Page 3 of The Secret Christmas Library
‘Jamie McKinnon?’ she read aloud.
‘Uh-huh,’ he said. ‘Non-finder of books, unfortunately.’
She looked at him uncomprehendingly.
‘Listen . . . if you’re ever interested in a job, call me.’
A job? thought Mirren. But also: a job?
3
The next strange thing that happened to Mirren was this: the number on the business card he had given her was a home number. A proper, area-code-in-parentheses number, with a very long code and a very short number. Obviously the first thing Mirren did when she was back in the office was Google it, without success, except to learn that it was up in the Highlands of Scotland somewhere; up on the northeast coast, an area of the UK about which she knew precisely nothing.
The following day she saw the Christmas duty roster.
‘There’s only you on it now,’ her boss said, slightly pityingly. ‘Imran just handed in his notice.’
‘Oh, my goodness,’ said Mirren. ‘Everyone’s gone.’
She’d needed the job to get her mortgage. She knew she ought to find something else. But somehow she hadn’t found the energy to do it – to send thousands of CVs to thousands of inboxes, hoping she’d somehow hit the jackpot.
‘Nobody needs an emergency quantity surveyor over Christmas!’ said Mirren in despair, looking at the days she was meant to be on, which appeared to be all of them.
‘We have to look like a full-service organisation,’ said her boss, who was not a bad sort, but very, very tired.
Mirren headed back to her desk, grumpily. It was clearly Christmastime. Nobody needed anything surveyed. They weretoo busy watching perfume ads and complaining about how small the plastic tubs of Quality Street were these days, compared to when they were younger and they were apparently the size of gas boilers.
She sighed and stared at her computer screen. And now she couldn’t even go back to the British Museum to look at her book, in case the attendant remembered who she was now. It would be too embarrassing to be caught lurking round her own exhibition.
On impulse, she decided to text the number on the card.
The text, of course, wouldn’t send, to what was clearly a landline. This was ridiculous; he had to be doing it on purpose. He probably had a tricycle and thought they should bring back shillings and half-crowns. Mind you, he hadn’t had any peculiar facial hair. He’d looked pretty normal, if a bit skinny and scruffy. But even so.
The walls of the studio felt closer than ever when she got home, a long journey to south London with millions of other grim-faced puffa-jacket-wearing people all heading to the same place at the same time and wishing everyone else weren’t heading there too.
Mirren checked to see if she had any food in the fridge that she’d forgotten about (she hadn’t), picked up her phone, then put it down again. She wasn’t going to be a total weirdo and phone some creep who’d spoken to her in a museum.
She picked it up again. What else exactly was she going to do tonight? Browse Instagram to look at everyone else having an amazing time? Threaten terrible imaginary revenge to Theo bloody invisible Palliser? Go out in the freezing cold, trudge miles to the bus stop and go back out in town to a noisy overcrowded bar where she couldn’t hear anyone, and it would cost her a fortune?
The phone rang out, for ages. There was no answering service, no way to leave a message.
Fine. He could keep his stupid antiquarian cool-boy fetish – who cared? She suddenly felt like having a bath, which was impossible as of course she didn’t have one. Although she could already hear her next-door neighbour having a shower, which was not good news, as it was normally a precursor to him having rather loud sex with his boyfriend.
Then a long number appeared on the screen, and her own phone began to ring.
4
‘Ah, is that the Book Finder?’ came the voice at the end, sounding amused.
Now she was hearing it outside of the busy library, she realised the tinge in his voice was Scottish – but not Scottish as she normally thought of it, which was funny, loud Glaswegian. This was more of a burr, the words not elongated, more clipped. Once again Mirren found herself feeling annoyed. It was his tone of voice; as if he’d absolutely expected her to call, just because he had gone up to her in a museum. She searched for the word. That was it; he soundedentitled.
‘You asked me to phone you!’ she pointed out, sounding snippy.
‘I did,’ he said.
‘You don’t have a mobile?’
‘I do!’ he said, his voice echoing on the other end of the line. ‘You saw it. What Idon’thave is reception.’
