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It was quite normal for Victoria’s mother to spend days, sometimes weeks, in bed. Mrs Lace did not live, she slept. Sometimes, she would get dressed and float down to the shop, stinking of perfume, long strings of pearls rattling around her slender neck. But then Victoria’s father would storm home and shout something, or worse, smoulder silently and then push past them both. Silence meant the worst, because silence was normally followed by a storm. Storms were followed by the pearls being hung up in an upstairs cupboard, the perfume fading, and Victoria’s mother returning to her bed for a week or so.
‘I heard you, darling. I’ll be down later, perhaps.’
Victoria stood in the doorway of the bedroom. The air was heavy with sleep, with heavy breaths and dreams and sweat. Her mother’s bony body was motionless in the middle of the bed somewhere. Victoria gazed at the dressing table to her right, from which makeup and jewellery spilled. She wandered over and touched a lipstick. Her mother still did not move. Victoria picked the lipstick up, twisting the base to reveal a shock of pointed red wax. She stared at the lipstick for a moment before twisting it back down and replacing the lid with a quiet click. Clutching it, she turned around.
‘Be careful with that,’ she heard her mother murmur as Victoria left the room.
By the time Victoria had applied the lipstick and wiped away the smear that bled out from her top lip onto her pale skin, and put on her favourite yellow shoes, and transferred the small amount of money in the till to the locked cabinet in the kitchen, as she did every night, it was almost three o’clock. Victoria’s father was normally back home at around seven, after drinking in The Smuggler’s Ship.
Four hours was plenty.
She locked the shop door quietly, just in case the sound did make her mother get up out of bed. As she left Lace Antiques and stepped out onto Castle Street, Victoria stole a brief glance at her mother’s bedroom window upstairs. Her jittering heart stilled when greeted with unmoving curtains, behind which a sleepy darkness was promised.
From the rocky beach at the bottom end, Silenshore rose upwards in an uneven hill, to where the silvery-grey spires of the University rose into the clouds. Victoria could remember being tugged along by her mother on rare occasions when she was very small, up Castle Street, and perhaps into the butcher’s and the bakery and Boots the chemist. But every time they got near the top of the hill, where the fragrance of salt and sand faded and was replaced by the damp, dark scent of the old castle towering above them, her mother would grip Victoria’s hand so tightly that Victoria could feel their bones clicking against each other, and they would turn around to walk home in a mysterious silence. So Victoria had never, ever gone further than a third of the way up the hill, past the colourful, exotic window of Harper’s Dresses.
Until now.
The spring air was warm and as she walked briskly upwards, Victoria felt her clothes become damp with perspiration. She stopped for a moment and sat on a bench outside Harper’s. Fumbling with her handbag, she took out a mint and placed it on her tongue. She hadn’t been nervous before she’d left the shop, so where had the sudden shaking fingers, the shallow breaths come from?
She crunched down on the mint, and stood up, swallowing the glassy fragments as she neared the wide expanse of shadows cast down by the sprawling university. Now that she was getting closer to the imposing stone building, the looming, ghostly turrets that Victoria had gazed at so many times throughout her childhood were somehow less intimidating, and more elegant than Victoria had ever noticed. Arched windows glittered beneath them, the golden stone carved with intricate detail to frame the leaded glass.
Victoria followed the signs for the English department and, with short breaths and the image of Harry firmly before her eyes, picked up pace along the cobbles. Although the term was probably over, he might still be busy speaking to students or other lecturers. But as soon as he saw that Victoria was outside his office, he might dismiss them. They would pass her, whispering the rumours they had heard about Harry’s new love who had the name of a queen, who had raven-black hair and porcelain skin, that this must be her, that she was just like the girl everyone was talking about.
The English department was in a squat building that lacked the drama of the rest of the castle. That was a shame, Victoria thought as she stepped through the green swinging door. It would have been quite nice to have her romance begin in the mystical, shining castle, rather than a dreary hut that reminded her of her old school. When she reached the office with Harry’s name on the door, Victoria glanced behind her to check that nobody was watching, and pressed her fist quietly against the bright teak.
Nothing.
She leaned her head against the wood and listened hard. The faint rustling of papers came from within. He was in there, then. She knocked again, more of a rap this time: the knock of somebody who meant business. The sound of rustling was quickly replaced by the creak of a chair and two light footsteps. Then the door swung open.
His face was squarer than Victoria had remembered, but no less exquisite for it. His hair, which she had taken for black, was actually the dark brown of cocoa. He ran his hand through it and ruffled it slightly.
‘Victoria! What a nice surprise to see you here!’
‘I’m sorry to come uninvited.’
Harry frowned. ‘Not at all.’
‘It’s just that I was thinking about the Robert Bell talk. I wondered if you’d managed to get it arranged yet.’
Harry gazed at Victoria for a few more seconds. He ran his hand through his hair again, looked behind him into the untidy, square office that lay beyond the door, and then nodded.
‘Forgive me if I appear distracted. Seeing you just…I was very much in my own world before you came. But I have arranged the talk by Robert Bell,’ Harry continued. ‘It’s next week. I was going to come to the shop this weekend and tell you.’
Victoria looked back up at him. ‘Really?’
He smiled then, a generous, wide smile that took her back to the dream she’d had last night. It wasn’t so much a dream, more of an image that had endured in her mind for the whole night, of Harry taking her hand and smiling at her, again and again as she tossed around underneath her tangle of blankets.
‘Yes. I was looking forward to seeing you again. The talk is on Monday at four. If you get here a bit earlier, you’ll get a good seat.’
‘Then I will be here at half past three,’ Victoria said, feeling a strange excitement crackling in the air around them.
‘I’ll look forward to it.’ Harry looked for a few moments as though he wanted to say more, but then somebody came down the corridor, and Harry smiled once more, then disappeared back into his office, closing his door gently behind him.
On Monday night, Victoria’s father was travelling to London and staying overnight so that he could attend an auction in London on Tuesday. Normally, when he visited auctions, the time he was gone was filled with a crisp, brittle tension. If he was what he called winning at the auction, then a couple of days later he would return home drunk, buoyant, red-faced with alcoholic cheer. If he wasn’t winning, if some other sod had bought up the collection he wanted, the one that would make Lace Antiques get through another blasted winter, then he would crash home drunk, pale and angry. Sometimes, if she was up to it, Mrs Lace went with her husband to the auctions. She had her uses, being so beautiful. She could sometimes make the auctioneer overlook a nod or a tap on the opposite side of the room.
Tuesday’s auction in London was an important one, and Victoria’s mother found enough spirit in her to get out of bed, hang some beads around her neck that she said were lucky, pack her small, mint-green suitcase and disappear off with Victoria’s father.
‘We’ll see you tomorrow, darling,’ she said, disappearing through the shop’s front door in a cloud of Chanel No 5.
Victoria had already made the sign that she would put on the shop door whilst she was gone. She had sat crossed-legged on the floor in her bedroom when her parents had gone to bed the night before, writing in large black letters on a piece of card:
TAKEN ILL. PLEASE COME BACK TOMORROW.
She had been sick, she would tell her parents if they somehow found out the shop had been left closed this afternoon. She had suddenly been as sick as a dog, gone to bed for a few hours, but was much better now. Who could argue with that?
Now, she taped the sign to the glass on the front door, her fingers trembling a little with thrill at the thought of seeing Harry again.
The walk to the University was longer than Victoria had remembered, and her limbs were tight with anticipation by the time she arrived at the majestic iron gates. With a judder of nerves, she remembered that Harry hadn’t told her which room the talk was being held in. She looked at her watch. Ten past three. She was a little early, but Harry had told her to get a good seat and she simply couldn’t have waited any longer. She walked down the tree-lined driveway and looked around her, gazing at the high stone buildings and the squat little place where Harry’s office was, searching for some kind of clue as to where she should be. Perhaps Harry expected her to meet him in his office?
A group of girls went past, swinging their satchels from their shoulders confidently and chatting loudly about the dancing they had done the night before.
‘Excuse me?’ Victoria said. ‘Are you here for the Robert Bell talk?’
They continued on as though she hadn’t spoken, bags swinging, heels clicking. Apart from them, there was nobody else around.
Well, if nobody was going to speak to her, she had no choice but to just find Harry. The door to the English block clanged shut behind her as she peered down the corridor and saw that his office door was open this time. Quickening her pace, she reached Harry just as he was leaving his office and locking the door. He spun around, the white grin that melted Victoria’s insides broad on his face.
‘Victoria! I was just wondering if you’d arrive soon. You’re early, that’s good. You can come over with me and meet Robert, if you like.’
It was at this moment, a moment which should have been a pure beam of elation, that Victoria realised with a jolt that she’d forgotten her copy of The Blue Door. She could see it in her mind, lying under some papers on the counter at Lace Antiques. In fact, she hadn’t even picked up the book since the day that Harry had come in. How had she been so silly? She should have finished reading it and brought it with her for Robert Bell to sign. Now Harry would think that she didn’t appreciate meeting Robert. She looked up at Harry’s face, which was bright in expectation.
‘I’ve forgotten my copy of The Blue Door,’ Victoria blurted out.
Harry turned back to his door and rattled his key back into the lock. He emerged seconds later and held out a worn edition of the book.
‘Here you go. Have my copy. I wasn’t going to get it signed, so you might as well.’
Victoria took the book from Harry, aware that their fingers were going to meet, aware that tonight’s sleep would again be a blur of Harry’s face, his voice, his scent.
‘Thank you, Harry. I haven’t had a chance to finish it, but I-’
‘Oh, don’t worry about that. Mr Bell won’t mind at all, as long as you’re enjoying it?’
They were walking now, out of the low building and into the warm, green air of summer. The castle spread out before them, its pale-gold stone gleaming in the sun.
‘Oh, I am. At least, I was. I haven’t read for a while. I’ve not been able to concentrate,’ Victoria said. It was as though Harry pulled her thoughts from her like a magnet. She shouldn’t have told him that, should she? Sally always said that you should make boys work for you. You shouldn’t let on that you liked them quite as much as you did.
But as she glanced at Harry, his strides long, his emerald-green tie blowing slightly in the pleasant breeze, his jaw strong, his countenance confident of exactly where he was going, Victoria realised that what Sally said about boys bore absolutely no relation to Harry, because Harry was a man, and what was more, he was the man who Victoria was going to marry.
‘Ah,’ Harry said. ‘So who do you think has the missing girl?’
Victoria forced her mind to return from her daydreams and gathered her thoughts back to when she had last read some of The Blue Door. ‘I don’t know yet. I feel as though we’re meant to think the girl’s teacher has kidnapped her. But I don’t think that he has a house with blue doors in it. He lives in a small flat, doesn’t he? And the ransom note said that she was behind a blue door. The man who plays music on the street is rather strange, but I think he’s too much of an obvious choice.’
‘What do you make of the detective?’
‘Oh, I like him. He’s not very confident in himself, but I think he should be. I’m sure he’ll crack the mystery.’
‘Well, you try and beat him to it. I’m positive that you will. You’re clever enough,’ Harry said, as he pushed open a set of heavy double doors.
The room where the talk was to take place was not so much a room but a theatre. The worn red chairs ascended up from the wide expanse of stage and were all empty. Victoria imagined what it would be like to sit in the theatre and listen to lectures about books, writing and poetry. Why had it never occurred to her before that there was a life outside Lace Antiques? Sitting in these red chairs and listening to lectures about books would be nothing like the monotony of school. It would be a whole new exciting world.
‘He’s not here yet,’ Harry said. ‘Why don’t we sit down? He won’t be long.’
‘Did you always know you wanted to work here?’ Victoria asked him, settling into a red seat that was harder and less inviting than it looked.
‘Yes. I did, actually. I used to live at the top of the hill and look up at the spires of the castle from my bedroom window and wonder how I’d cope if I didn’t one day have something to do with it. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’
Victoria nodded vigorously. ‘It’s very beautiful. I’ve always wanted to come here and my mother never let me. But whenever I’m walking up Castle Street and I see the castle it seems to want to pull me in somehow.’
Harry nodded. ‘I agree. I always felt rather the same. But the funny thing is, even though I got what I wanted, and I work here, I’m stuck in the ugliest block of the lot. No spires, no turrets, no nothing.’
Victoria laughed. ‘I’d noticed that. You should ask to be moved to the very top of the highest turret.’
‘I might!’ Harry laughed too, and Victoria fought the urge to touch him somehow, satisfying herself slightly by shuffling a little further towards him.
‘Have you worked here long?’ she asked.
‘Eight years. I studied English here and then a few years later I started as an assistant lecturer.’
‘Your dream came true,’ Victoria pointed out.
Harry gazed at Victoria for a few moments, something flickering across his features. ‘I suppose it did. Well, one of them did, at least.’
Victoria stared back at him, until they heard the heavy door of the lecture theatre swing open and the air in the room shifted with the presence of another person.
‘Ah. Here’s Robert,’ Harry said, touching Victoria’s hand and then standing up. ‘Let’s get started.’
Robert Bell was much shorter than Victoria had imagined him to be, with tufts of grey hair and a rather round belly. He smiled at Victoria and held out his hand to shake it. She took it, the new thrill of shaking hands with authors and sitting in lecture theatres flickering inside her like a candle.
‘Robert, this is Victoria Lace, one of your biggest fans,’ Harry said to Robert.
‘I’m reading The Blue Door at the moment,’ Victoria said, handing Harry’s copy of the book to Robert. ‘I haven’t finished it, I’m afraid, although I’m very much enjoying it. I was wondering if you’d sign it for me?’
‘Of course,’ said Robert, taking a pen from his breast pocket.
To Miss Lace
May your life be filled with dreams come true and blue doors opened.
Best wishes,
Robert Bell
Victoria read it and smiled at Robert. She thought of the sudden new feelings she had since she’d met Harry, the empty shop, the TAKEN ILL sign, her absent parents.
‘Thank you, Mr Bell. I hope so too.’
The lecture theatre began to fill up soon after Robert had signed Victoria’s book. Robert spoke quietly and the audience strained to hear his words. He talked about how he never, ever planned his books, how he wrote every day in his shed (even in the winter, he said) and how the characters became as important to him as his friends (some girls at the back sniggered at this).
‘You have to write about what you know,’ Robert said towards the end of his talk. ‘Or at least start with that. Write about the kind of people, places and feelings you know, and the rest will follow.’
Victoria gazed at Robert as he spoke. What did she know? The shop, her favourite novels, her sleeping mother and her angry father. That wasn’t enough. Her eyes drifted over to Harry and lingered on him for a while. What would it be like to know him: to know him properly? What would it be like to know how his skin smelt when he first woke up, and how his hair felt beneath her fingertips, and how his voice changed when he was frustrated, or excited, or sad? Her blood fizzed and tingled beneath her skin as she watched him. A daydream began to cloud her mind, where she lived with Harry and could touch him and talk to him whenever she wanted. The daydream flickered before her eyes, beautiful and inspiring, gently lulling her along to the dulcet melody of Robert Bell’s voice.
When the talk had finished, and Robert had answered a smattering of questions, the theatre slowly emptied, the prospective students numb and silent after an hour of being talked at. Robert spoke briefly to Harry and appearing to be relieved to take up his notes, waved at Victoria and left the room.
The theatre was now empty except for Victoria and Harry. They were back where they had started.
‘Thank you for letting me have your book signed,’ Victoria said as she stood and wandered over to the stage. ‘Perhaps I could bring you my copy instead? And then it’ll have been a straight swap.’
‘I’d like that. So, what did you think of Robert Bell?’
‘I thought he was wonderful. I want to be a writer too.’
‘What do you want to write?’
‘I want to write mysteries, like he does. Nobody would expect me to write mysteries. I’d like to surprise everyone.’
‘Well, remember where you started, won’t you. When you’re a famous mystery author, remember who introduced you to your muse.’
Victoria nodded and stared up at Harry so hard, so intently, that she ached.
‘I’m quite sorry that the talk is over. It feels so very flat going back home after that,’ she admitted.
Harry looked at his watch. ‘Would you like to get a drink?’ he asked after a few seconds. ‘I’d quite like some fresh air and a walk, if you’d like to join me.’
Chapter 5 (#ulink_03635ec9-e3a2-53a6-b0e5-b59a91d16748)
Isobel: 2010 (#ulink_03635ec9-e3a2-53a6-b0e5-b59a91d16748)
My Queen Victoria,
Sarah and I had a silly disagreement today, which culminated in her throwing an omelette at me, just like you did on that wonderful day that feels like so long ago. I should have been angry at Sarah, or at the least, shamed. Instead it made me think of you: your sweet, sweet kisses and your terrible cooking. I would rather eat a raw omelette every day than be without you.
Write to me.
H
On Friday, Isobel stays in her classroom for a while after the last class has gone. She marks practice exams, ticking and crossing deftly, until the pile on her desk is finished. She stands up and grabs her coat from the back of the chair, shivering as the cool air from the room snakes around her. As she glances out of the window, she sees something that makes her move closer to the glass. Tom’s Volkswagen Polo is parked outside and if she squints Isobel can see Tom sitting in the driver’s seat. He must be waiting for her, although they haven’t planned anything: Tom said he was working tonight and Isobel has plans for a night in with Iris.
