of a small leaf on the top corner of the cover. It was the very same copy that she had longed for in Delhi all those years ago. ‘That’s incredible,’ she said. She plucked her debit card from her wallet and gave it to Hannah, who waved it away.
‘The gentleman already paid for it,’ she explained.
‘Which gentleman?’
‘The one who ordered this book. I asked him if he’d rather have it sent to his home or yours – do away with the middle man – but he insisted that we keep it in the shop window in case you walked past. I supposed he wanted to surprise you. I couldn’t keep it in the window though because that meant it would be available for other customers to purchase, so I had it under the counter but I looked out for you and told the guys on the late afternoon shift to do the same but I think they used it as an excuse to lure every girl they fancied into the shop …’
Hannah’s explanation faded into the distance. All Nikki could think of was the word “gentleman.” It brought to mind a faceless benefactor in a top hat for some reason even though she was certain that it was Jason who had placed the order. He would have had to call every bookshop in Connaught Place in Delhi and she felt a little breathless at the thought.
‘Thank you so much,’ Nikki said. She clutched the book to her chest and walked outside in a bit of a daze. She passed the cinema, deciding to forgo the French film. Trees formed a cosy canopy on the street leading to the gardens. Nikki stepped between the shadows, finding patches of early morning light for momentary warmth. The din of traffic faded once she entered the gates of Hyde Park. Here, she walked for a while and found a bench opposite Kensington Palace. The book felt solid in her hands. Nikki ran her hand over the cover and brought the book to her nose to inhale its smell. She always had a small fear that if she ever found this book, it would bring some regret at how she had argued with Dad over it. But with her eyes shut, all she thought of was Jason – the navy jumper he had worn to their first date, the way her stomach flipped when she saw him walk into O’Reilly’s. Nikki took time to examine each page – the letters, the sketchy doodles. Although the pages were smooth, these pieces felt textured and real, as if she were inside Beatrix Potter’s mind. Jason had known just how much it meant to hold this very book in her hands.
In the park, tourists weaved purposefully between the more evenly paced joggers and dog walkers. What people wanted from London was all here – the lush green gardens, the majestic domes and church spires, the black cabs busily circling. It was regal and mysterious; she could understand anybody’s impatience to be part of it. She was reminded of the widows. They would have known little of this London before their journey to this country, and upon their arrival, they would have known even less. Britain equalled a better life and they would have clung to this knowledge even as this life confounded and remained foreign. Every day in this new country would have been an exercise in forgiveness.
Nikki picked up her phone and searched for Jason’s number.
‘I’ve got two cigarettes left and then I’m quitting for good,’ she said. ‘You’re doing this with me, all right?’
She heard a prolonged sigh as if Jason had been holding his breath waiting for her to call. ‘Save me one,’ he said. Nikki told him where she was and she waited, watching a group of elderly cyclists rolling past slowly as they breathed in the crisp spring air. She couldn’t wait to see him. She couldn’t wait for them to begin again.