On Friday morning Claire realized she had been in London for just over two weeks. She had run into the lurking Mrs Watson and had to tell her she was extending her stay. It was humiliating, but her growing pleasure in the city made it tolerable. And perhaps something would turn up soon.
She had finished Hons and Rebels and had delighted in it. She hadn’t seen Toby for a week and wanted to go back, discuss the book and buy another. The three that she had sitting beside her bed made her crave more worn, well-read volumes with the delicious smell of old paper and London dust. Perhaps she could create her own library. She definitely wanted to read another Mitford book and perhaps a biography about the mad family.
Toby’s bookstore drew her like a magnet. It wasn’t just Toby, although she found him handsome, charming, and amusing. It was also her need to be recognized, to be welcomed and to be snug, the way she felt in the back of the bookstore in the big, enveloping chair – never mind the books. Despite the advice from Abigail, she didn’t want to throw herself at Toby or make herself a nuisance. Still, if she bought books she had a legitimate reason for being there. At least that was what she reminded herself as she walked to his shop.
When she reached the store she steeled herself to go in, and she was rewarded when she did. ‘Hello,’ Toby sang out a second time when he actually saw that it was she who had come in. ‘Good to see you. Or anyone actually.’ He gave himself a little shake, his fine hair swayed and then settled into place. ‘If I sit here too long with nothing to do I start doubting I can make a go of it.’
‘Haven’t you already?’
‘Hardly.’ He looked around. ‘But if I think too much about it I get the heebie-jeebies. A visit from you will drive them away.’
Claire felt herself blush with pleasure. She was afraid to take a seat in the easy chair until she was invited but Toby motioned her toward it. ‘I love the book,’ she said as if that justified her seat. ‘I thought I might try a biography of Nancy or the family.’
‘Oh, not Nancy. Far too sad. Loved one inappropriate man after the other – but haven’t we all?’ Claire nodded. ‘There’s a good book about the whole lot of them,’ Toby told her. ‘And then Diana Mosley wrote a strange little memoir. Oh, strike that. But you might want Nancy’s letters. She wrote a lot to Waugh and they’re brittle but awfully funny. Actually, The Pursuit of Love might be best. It’s a novel, you know. But shows her family at their absolute maddest. I think I have a couple of copies.’
He wandered off down an aisle. ‘At the very least,’ he said, raising his voice so she could hear him, ‘it will show you a bit of how jolly England was when we had a ruling class.’ He returned with a pretty leather book bound in blue. ‘That is, of course, if you were a member of the ruling class. Otherwise, a bit grim I’m afraid. Still, nothing about Nancy was much in touch with reality. Just enjoy it.’
Claire reached for her purse. The idea of putting this pretty little book with her others delighted her. Why had she been satisfied with nothing but paperbacks and library editions in New York? The book was marked five pounds and when Toby began to insist he could give it to her for less, she insisted he take the five-pound note she pushed at him. ‘I’m paying you not just to be my bookseller but my literary advisor,’ she said.
He smiled. ‘Perhaps I could make more money at that.’ He tucked the note into his pocket. ‘But aside from your custom, for which I am very grateful, I have news and I didn’t know where to get in touch with you.
‘I may have found you somewhere to live,’ Toby continued. ‘My friend, Imogen, has a little place in South Ken. Anyway, she’s looking for a few extra quid – Im is spendy. Makes almost nothing as an editor of just the worst kind of stuff. How to Decorate Your Uterine Wall in Ten Days. Clay Pots Made Simple. Absolutely lives in Harvey Nicks. Anyway, I asked if she knew anyone who might share their place and she offered her box room.’
‘What’s a box room?’ Claire asked, not that she cared. South Kensington was a wonderful area. The knitting shop was there. Her spirits fell; it would probably be far too expensive.
‘What’s a box room? What does it sound like? It’s a place where you store boxes, or luggage, or put the baby if you’re a breeder. Anyway, it’s not quite a bedroom but it does have a window and Im says that – well, I’ll let you speak to her.’ He lifted the phone beside his elbow and punched in a number. Then he paused and put the phone down. ‘She’s actually a bit of a … climber,’ he said in an undertone. ‘But after all it’s the national sport. Rather like a dog enthusiast – collects people for their pedigree. Always thought Crufts was just the middle class yearning to prove their dogs were aristocrats. But there you have it. Fun to watch. Has a boyfriend. Nice enough chap. Can’t think why she’s marrying him except because of his connections. Don’t know what she’ll think of you. Either we make you a cousin to the Hilton twins or an impoverished Vanderbilt.’
If it were a small room perhaps it would be cheaper, but … ‘Do I have to lie?’
Toby smiled. ‘Well, of course the Bilsop family is one of the oldest in America.’ He made a little moue and lifted his eyebrows.
‘Well, perhaps they are actually. My father was always going on about them but I’m not sure how much was true and how much was wishful thinking.’
Toby smiled brightly. ‘Let’s give him the benefit of the doubt. Assume Best in Show at Crufts.’ He picked up the phone again and punched in the number.
There was a brief silence while someone spoke to Toby. ‘Well, never mind all that,’ he said. ‘I have that lovely girl here, the one I told you about. Very quiet and neat. Perfect for a box room. But an old family. Given a land grant by George III and popped over to our colonies donkey’s years ago.’ He winked at Claire who had to smile. ‘Anyway, she’s just peachy.’ Claire held her breath while Imogen must have said something. ‘Oh, quite,’ Toby told her. ‘Would you like to speak with her?’
Apparently Imogen did, because Toby handed the phone over to Claire.
‘Hello. I’m Claire Bilsop,’ she said.
‘I’m Imogen Faulkner. Toby says we should meet. But I don’t want you to get your hopes up. The spare room is quite small and it’s a bit of a tip, really. I don’t know if it would do for you.’
‘Oh, I’m sure it would,’ Claire said.
‘When would you like to come over?’
Claire thought of Mrs Patel. She really couldn’t be late, and it was unlikely that Imogen would want to see her after ten. ‘Could you meet me tomorrow morning?’ she asked. ‘I work in the evenings.’
‘Morning? If it’s after ten? Could you do later?’
‘Sure. Eleven?’
‘Brilliant,’ Imogen said. ‘By the way, it would be so much more convenient if you weren’t around between six-ish and midnight.’ Imogen lowered her voice. ‘It’s when I do my entertaining: I’m engaged to be married,’ she giggled. ‘Toby has my address and all of that. And tell him I don’t want any of his bloody books. He inherited them, I didn’t. He ought to keep them to himself.’
‘I’ll tell him,’ Claire promised. ‘Tomorrow, then, at eleven.’
‘Brilliant,’ Imogen said once more and hung up.