London Broil (7 page)

"No, not at
all."

"You have so many
memories of the times you spent with her, that those experiences
more than make up for the pain?"

"Yes, that's
true."

"And if you had
discovered that Cecily had flaws in her character--even if she
did things that hurt you--do you think you would feel any
differently?"

"No, I wouldn't."
In fact, Cecily did have character flaws. She shoplifted, and
whenever she did it, Laura was gripped with guilt on the one
hand, and on the other, chilling fear that she would be caught
and punished too, since she was often present when Cecily
pocketed a candy bar, or a lipstick. And Cecily had hurt her by
ignoring her and pointedly making conversation with other girls
at school, after she haltingly explained her doubts about the
shoplifting. But none of that mattered next to the sheer joy of
knowing Cecily, and being known by her.

"Thanks, Pappy,"
she said.

8.
The Honey-Sweet Scroll

On Monday,
sitting in the Porteous library, she found an edition of Horace
that was not listed in the catalog. The two volumes were the
perfect size for her hand, no more than ten inches tall, and
they were bound in a luscious, blue-green morocco with ornate
gold embellishments. Opening the first volume, she noted
reverently that this was John Pine's Horace of 1733-7. Not only
the sumptuous illustrations, but the text itself had been
laboriously engraved by Pine; among his patrons on the project
were Alexander Pope, George Frideric Handel, and William
Hogarth, and the book contained a dedication to Pope. She
flipped through each volume checking for marginalia, but none
seemed to be present, although there was a curious scattering of
tiny handwritten numbers and letters throughout, like footnote
markers. In spite of the beautiful bindings, the volumes were
scuffed and worn. The first volume had a sliver of the title
page clipped off the top, and the second volume had been bumped
so seriously that the spine was damaged and the last signature
had come loose. It appeared that the last several pages and the
flyleaves were missing, pages that might have contained clues to
the handwritten numbers and letters. She recorded the location
of each of these; now she needed to find out where Mr. Porteous
had obtained this set, and who might have owned it previously.
She closed the volumes and caressed the leather bindings,
holding them close to her face and inhaling deeply.

"I sometimes do
that," said a voice from the other side of the table. Startled,
Laura hugged the books protectively to her chest, and then
looked up. Ellen Porteous was standing opposite her in a rose
colored velour hoodie and matching pants. Today her hair was
gathered in a ponytail, and she wore a pearlescent pink
lipstick, but the rest of her face was scrubbed clean. "Once I
dreamed that I ate a book."

Laura smiled.
"How did it taste?"

"Sweet."

"Then you're like
the prophet Ezekiel. God gave him a scroll to eat, and he said
it was like honey in his mouth."

"That's in the
Bible, isn't it? What's your name?" Her voice was rather low,
and husky sounding. She's the female personification of
eros
, Laura thought,
and then replied, "Laura Livingston. I'm here to study your
father's books. And you're Ellen, right?" Ellen nodded.

"I haven't met
your father yet. Do you think that would be possible?"

Ellen looked
troubled. "I'm not sure. He's been very ill. Hamish says he
shouldn't see anyone but us, as it might tire him too much. He's
eighty-five, you know."

"I see. In that
case I won't ask to see him. But my problem is that these books
aren't in the catalog, and I want very much to learn where he
bought them. Do you think he would mind if I wrote him a note,
and you took it up to him with the books?"

"Oh, I think he
would like it of all things. He never gets to talk to anyone
about books now. I bring him things from the library when he
wants them, and I talk to him sometimes, but I don't know as
much about books as Hamish."

"Is Hamish a
scholar, then?"

"No, but he's
been helping father buy the books since we were little. Hamish
has a gallery and he mostly deals in paintings."

Laura took a
sheet from her notebook and began to write, glancing up
apologetically at Ellen, and self-conscious about keeping her
waiting. But Ellen simply sat down across from her, elbows on
the table and chin in her hands. She had the same blue eyes as
Hamish and a smaller, more refined version of his nose.

"There," said
Laura, and folded the paper, placing it on top of the twin
volumes and holding them out to Ellen. "Thank you. And please
tell Mr. Porteous how delighted I am to have this chance to
consult his collection. It is truly a privilege."

Ellen accepted
the books from her hands, nodded gravely, and turned to walk
from the room, affording Laura a view of her shapely posterior.

The next day,
when she returned, she found the Horace back on the library
table with a note and a thin envelope tucked inside the first
volume.

Miss Livingston, I am
pleased that you are able to make use of my little collection.
I only regret that it is not possible at the moment for me to
meet you in person. Your mentor John Tiernan is a dear friend
of mine, and I hope you will send him my warmest regards.
These volumes were purchased in 1980 at a Sotheby's auction.
Why the Pine was omitted at the time my catalog was drawn up
in 2008, I do not know. You should be able to locate the
auction record, for it was a well-known sale, George
Patterson's estate. I purchased the volumes based on their
possible association value, in spite of their less than
desirable condition. I have always cherished the hope that the
Pine may once have belonged to Pope, as Patterson was related
to the Blount family. No doubt you will have seen that there
is no ownership inscription. And now, my friend, I wonder if I
could prevail upon you to do me the favor of posting the
enclosed letter. I am quite particularly anxious that it leave
the house today, and would be very grateful should you choose
to indulge an old man in his fancies. Yours, Alexander
Porteous.

Laura felt her
heart begin to pound as she read the note. One of her passions
was the (usually futile) pursuit of books Alexander Pope might
have owned. Martha Blount had been an intimate confidante and
friend of Pope almost his entire life. Indeed, it was once
rumored that they were lovers, though most scholars believed
that the friendship was chaste and that Pope was largely
celibate. In his will, he allowed Martha the first pick of his
library, three score of books, before the rest were turned over
to his literary executor. Next, she examined the letter. The
envelope itself was plain, and there was no return address. The
intended recipient was one John Curtis, Esq., on Furnival Street
in London.

Laura wondered
which day Mr. Porteous had meant when he wrote that he wanted
the letter posted "today." In any event, she must do all she
could to honor his request. She reshelved the Pine, slipped the
papers into her bag, packed up her laptop, and rang the bell.
After a few minutes, Charlotte entered the room. "Yes, Miss
Livingston?"

"I just
remembered that I have an appointment this afternoon. I won't be
able to work today after all. I'm sorry to have disturbed you."

9.
Awaiting the Rapture

Opening up the
Herald
on Thursday
afternoon, Laura read a number of articles about ongoing
investigations of phone hacking, police bribery, and other
chicanery at the Murdoch-owned daily, the
Sun
. It was fortunate,
she thought, that James' paper, the
Herald
, was not part of
Rupert Murdoch's media empire. Turning the page, she noticed an
article in the food section under the byline James Whelan.

Wouldn't It Be Lubberly?

Rick Menzies has traded in
his fish forks for steak knives. The London restaurateur, long
known for the gastronomic temple to
fruits de mer
known as P
ê
cheur,
invested two years and
£
300,000
in
his newest venture, an Argentine style restaurant. Devoted
carnivores will be elated to learn that Menzies does not
disappoint. From the perfect steaks and ribs to the
succulent
morcilla
(blood sausage) and
grilled whole
mollejas
(sweetbreads), the
execution at Casa C
ó
rdoba
is as flawless as it was at P
ê
cheur,
despite the vast differences in the medium. On two recent
visits, my companions and I sampled...

She put down the
paper, disinclined to read more of James' ode to the delights of
Argentine beef. So he moonlighted as a restaurant critic. She
was unsurprised, given his apparently intimate knowledge of the
food scene in London. She skyped June. Laura was five hours
ahead in London, and June was sitting at her breakfast table
eating Cocoa Puffs and soy milk.

"Two women on the
Parnell campus were raped in the past week," she said. "Are you
being safe like we talked about, coming home before dark, and
locking your door every night?"

"Yes," answered
Laura. June was adamant on the topic of self-defense for women.
"Don't worry about me. I'm perfectly able to take care of
myself."

June snorted.
"No, you're not. How many times has your parking permit been
stolen because you forgot to lock your car? How many times have
you tripped on the uneven sidewalk outside Chester Hall? You're
about as observant as Mr. Magoo. Would you even know if someone
was following you?"

"I'm very
observant," Laura said, stung by the Magoo comment. "I just
focus on one thing at a time."

"Who was it that
called me from New York to ask for directions because she was
lost?" On the occasion in question, Laura had preferred to
consult June, a native of Queens, instead of approaching a
stranger on the sidewalk. "How could you get lost in Manhattan?
It's on a grid, for chrissakes."

Laura wanted to
argue that the West Village didn't follow the grid, but she
decided instead to change the subject. "Listen to this." She
read June a snippet from the restaurant review. "Maybe this
shows that we simply aren't compatible. How can James consume
all that meat without a thought to where it comes from?" she
said.

June made a face
and slurped up a mouthful of Cocoa Puffs. Crunching noises were
clearly audible as she chewed. "Kid, you're not exactly a
shining example in that department, ya know," she said. "Where
do you think the cheese and eggs you eat come from?" June's
tiny, wiry body was fueled by a completely vegan diet. She even
refused to eat honey, preferring maple or agave syrup.

Laura sighed.
"You're right. I've tried to give them up. Several times.
Somehow I never manage it for long. But James is completely
unreconstructed. I'm sure he's never even made an effort." She
added with exasperation, "And people think
I'm
too focused on
pleasure!"

"Speaking of
pleasure, how are things going in the Department of Getting
Laid?"

Laura described
the cigar-smoking episode and James' interest in her as a
would-be lesbian. June was so taken with this idea that she set
down her spoon.

"No wonder he was
turned on," she said. "How come you never told
me
those stories about
college?" she said.

"I don't know. I
guess I haven't thought about them for ages. I had almost
forgotten."

"But this Ellen
Porteous... maybe you should be with her instead of James."

"She's beautiful,
but I can't imagine it. Too complicated. And anyway, James is
the one I think about at night."

"What about in
the day? Don't you want to see him every day?"

"No. I like
having time to myself, and I have a great deal of work to get
done while I'm here. As long as I know I'll be with him again, I
can concentrate. We never agreed in so many words to see each
other only on weekends, but somehow that's how it's worked out.
I like the anticipation."

"And when is the
Day of Reckoning? Any time soon? Honestly, it's been weeks. I
think you're being a tease."

"Well, he said
something about my having dinner at his place on Saturday, which
would mean sleeping together, but nothing's been confirmed yet."

"Hallelujah!"
said June, tracing a cross shape with her hand. "Bless thee, my
child, and may thy Rapture be of the multiple variety."

When Laura picked
up her post that evening, there was a card from James with his
address in Bethnal Green.
Come
at 6:30 on Saturday and bring your next day's knickers.

10.
The Bookshelves
of Bethnal Green