You don’t expect your life to change in a bookshop. Books may be among the best things in the world, and maybe reading can change your life, but that’s a whole other conversation. What I mean is that when you’re in a bookshop listening to a talk by one of your favourite authors, you don’t expect the stranger sitting beside you to effectively throw a bomb into your safe little world and blow it all to smithereens. You don’t expect her to steal your handbag, either. But I’m jumping ahead now, so let’s start from the beginning.
My name is Heather Harris and I’m a bookseller at a gorgeous shop in Chiswick, west London. But today is Wednesday, one of my days off, so I hop on a Tube to Richmond upon Thames, just a few miles away. I’ve been a fan of crime writer Lydia Cornish for years, and when I heard she was doing a talk and a signing at Words on the Street, the big high-street bookstore, I knew I couldn’t miss it. It’s the sort of thing I often do on a day off, the sort of thing that makes my friends roll their eyes and mutter words like ‘obsessed’ under their breath, although it’s all done with affection, or at least I hope so. Sometimes, they follow the muttering with the ‘helpful’ suggestion that I should try signing up to a dating app because I’ve been on my own too long now, and I need to ‘live a little’. I nod and grin and make vague gestures that imply I might take up the suggestion, one day soon. I won’t though. Not yet. My last proper relationship ended nearly two years ago and… well, let’s just say it put me off a bit. Dating doesn’t interest me right now. My life is full; I’m content just the way I am. But I digress, again.
So, the Lydia Cornish event. I love this bookstore; Words on the Street is probably five times bigger than the shop I work in, but somehow they manage to keep the atmosphere cosy, like an old library. There are squishy armchairs and a coffee bar at the back, the smell of cinnamon and caramel mingling with the scent of ink and paper so deliciously that sometimes I wonder if they actually pump it in through the air conditioning, just to create the perfect ambience. I’ve spent many a happy afternoon here, browsing the shelves and sipping cappuccinos, squirrelling away ideas to take back to my boss, Kwee, for our little place.
Anyway, today I queue up to get my book signed – Lydia is lovely, as I’d hoped she’d be – and now it’s time for the talk. I’m sitting in the third row from the back, my handbag tucked under my chair, my phone still in my hand so I can take some photos for Instagram. When the woman sits down next to me, I don’t pay her much attention at first; I turn to look at her as she stoops to put her own bag on the floor, and she gives me a shy smile, so I smile back. But then I see Lydia making her way across the shop floor and get distracted, snapping some pictures and then listening, fascinated, as she describes her writing process and the inspiration behind some of her bestselling novels. Engrossed as I am though, every now and again I find myself glancing at the woman sitting beside me because, well, there’s just something… odd about her; something off, about the way she’s behaving. For a start, she doesn’t seem to be listening to Lydia at all. And, even more maddeningly, she doesn’t seem to be able to keep still, constantly crossing and uncrossing her legs, picking at her nails, and pulling jerkily at a loose thread on the side seam of her jeans. There’s a big clock on the wall in the children’s book section over to the right, a clock with a cat in the number 12 position and white mice at 3, 6, and 9, and every few minutes she stares at it, frowning, as if willing the hands to move faster.
Is she just killing time, maybe, because she’s early for an appointment or something? I’m puzzled and slightly irritated. Why come to something like this if you’ve no interest in it, and then just sit there, fidgeting?
She’s a thin woman, probably about my age – early thirties – fine blonde hair pulled into a tight little bun at the back of her head. Her face is pretty, with high cheekbones and pale, freckled skin, but her expression is tight and anxious, and just sitting next to her is starting to make me feel uncomfortable. I look around, scanning the rows of seats for an empty chair, wondering if I should move, but the talk seems to be wrapping up, Lydia asking if anyone has any questions before she has to head off to another event in central London. And so I sit there, trying to concentrate, trying to focus on the conversation and not on my growing feeling of resentment towards this stranger, who’s definitely somewhat spoiled what should have been a very pleasant hour.
She’s probably just having a bad day, I tell myself, as the room erupts into applause, and Lydia stands up to leave.
Remember, you never know what people are going through…
Be kind…
I turn, intending to swallow my annoyance and ask her if she enjoyed the talk, but she’s bending down, reaching for her bag, and then standing up abruptly. Without looking at me again, she marches away, camel trench coat swinging, black leather handbag clutched under her arm. Moments later, she’s disappeared into the throng of customers. I stare after her, still perplexed by her peculiar behaviour, then sigh and pick up my own bag. It’s nearly four o’clock, and if I hang around too much longer I’ll get caught up in the evening rush hour, so I leave the store and hurry to the Tube station, the sky a stony grey on this early March afternoon, the threat of rain hanging in the damp air. As I approach the entrance, I reach into my bag for my wallet, and…
‘What the—?’
I splutter the words out loud as I slip the black leather strap from my shoulder and stare at my bag. It looks like my bag… it is my bag. Or is it? It’s the same make, the same colour, the same style, but this bag looks newer than mine, somehow. And the contents… the contents are definitely not mine. My precious signed copy of Lydia Cornish’s new book isn’t there, for a start. Nor is my wallet, or my house keys, or my make-up bag. Instead, there’s a wodge of crumpled tissue paper, two apples – apples? – and a piece of white card, with something written on it. I pull it out and stare at it.
There are thirteen words, followed by a mobile phone number.
IF YOU WANT YOUR BAG AND ALL YOUR STUFF BACK, CALL ME.
NOW.