London Broil (11 page)

"Madam, I have
received a communication from Mr. Alexander Porteous asking me
to wait upon him immediately, and I intend to do so. Unless
you'd prefer that I involve the authorities?"

Charlotte
hesitated for a moment and then said, "I require your names. I
cannot admit anyone to this residence without that information."

"I am John
Curtis. My colleague is Mr. Terence Drake."

"Please follow
me," said Charlotte, in a voice that sounded strained and
displeased. Laura hastily drew her head back in the door before
Charlotte turned to lead the men into the house. As they passed
the library door, one of them threw a glance her way. They
proceeded up a dramatic white staircase with marble-clad steps
that led to the more private areas of the house.

Laura wondered
whether the visit was the direct result of the letter she had
posted. It seemed all but certain. She tried to return to her
work, but was unable to concentrate. She moved to a chair closer
to the library door. Finally, after about an hour, she heard the
two men return down the stairs and walk toward the door; they
were silent except for the exchange of a chilly "Good day"
between Charlotte and the blond man.

That evening she
went to Roxana for dinner; Monday had become her new day for
Afghan food. The restaurant was much quieter than on weekends,
and she always got a prime table. She ordered
ashe
, a
vegetable-noodle soup, and a plate of
shireen palow
, a
sweet orange-flavored rice with pistachios. As she ate, she
pondered the day's events as well as those of the weekend. Now
that she and James had had sex, would they sleep together every
weekend? She would enjoy that. But perhaps they would go to her
flat instead of his, if the restaurant they chose was closer to
Kings Cross. She must put in some time cleaning. She also
resolved to buy herself some new clothes before Friday: a couple
of pretty dresses, a pair of shoes, and the most critical need
of all, good lingerie. Even if James preferred her naked, she
still wanted to look good taking it off. She was considering a
haircut when George stopped by her table to say hello.

"You need
something salty to go on that
shireen palow
. Maybe I'll
fry you a nice slice of eggplant."

"That's okay,
George, I'll have it finished faster than that." She hesitated,
and then asked, "Do you still see James Whelan around here?"

"Oh yes, on
Thursdays. He usually gets takeout, but last time he brought
Maggie with him, just like the old days. It's a good thing you
didn't take up with him. I have a friend who's about your age, a
solicitor. Good-looking bloke, and nice. Maybe you'd like to
meet him sometime? I could invite him and seat you at the same
table."

"Thanks, George,
but I've started seeing someone."

"Good. Bring him
here, sometime! I'd like to meet him."

She smiled weakly
at George as he turned back toward the kitchen. So James was
still seeing Magda. There were any number of reasons he could
have for doing so, she told herself. Legitimate ones that didn't
involve their sleeping together. But she felt far from certain.

14.
A Very
Satisfactory Transaction

The next day, she
stopped in at Sotheby's and learned that George Patterson, Esq.,
deceased in late 1979, had indeed been a relation of the Martha
Blount who inherited sixty of Alexander Pope's books and most of
his estate. But without a catalog of Pope's library, and without
an ownership inscription in the Horace, she was left in doubt.
She obtained a copy of the Patterson sale catalog, reasoning
that if the Pine had belonged to Pope, then other books in the
sale probably had as well. The next three days were spent
isolating the volumes in the catalog that could have been owned
by Pope, based on publishing dates and other information in the
descriptions. Notices of auction records from old book-trade
periodicals were her next avenue of inquiry. She discovered that
two large lots containing her likely quarry were purchased by an
antiquarian bookseller, J. Roworth, whose store was still in
operation. It was a longshot that anyone there remembered the
Patterson sale, but good researchers left no loose threads. And
besides, thought Laura, it's time I treated myself to a book or
two.

J. Roworth was in
Islington, east of Kings Cross near Barnard Park. Entering the
high-ceilinged shop, she breathed in the familiar scent of old
paper and leather bindings, and feasted her eyes on the laden,
towering shelves, some fitted with sliding glass doors and some
not. There was a jumble of separate, smaller cabinets holding
various bibliophilic treasures, and several cardboard boxes of
books, strategically placed in spots that seemed calculated to
induce stubbed toes or herniated discs. Any wall space not
filled with books held an old print in a dusty gilt frame, and a
heavy, dark library table dominated the center of the long,
narrow room. To the side, at a cluttered desk with a squat
green-shaded reading lamp, sat a man with a mostly bald head,
thick glasses, and a slightly unkempt grey beard. He studiously
ignored her.

This was standard
behavior for booksellers, so she wasn't dismayed in the least.
She browsed about, spending extra time in front of the items she
knew were either more expensive or more obscure. When she took a
book from the shelf to examine it, she didn't use her index
finger to pull at the top of the spine, but reached back and
pushed it from behind until it jutted far enough from the rest
to grasp it lower down. Slowly she worked her way around to the
greybeard's desk and commented casually, "You have a very fine
selection of Amsterdam imprints from the Golden Age. Jansson,
Caesius..." She trailed off, having deliberately dropped the
name of the publisher with whose volumes he was least richly
supplied.

He looked up at
her through his thick spectacles. "Did you see the Blaeus? I
have more of them, but Caesius is really Blaeu by another name."

"I didn't know
that," she said, wide-eyed, though she did. "How are you for
English imprints of the same period? I'm particularly interested
in Greek and Latin classics."

"I have a few
Brindleys, though they're eighteenth century. Caesar, Lucan,
Juvenal. I could probably unearth some others if you're
interested."

"Oh yes. I'd
appreciate that very much." Most male antiquarian booksellers
fell into two categories, she had discovered: the misogynists
who would be happy if a woman never sullied the masculine purity
of their domains, and the ones who were pleasantly surprised to
see a woman enter the premises. Especially if she were
(relatively speaking) younger and appeared to hang on their
every word. Even the latter type, however, never failed to drive
a sharp bargain when it came to settling on prices. Browsing his
shelves, she had fallen in love with a set of Ovid's works, each
volume no taller than an index card, and printed by Blaeu in
1649. They were bound in light cream-colored vellum with gold
stamping, and Roworth wanted
£
930,
about $1500. Tempting, but out of her league, she decided
regretfully. After some spirited haggling, she concluded a deal
for a desirable but less costly volume of Juvenal's satires from
1744. It was the date of Pope's death, she recalled with a pang.
As he was about to ring up her purchase, she told the bookman
that she'd like to have some tea. Were there any teashops close
by?

"No, but I can
give you some if you don't mind my old crockery. I was just
about to have a cup myself."

"How delightful.
Have you been at J. Roworth for long?" He had. "Are you by any
chance Mr. Roworth himself?" He was. By the time Laura left,
she'd learned that Roworth purchased the two lots in question
from Sotheby's in the 1980 Patterson sale, and in January 1981
had sold nearly all the books to a member of the nobility from
Yorkshire, a Baron Belmont-Speck.

It was Thursday,
so in the late afternoon she emailed James using the address on
the card he'd given her:
In
dire need of pizza and beer. Do you know a place for tomorrow?
He answered within an hour:
Olivera. It's in Shoreditch near my flat. I'll collect
you after work, 6:00.

15.
Home Improvements

It was warm and
muggy, so she wore one of her new dresses, a lined sleeveless
shift in light blue with little daisies embroidered on it. She
had espadrille sandals with a short heel in light blue with
yellow trim. The dress was a style she often wore, but the
colors were more girlish and youthful than her usual taste, as
were the shoes. She'd also bought an inexpensive straw handbag,
really not much more than a tote, but it had a zipper. She
rolled up a pair of black stretch pants and a yellow tee to wear
home, along with a change of underwear, and stowed them in the
bag. Under the dress she had on a new pair of lacy panties in
robin's egg blue, and a matching push-up bra. She hoped it would
give Magda a run for her money.

James looked
appreciative when he picked her up at six on the dot. He was in
a suit as usual, this time in light grey with a pale blue,
satiny tie that almost matched her dress. When he kissed her,
she could tell that he had just shaved-- presumably at work.

On the way to the
restaurant, she complimented him on his flat. "How long have you
lived there?"

"Since my divorce
three years ago. But I've owned it for quite a while. My uncle
left it to me, and I found some tenants because it wasn't big
enough for Claire and Chanda, and then Magda didn't want to live
there. It was a bit of luck that I hung onto it, as property
values have risen so high in London. It's worth a tidy sum now."

They were
standing on the tube traveling east, hanging on to the overhead
grab bars. "Will we go back there this evening?" she asked, and
felt his arm circle her waist and pull her closer to him.

"If you want
to," he said, looking into her eyes. She nodded her head slowly.
"I do."

Olivera was a
brightly lit place with a lot of blond wood and big windows.
They were shown to a table for two with a chair and a banquette
seat; couples sat closely spaced on either side of them. She
hesitated, wondering if he had a seating preference, until the
gentle pressure of his hand on the small of her back propelled
her toward the banquette. They nibbled some marinated olives as
a starter while they perused the menu. She asked for a Guinness
on draft, and he ordered a Bethnal Pale Ale. "They brew it in my
neighborhood," he said. "You'll have to taste it. But I didn't
know you liked beer. I've only seen you drink wine."

"It's true. I
don't know much about beer, but sometimes I get a mighty thirst
for it. It's so good with cheese, better than wine, often. I saw
you raise an eyebrow when I ordered the Guinness, James.
Probably a lager would be better with pizza, but I haven't had a
Guinness since I left the States. And besides, if it's not a
match for pizza, why'd they put it on the menu?"

"For Yank
tourists," he said, teasing her.

"I'm curious to
taste the pizza here," she went on, ignoring his little jab for
the moment. "It all looks very upscale compared to pizza at
home, or even in New York. Oh, they have expensive artisan
pizzas there, but I mean American-style pizza. And I see that
everyone here eats with a knife and fork. No picking up the
slices."

He laughed. "Is
that how you eat it? That's something I'd like to see. It sounds
very sensuous."

"Well, the pizzas
here might not be the right type. In order to really savor a
slice eaten from the hand, you have to have big slices with a
thin crust that you fold in half to hold in the gooey cheese.
And then the strings of cheese stretch out when you take a bite.
It's one of the best foods on earth."

Their drinks
arrived and she tasted the Guinness. It was cool but not
chilled, with a thick, dense head of foam. "This is better than
what we get at home. The foam is so creamy, it's almost like a
dairy product."

"When you lick
your lips and close your eyes like that, it reminds me of last
Saturday," he said, setting down his menu.

"Does it? I'm
glad. Did you spend time during the week thinking about what we
did?"

"Oh yes," he
answered, his eyes widening and focusing on hers. She had his
full attention now.

"I thought about
it often. Especially when I was in the shower," she said. He was
about to speak when the server came up to take their order.
Afterwards, it seemed the moment had passed. He glanced at the
people talking and eating close on either side of them, and she
could tell he was thinking that they might hear.

"Do you often
think... along those lines while you're showering?" he asked
softly. She nodded, smiling. "You have fantasies," he said. She
nodded again, as one of the women next to them looked over with
slight smirk.

"We'll continue
this discussion later," he said firmly, picking up his ale. They
talked for a few minutes about UK beers and his favorites, ones
he thought she might like to try. He let her taste his ale, but
she found herself distracted. She enjoyed simply gazing at him
as he talked. He had high, rather prominent cheekbones that gave
his face a distinctive stamp, and as always, she found it
impossible to look away from his eyes. When he was amused, they
sparkled and crinkled at the corners. Other times, they were
burningly intense, or, when he was contemplating something in
silence, deep and almost mournful.