by ANDRÉ BRETON
She passed the place twice before realising her mistake. She was expecting a shop like the one at the university or the other, grander bookshops in town. Something with a big shop window, maybe two. Books laid out on small tables at the front of the store, posters for one blockbuster or another artfully arranged above a stack of the blockbuster itself. At the very least she had expected a house, something with walls and a roof and perhaps a garden.
This block was vacant, or it seemed so at first.
She checked the paper: Atonement Ian McEwan and then, below, the address. She looked to one side of the block and then the other. She glanced across the street to the building opposite, a warehouse, its windows shuttered. It seemed abandoned or perhaps temporarily closed. There were signs for Salmon beside the locked door and a security company warning fixed to the gate. This property is protected; 196…so 197 would be here across the road, right where she was standing next to the telephone box.
She heard the clap of a door opening and closing again, the scuffling sound of a slight struggle. A coat caught in the closing of the telephone-booth door. Holly turned and stared. A tall man was stepping out of the booth. There was a book-shaped paper packet in his hand and she watched as he lifted his coat onto his shoulders and slipped the parcel into the pocket at his hip. The door to the booth closed completely behind him and he walked away.
Holly stared at the telephone booth. When had she last seen one of them? It was lit from within and around it the daylight was bleeding out. The darker the sky became, the starker the booth seemed. It was a warm evening and Holly thought about the man with the coat who had disappeared around a corner. She felt uncomfortably hot.
The vacant lot was filled with weeds, or at least that was what she thought at first glance. She stepped closer to the spill of foliage and realised she was looking at wild lavender, rosemary in flower, the sudden shoots of rocket gone to seed, waving tendrils of petals that looked as if pale moths had lighted on them. She recognised sorrel and dill.
The block of land was a herb garden, but not one that had been tended. It was as if someone had gathered open seed packets and dumped all the contents without any care. The leaves competed for space, flowers spilled across each other. When a gentle breeze passed over, the place smelled vaguely like a delicatessen.
Holly walked towards the telephone booth and pressed her hand to the glass. She could see her reflection in the door and for a moment she thought she was looking at herself having already stepped inside. There was an old black bakelite phone there, but you would not be able to use it. There was nowhere to stand. The floor of the phone both dropped away into a plummet of wooden steps. She pulled the door open, noting its rusty complaint, and stepped onto the first stair.
She thought of Alice in Wonderland. When she was a child she’d wanted to be Alice, a pretty girl who seemed to tumble—literally—into adventures without ruffling her bow. Holly, still in her short summer dress, felt the hem catch an updraft and smoothed it down. The yellow high-heeled sandals clacked loudly on the wooden stairs.
The stairs fell at an alarmingly steep angle and Holly clutched the copper banister as tightly as she could. Then she was in a narrow corridor with a dark green door. She pushed her dress straight against her legs and stepped up to the door. The handle was cold to the touch and when she opened it there was a cough of Antarctic air. She felt her arms prickle with goosebumps.
The silence of the room underscored the tutting of the second hand on a clock suspended above the counter. Books lined every wall, carpeted the floor, piled to the ceiling. The thick spines seemed to eat up the sound of her footsteps. Holly looked down to see a slightly stained, thick red carpet at her feet. Everything about this place was blanketed, even the counter was shrouded in a drape of felt. She walked towards the counter—not felt, but a thick cotton sheet with the image of a woman on it. Holly looked closer. The woman was reclining on the fabric, her breasts exposed, her naked legs parted. Her body was a silhouette marked up in chalk but she could see a needle pricking one nipple like a piercing, the embroidery thread still trailing behind it, looping to underline the swell of a breast.
‘Who would have thought it would take so long to embroider a fucking pillow?’
Holly jumped back a step as if she had been caught in the process of shoplifting. She found her fingers were spread to protest her innocence. She was suddenly aware of the paperback copy of Atonement in her handbag. The book made her feel slightly uneasy around Jennifer and the rest of the girls. She kept it pristine in its paper bag in case any of them were to reach into her handbag for her lipstick or perfume. Here, she could see it would be easy to think she had stolen it. She clutched the bag tighter with her elbow.
The person was standing in the shadow of a doorway. A short figure, squared off at the shoulders. Holly squinted but it was impossible to make out anything but the outline until the woman took a step forward into the dim light behind the counter. It was a woman, although Holly had to look twice to make sure. She had short hair like a man’s and mannish clothing, jeans and a collared shirt open at the top two buttons, a soft brown cardigan buttoned over the top and thick-rimmed glasses like the students in ENGL1500. She seemed to be dressed like someone’s grandfather but when she stepped forward and turned a little to one side Holly could see the swell of her generous chest. There was an old battered fedora, the dark pink colour of a glass of rosé, perched on top of a pile of books.
‘The embroidery is a gift from Cathy. Do you know Cathy? She works here Sundays.’
Holly shook her head.
‘She thinks I should take up embroidery. Pah!’ The woman shrugged. ‘I have no idea why she would get an idea like that in her head. Tedious. Have you ever tried it?’
Holly shook her head a second time.
‘Well, don’t bother. I can tell you right now it is a waste of time. Except doing the genital area. Never complain about spending time on a vagina. That’s a tip from me for free. Apparently you can watch TV while you’re embroidering. Do you watch TV?’
Holly nodded.
‘Ah well, perhaps you’ll like it better than I do. You certainly can’t embroider and hold a book open.’
The woman hefted herself up onto a stool behind the counter. Holly couldn’t help but glance at her cleavage, noticing that the skin there was a little leathery, traced by a fine net of wrinkles that spread almost invisibly down into the plunge of flesh. She couldn’t pick the woman’s age at all. Somewhere between thirty and sixty, perhaps older or younger than Holly’s mother. It was impossible to tell.
The woman smiled at her and tipped her head to one side, a girlish gesture that completely disarmed Holly. She clutched her handbag tightly and rested her elbow on the counter.
‘I am here about the book club.’
‘Ah. Rachel’s book club?’
‘I don’t know, I…’
‘Political science?’
‘No.’
‘Sci-fi Sundays?’
Holly shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. A guy at uni invited me. He said I would need to mention his name. That it was invitation only.’
‘Ah,’ the woman nodded sagely. ‘Sex.’
‘Sorry?’
‘What’s the name of the boy?’
‘Rodney. Rodney Timms.’
‘That’s Sex Club.’
Holly felt the blush creeping along her neck. There was no controlling it.
The woman beamed. ‘That’s my book club. Sex in the bookshop. Invitation only.’
Holly barely knew how to respond; she decided not to.
‘You read a lot of sex books?’
‘No!’ Perhaps her answer was too sharp. The woman leaned onto the counter, spilling her breasts into the cleavage of her shirt. Beneath the weight of them the embroidered woman spread her legs suggestively. Holly looked away. There was something too full and lush about the woman’s body. Her very physicality seemed slightly rude.
‘You want to read a lot of sex books?’
Holly shook her head.
‘So you want to join Sex Club but you don’t want to read sex books?’
‘Rodney invited me and I didn’t, I couldn’t…’ Holly knew that the blush had spread right up to her cheeks and settled there. She stepped back a little into the darkness. She heard a sound like the turning of pages and looked back at the towering walls of books, wondering if another customer had ventured in while she was distracted. The shelves seemed empty, lit with a greenish glow from the low hanging lights.
Outside it would be almost dark. She stared towards the green door with a certain longing. Perhaps she should have stayed out there in the twilight where she felt safe.
‘Well.’ Holly turned back towards the woman. The expanse of her cleavage, the shocking, boyish cut of her hair, the face completely devoid of makeup, fingernails bitten right back. She was so unlike Holly’s own mother or any of her friends’ mothers. She was like an older version of those women that her friends would mock. Girls sitting in an ugly gaggle at the back of the uni bar, all intellect, no style. Holly squared her shoulders and took a deep breath.
The woman handed her a flier. Holly took it and read the words printed in large bold type. LEARN THE ART OF SEDUCTION FROM THE MASTERS OF LITERATURE: SEX BOOK CLUB.
‘You are the first person that Rodney has brought into the coven,’ the woman said, grinning. It was a genuine smile.
LEARN THE ART OF SEDUCTION.
‘Mind you,’ the woman said, looking Holly up and down, ‘doesn’t look like you need any help in the art of seduction.’
Holly thought of Jack. Her breath caught suddenly in her throat as if her neck was being squeezed by invisible hands. She was choking; her eyes watered from the pain of it. She felt dizzy and clutched the counter, bunching the flier in her fists. There were tears. She could feel them. She thought suddenly about her mascara, how it would run in ugly streaks. The thought was enough to pull her back. She felt the hands on her throat relax. She took a gulping breath.
‘Oh no,’ Holly said. ‘It’s a mistake. I can’t…’ Her nose was running and she wiped the mucus away with the back of her hand.
The woman reached under the counter and thumped a bottle down in front of her. She poured a nip into a glass and pushed it into Holly’s hand. She noticed the ring on the girl’s finger, spun the silver band around, peering at the words. True love waits.
‘Seriously?’
Holly sniffed and nodded.
‘Huh. How’s that going for you then?’
Holly held the glass to her lips, breathed out. Drank it down in one burning gulp.
‘Abstinence is that good, eh?’ the woman said and filled her glass up. ‘I like Rodney, but he is something of a stray-cat collector.’
Holly had never thought of herself as a stray cat. The scotch had settled her a little. She tipped the second nip into her mouth and grimaced. She could feel the alcohol warming her throat and settling her stomach. She breathed easier.
‘So, it seems from your reaction there is someone you would rather like to seduce,’ the woman said. Holly thought about protesting. Instead she held out her glass and the woman raised an eyebrow, but held the bottle out and poured another nip.
‘I can’t,’ Holly said, sipping more gingerly this time.
‘For some crazy reason you’ve made a pledge of abstinence?’
Holly nodded.
‘And you are struggling to keep it?’
Another nod.
‘I…It’s…’
‘Well, people join Sex Club for a lot of reasons. If you can’t be doing it you might as well get your frustrations out of the way by reading about it,’ the woman said, pouring some scotch for herself and tipping it back in one quick movement. ‘I assume you didn’t promise not even to think about it?’
Holly sipped and inclined her head. ‘No. I suppose I didn’t promise that.’ The scotch was rougher than the kind they had at home. It burned a track down her throat but still managed to warm her nicely. The woman put out her hand and Holly took it a little awkwardly. She was unused to shaking the hand of a woman, but the thick short fingers were warm and firm and she felt that these were hands that could easily pick her up and carry her through hard times.
‘Mandy.’
‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Holly.’
‘Pretty name,’ she said; then: ‘pretty girl. Whoever it is that you want is totally missing out.’
Holly laughed, but Mandy was not even smiling. It seemed she wasn’t joking at all.
‘We meet the first Wednesday of each month—next week, isn’t it?’ Mandy said, looking up at the clock as if the date might be written there. ‘Our next book is by Salter. James Salter. You have joined us at a good time. Salter is one of my favourites. He will help ease you in, so to speak.’
‘You really think I should join your book club?’ She held her finger up and let her ring glint in the gentle light.
‘There’s a difference between reading about something and doing it, right? You can read about a sniper but it doesn’t mean you are going to go out and shoot anyone. True?’
Holly touched her finger to her face, traced a line across her lips, considering.
‘The Salter will be a kind of easy release, a valve, if you like, to let the steam out before you explode. And you know, if you keep this abstinence thing up you really will explode.’ The woman touched her finger to the silver band and tutted. ‘We each bring something to Sex Club, too.’
‘A plate?’
‘Oh god no. Although Tania often brings a cake. No, you have to bring something you have learnt, some story, some fresh adventure. But Sex Club is only a week away so you will be excused for the first month.’
‘I don’t really understand.’
‘Just come along next week. You’ll get the hang of it.’
She turned to a shelf full of books behind her. Pulled a thick grey paperback off the shelf. A pair of legs, stockings rolled halfway down over a knee, a dimly lit drape, the edge of a bed.
‘Ten per cent discount if you are in the book club.’
Holly reached for it but Mandy held the book firmly on the counter.
‘Are you in the book club?’
Holly nodded and Mandy pushed the book into her hands. Holly paid cash and fumbled the change back into her purse. She felt a little tipsy.
‘If you have any trouble with the Salter you have to come see me immediately. Promise?’
Holly nodded again, although she wasn’t really sure what she was agreeing to.
‘My door is always open.’
Mandy gestured to the green door and shifted back onto the stool, pulling her needlepoint towards her and settling it on her lap. She picked the needle out of the fabric and jabbed it into the chalked nipple. Holly felt a prick in her breast, as if the needlepoint were a voodoo doll, the fabric nipple linked to her own flesh. She pressed her fingers to her chest. Mandy glanced up at her gesture, her brow furrowed. She stared at Holly hard, questioning. Embarrassed, Holly picked up the book and thrust it deep into her handbag.
The fluorescent light in the telephone booth was a startling orange. She stood among the herbs in the garden and looked back down the stairs. It was impossible to imagine the bookshop below. The whole thing seemed like a hallucination. It was night outside and the bright white glare of the streetlight thumped onto her full-fisted. She closed her eyes and pressed her hand over them.
When she opened them again it was like Alice, emerging from the rabbit hole, transformed by what she had just experienced. The real world was mildly disappointing and yet comforting at the same time. Her nipple still throbbed a little. She rubbed it, feeling how hard both her nipples had become, pressing out from under the thin fabric of her summer dress. She remembered her mascara suddenly and scrabbled for her sunglasses in the bottom of her bag. She picked out the book by James Salter and held it in her other hand while she searched.
A woman walked by with a little dog on a leash. The dog stopped to sniff at Holly’s shoe. The woman glanced at Holly’s sunglasses and snapped at the lead to pull the dog away. Holly quickly hid the book in her bag. She needed a mirror. She needed to fix her makeup and do her hair. She needed a shower and, perhaps, the comfort of her cool dark bedroom with her freshly laundered sheets. She felt changed, like she had committed a crime, robbed someone, killed someone, and here she was out in the world, walking free without any consequences at all. It was the book in her bag. A book with sex inside it. The very thought of it made her skin prick with sweat.
Holly walked away from the scent of herbs and the spill of orange light that made her think of the throbbing red light outside a brothel. She adjusted her frock and headed straight for home.