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Charles is grilled about the costs because they all want more for less. I also explain how going cheap doesn’t save money in the long run and how an integrated package provides much better protection than adds-on to an existing system. When they ask the cost of adding security people, the additional cost doesn’t seem to sit well.
We finish the morning session and adjourn for lunch at Simpson’s. After four grueling hours, we are all knacked, except for the bankers.
* * *
Cress
JL and I walk down to Cecil Court to visit the Sheremetov Brothers bookshop before lunch. My face itches a bit from the heavy application of makeup, but JL did a fabulous job to minimize the injuries. When I asked him where he learned how to do it, he was noncommittal. A mystery for another day.
Cecil Court is a London treasure. Neither JL nor I are inclined for chitchat, but our cabbie is more than willing to pick up the slack.
“Interesting place, Cecil Court. I expect you’re going there for the shopping. Dead posh and all. Nicknamed Bookseller’s Row, even though it’s a glorified alley. Chock-a-block with bookshops, antique stores, and map purveyors.” He glances back at us through the rear-view mirror to gauge whether he’s boring us. “The Cecil family has owned it since the sixteenth century and I heard the name commemorates Robert Cecil, first Earl of Salisbury.”
When we say nothing, he chuckles. “You might ask who he is when he’s at home? Can’t blame you. Even those of us who are from here might not know. He was a big fish in his time. Chief minister in the reigns of Good Queen Bess, and the first King James.” He pulls up at the curb. “Five pounds, mate. No charge for the history lesson.”
JL wrestles his wallet out of his back pocket and fishes out a ten pound note. “Keep the change.”
While holding out his hand, the cabbie continues to talk. “The street itself is quite old, but the current buildings date from the late nineteenth century. Before the books moved in, the street was the home of the early British film industry.” He pockets the cash. “Ta. Hope you find a few bits and bobs for your new home.”
JL and I share a laugh that turns to guffaws. Our cabbie must have thought we were newlyweds.
The Sheremetov’s store has a blue-painted wooden front, and the name painted on double glass doors framed in rich dark oak. They’ve propped one open, inviting visitors to browse.
Inside, it smells of parchment and vellum, calfskin bindings, old paper, and furniture wax—beeswax overlaid with turpentine, linseed oil, and lavender. They crammed most of the floor space with tightly packed shelves. We edge our way toward a long library table pushed against a wall. Lightheaded with desire, I could lose myself in here for days.
JL touches my arm. “I’ll wait outside.”
Astonished, I narrow my eyes. Who can resist the lure of old books? “You don’t like books?”
“I like books.” He’s indignant. “But this? Too confining. Dark. Claustrophobic. I like modern, brightly lit bookstores with plenty of space.”
“Where will you go?”
“I’ll be right outside. Maybe try to find a bench.”
A man stands at the table, paging through a folio volume that might be an atlas. He turns at the sound of our whispered conversation, and, oh my God. He’s almost as tall as Max, with jet-black hair, oval face, pale complexion with a reddish undertone that reminds me of Russian figure skaters. His deepset eyes are a mix of dusty blue and gray framed by tortoiseshell glasses. Long thin fingers seem just right for a rare-bookconnoisseur.
“May I help you?” He focuses on JL and I frown. “I can put a chair out in front if you want to sit.” His smooth tenor voice is standard London British, with a slight tinge of something I can’t identify.
“Merci.” JL accepts the offer with a nod.
“French-Canadian?”
“Oui. How did you know?”
“Sounds different from the French across the Channel. I have a cousin who is a whiz at languages, and I’ve learnt a lot from him.” He drags a chair out from a corner of the room and sets it up in front of the shop window, then comes back to me.
“Are you looking for something in particular?” As he goes on, I realize his intonation has the same quality that colors Max’s mother’s speech—a slight hint of a Russian accent. He must be one of the Sheremetov brothers rather than a salesclerk.
Before I can respond, another man rushes in from the back. He’s slightly shorter and heavier. Brownish blond hair stands up in spikes. He comes forward, hand outstretched, moving between me and the other man. “Good morning.” He shakes my hand. “Serge Sheremetov. This dolt is my brother, Alex.” He gives a negligent nod toward the now-scowling man standing behind him, arms folded across his chest. “And you are?”
His grip is a little forceful. I disengage and move back a few steps. “Cress Taylor.”
“American.” Alex’s voice is flat and not exactly welcoming. “I hope you realize this is not a regular bookshop. The only bestsellers here are at least a hundred years old.”
My mouth drops open and I gape at him.
Serge takes over smoothly. “Not technically true, but we don’t stock the newest things.” He seems supremely oblivious of his brother’s venomous glare. “I’m sure we can help you.” As if we share some secret, he gives me a complicit wink.
