‘That’s not true,’ I said. ‘I’ve read some really bad books.’ I was thinking specifically of Anne of Green Gables, which we’d been forced to read the term before and which was the most stupid, annoying book I’d ever encountered.
‘They weren’t bad books,’ Phin countered patiently. ‘They were books that you didn’t enjoy. It’s not the same thing at all. The only bad books are books that are so badly written that no one will publish them. Any book that has been published is going to be a “good book” for someone.’
I nodded. I couldn’t fault his logic.
‘I’ve nearly finished it,’ he said, glancing down at the book in his hand. ‘You can borrow it after me, if you want?’
I nodded again. ‘OK,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’
And then he left. But I stood where I was, my head pulsating, my palms damp, my heart filled with something extraordinary and new.
18
Miller Roe stands as Libby approaches him. She recognises him from his photo on the internet, although he has grown a beard since he had his byline photo taken, and also gained some weight. He is halfway through a very messy sandwich and has a speck of yellow sauce in his beard. He wipes his fingers on a napkin before he takes Libby’s hand to shake and says, ‘Libby, wow, so good to meet you. So good to meet you!’ He has a London accent and dark blue eyes. His hand around hers is huge. ‘Here, sit down. What can I get you? The sandwiches are amazing.’
She glances down at his car crash sandwich and says, ‘I only just had breakfast.’
‘Coffee, tea?’
‘A cappuccino would be nice. Thank you.’
She watches him at the counter of the trendy café on West End Lane where he’d suggested they meet as a midway point between St Albans and South Norwood. He’s wearing low-slung jeans and a faded T-shirt, a green cotton jacket and walking boots. He has a big belly and a large head of thick dark brown hair. He’s slightly overwhelming to look at, ursine but not unappealing.
He brings back her cappuccino and places it in front of her. ‘So grateful to you for coming to meet me. I hope your journey was OK?’ He pushes his sandwich to one side as though he has no intention of eating any more.
‘No problem,’ she says, ‘fifteen minutes, straight through.’
‘From St Albans, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Nice place, St Albans.’
‘Yes,’ she agrees. ‘I like it.’
‘So,’ he says, stopping and staring meaningfully at her, ‘you’re the baby.’
She laughs nervously. ‘It seems I am.’
‘And you’ve inherited that house?’
‘I have, yes.’
‘Wow,’ he says. ‘Game changer.’
‘Complete,’ she agrees.
‘Have you been to see it?’
‘The house?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Yes, a couple of times.’
‘God.’ He throws himself back into his chair. ‘I tried so hard to get them to let me into that house. I was virtually offering the guy at the solicitors my firstborn. One night I even tried to break in.’
‘So you never actually saw it?’
‘No, I very much didn’t.’ He laughs wryly. ‘I peered through windows; I even sweet-talked the neighbours round the back to be allowed to look out of their windows. But never actually got in the house. What’s it like?’
‘It’s dark,’ she says. ‘Lots of wood panelling. Weird.’
‘And you’re going to sell it, I assume?’
‘I am going to sell it. Yes. But …’ She trails her fingertips around the rim of her coffee cup as she forms her next words. ‘First I want to know what happened there.’
Miller Roe makes a sort of growling noise under his breath and rubs his beard with his hand, dislodging the speck of yellow sauce. ‘God, you and me both. Two years of my life, that article took from me, two obsessed, insane, fucked-up years of my life. Destroyed my marriage and I still didn’t get the answers I was looking for. Nowhere near.’
He smiles at her. He has, she thinks, a nice face. She tries to guess his age, but she can’t. He could be anywhere between twenty-five and forty.
She reaches into her bag and pulls out the keys to Cheyne Walk, places them on the table in front of him.
His gaze drops on to them and she sees a wave of longing pass across his eyes. His hand reaches across the table. ‘Oh my God. May I?’
‘Sure,’ she says. ‘Go ahead.’
He stares at each key in turn, caresses the fobs. ‘A Jag?’ he says, looking up at her.
‘Apparently.’
‘You know, Henry Lamb, your dad, he used to be quite the Jack the Lad.