used to talk about. Enough money for us to get married and start again and live happily ever after—isn’t that what you’ve always wanted?’
It was, of course, she knew it was.
‘She deserves it, Jimmy. You said it yourself—she deserves to pay after everything she’s done.’ Dolly drew on her cigarette, speaking quickly through the smoke. ‘She was the one who convinced me to break it off with you, you know. She poisoned me against you, Jimmy. Made me think we shouldn’t be together. Can’t you see, she’s caused us both so much pain?’
Jimmy didn’t know how to feel. He hated what she was suggesting. He hated himself even more for not telling her so. He heard himself say, ‘I suppose you want me to take this photo-graph, is that it?’
Dolly smiled at him. ‘Oh no, Jimmy, that’s not it at all. There’s too much chance involved, far too much risk in waiting to catch them in the act. My idea’s much simpler than that, child’s play by comparison.’ ‘Well then,’ he said, staring at the metal strip around the tabletop. ‘What is it, Doll? Tell me.’
‘I’m going to take the photograph.’ She gave his button a playful tweak and it fell off in her fingers. ‘And you’re going to be in it.’
Twenty-one
Thursday, London, 2011
IT WAS A SMOOTH RUN down the motorway and Laurel was driving along Euston Road by eleven, scanning for car parks. She found one by the mainline station, and eased the little green Mini into a slot. Perfect—the British Library was only a hop, skip and a jump away, and she’d spied the black and blue awning of a Caffe Nero round the corner. All morning with no caffeine and her brain was threatening to melt.
Twenty minutes later a far more focused Laurel was making her way across the grey and white library foyer towards the Reader Registration Office. The young woman with a nametag that read ‘Bonny’ didn’t appear to recognise her, and having caught a glimpse of herself coming through the glass entry door, Laurel took that as a compliment. After tossing and turning most of the night, her thoughts tying themselves in knots as she wondered what her mother could possibly have taken from Vivien Jenkins, she’d slept late again this morning and given herself only ten minutes at Greenacres to make it from bed to car. Her speed had been commendable, but she couldn’t claim to have made the transition in prize peach condition. She tousled a little life into her hair and when Bonny said, ‘Can I help you?’ Laurel answered, ‘My dear, I most certainly hope so.’ She took out the piece of paper on which Gerry had written her reader number. ‘I believe there might be a book waiting for me in the Humanities Reading Room?’
‘Let’s have a look, shall we?’ Bonny said, typing something on her keyboard. ‘I’m just going to need some ID and proof of address to complete your registration.’
Laurel handed over both and Bonny smiled. ‘Laurel Nicolson. Just like the actress.’
‘Yes,’ Laurel agreed. Quite.
Bonny sorted out the reader’s pass and pointed Laurel in the direction of the curved staircase. ‘You want the second floor. Go straight to the desk; you should find the book waiting for you.’
She did. That is, she found a most helpful gentleman—wearing a red knitted waistcoat and a tangled white beard—waiting for her. Laurel explained what she was looking for, passed him the print-out she’d been given downstairs, and within moments he’d gone to the shelves behind him and was sliding a slim, black leather-bound volume across the counter. Laurel read the title under her breath and experienced a frisson of anticipation: Henry Jenkins: An Author’s Life, Loves and Loss.
She found a seat in the corner and sat down, turning over the cover and breathing in the glorious dusty scent of papery possibility. It wasn’t a particularly long book, published by an imprint Laurel had never heard of and with a distinctly unprofessional look about it—something in the size and type of font, the lack of margins, and the few poorly reproduced photographs; it also seemed to rely rather heavily for augmentation on extracts from Henry Jenkins’s novels. But it was a starting point, and Laurel was eager to get started. She scanned the table of contents, her heart beginning to trip along swiftly when she found the chapter entitled ‘Married Life’ that had first sparked her interest when she saw it on the Internet listing.
But Laurel didn’t turn straight to page