The Mistress - Jill Childs Page 0,59

man stood at the desk, steadying himself against it with three fingers of one hand as he gazed up at the ceiling. The library wasn’t a grand building, but it was Victorian with some of the follies of the time – from faux wooden panelling in the study room upstairs to the mock-Tudor beams and rafters on our floor. Normal people never even noticed them.

He seemed lost in thought, a tall man with floppy hair and even floppier clothes. I could see why he’d excited Mimi. A rebel. A romantic. Rather her type.

He turned as I approached and smiled, holding out his hand.

‘Ralph Wilson.’ That voice. Rich and mellow. His hand was warm with delicate fingers. An artist’s hands. ‘Poetry.’

I gawped at him, wrong-footed. I was twenty-six, but I hadn’t had a steady boyfriend for several years and frankly I was rather getting used to the idea of staying single. Suddenly I wasn’t so sure.

‘Poetry evenings.’ His eyes were deep brown, his smile broadening as he looked at me. ‘Mimi here says you’re the woman to ask. Helen, wasn’t it?’

I managed to lead him off into a quieter area of the library where we could talk without disturbing readers. Mimi pretended to be busy sorting through reservations, close enough to keep an eye on the two of us. Every time I glanced up, she was watching, an infuriating grin on her face.

As soon as he left, carrying a bundle of papers about library policy and applications to stage an event, she dashed across.

‘So?’

‘Don’t get so excited.’ I packed away the information folders, ready to put them back. ‘He wants to use us for poetry readings, but he looked horrified when I told him how much we charge.’

She waved away my words. ‘So? We can make an exception. Poetry! Exactly the sort of thing a library should be hosting.’

I narrowed my eyes. ‘Really? No exceptions. Isn’t that what you said to that man from St John’s Ambulance?’

‘That was different.’ She winked at me. ‘Ralph Wilson. Great name. Wedding ring?’

‘Didn’t notice,’ I lied.

‘You are hopeless.’ She tutted. ‘Is he a professional poet?’

‘English teacher. At secondary school.’

‘Perfect!’ Mimi beamed. ‘Partnership with education. One of our objectives. Here’s what you do. Give him a call. Tell him if he can guarantee, let’s say, twenty people, he can have the space. Free of charge. Say it’s a trial.’

I picked up the folders and started to head to the back office.

After a moment, Mimi came bustling through to find me.

‘Just thinking,’ she said. ‘If there’s anything of mine you want to wear, for poetry night, just ask. Okay?’

I looked down at my black jeans and dark blue sweater, a variation on the work uniform I wore every day, then at Mimi’s multi-coloured outfit.

‘Thanks, Mimi,’ I said. ‘Really. But I’ll be fine.’

That first poetry night, Ralph seemed nervous. Those long fingers raked through his hair. His lips were dry. I didn’t make a fuss, just noticed and did what I could to help.

A small table by the lectern for a jug of water and glasses. Making small talk with the first arrivals to give him time on his own. Telling him, just before it all began, how great he looked.

He was the last to read. I sat there, the plain, twenty-something librarian in the back row, spellbound. When he stepped up to the lectern and shuffled his papers, cleared his throat, nervously stooped for a sip of water, then finally began to read, it was like a conductor taking control of an orchestra. The room fell silent. His voice, first, was a delight in itself. But his words too. His language rolled from him, rich and resonant, and stirred emotions I’d almost forgotten in my contented little life. Passion. Regret. Longing.

When he finished reading, there was quiet. Someone coughed. A woman shuffled in her seat. I started to clap, a slow, theatrical slapping of palms that I instantly regretted. What was I thinking? People in the row in front twisted round to look.

Then someone near the front joined in and suddenly everyone was clapping and the relief was exhausting. I’d happily disappeared again, back into anonymity, into the gathering.

He took some of us out for drinks in the wine bar around the corner.

Ralph was as effusive as he’d earlier been afraid. He ordered champagne and declared the evening a marvellous new beginning. He raised a toast, dubbing me an ‘angel of mercy!’ One of his teaching friends whooped.

I remember looking round the table, at the clatter and