Read Online Before I Met You by Lisa Jewell - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lisa Jewell
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smell curry spices toasting. The men below laughed out loud and then made their way back inside. And there, in the diagonal corner, Betty noticed what looked like a proper house: clean brickwork, three storeys, six windows, including one full-length window in the middle, which gave her a view of a funky chandelier and a piece of anarchic art. It warmed her, strangely, to think that among all these pubs and market stalls, restaurants and fabric shops, there lived a human being with nice taste in interiors.
That night Betty slept fitfully and uncomfortably. The street below was loud and unsleeping. When she woke the following morning she felt haggard and ill. But as she pulled open the curtains she smiled.
She had not, after all, come to Soho to sleep.
That morning she decided to find a library. There was no telephone directory in her flat and she wanted to look up Clara Pickle. It was a slim chance, and she was sure that Arlette must have tried directory enquiries over the years, but still, it was worth a bash. As she walked out onto the street she saw the record-seller was putting out his pitch opposite her front door. He was wearing a hat today, a kind of fisherman’s affair, black felt with a small metal badge on the front. Two curls of hair flicked out from either side like dancers’ legs. The silly bits of hair softened his appearance, put Betty at her ease. That and the fact that she suspected that with her hair up, and without Arlette’s incongruous fur, he probably wouldn’t notice her anyway. So she picked up her pace, kept her eyes to the pavement and marched determinedly onwards although she had not a clue where she was supposed to be heading.
‘Morning,’ he said.
She stopped mid-step. Then she turned. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘hello.’
‘How are you settling in?’
Betty couldn’t speak for a moment, so taken aback was she by his friendly interaction.
‘Fine,’ she said, after a moment. ‘Just, er, popping out.’
He nodded at her and looked as though he were about to end the conversation, but then: ‘I know someone you could sell the fur to,’ he said almost nervously, ‘if you’re interested?’
‘Sell it?’
‘Yeah. The fur coat. I assume you want to sell it. It being a bit of an obsolescence and all.’
‘Oh,’ Betty said. ‘Yes. I hadn’t really thought. But, yes. Maybe I should.’
‘It’s my sister. She runs a clothing agency. For TV and film and stuff. She’s always looking for furs. Hard to find these days, apparently.’
‘Wow,’ she said, ‘what a brilliant job to have.’
‘Well, yeah, our dad’s an antiques dealer, our mum’s an auctioneer – old stuff kind of runs in our blood.’ He smiled and Betty noticed that when he smiled his crow’s-feet fanned out like peacocks’ tails and the groove between his eyebrows completely disappeared. ‘Anyway,’ he continued, his smile straightening out, the crow’s-feet regrouping, the groove resetting, ‘think about it. She’s only up the road. Let me know.’
‘I will, thank you. Yes.’ She turned away first, slightly flushed by the encounter. She was about to head on her way when it occurred to her that this man might be a good source of local knowledge. ‘I’m looking for a library,’ she said. ‘Do you know if there’s one round here?’
He raised a curious eyebrow. ‘No idea,’ he said. ‘Not much of a reader. Toff,’ he called to the man on the next stall, ‘is there a library round here?’
‘Yeah,’ Toff said, ‘of course there is.’ And he gave Betty directions.
The route to the library took her past the front of the house she’d seen from behind the night before, facing out onto Peter Street. She stopped for a moment and appraised it. Its windows were taped over with opaque film and the front door was painted shocking pink, with the number 9 nailed to it. Betty extinguished a roll-up beneath the heel of her trainer and put her hands into her pockets. She studied the building for a
That night Betty slept fitfully and uncomfortably. The street below was loud and unsleeping. When she woke the following morning she felt haggard and ill. But as she pulled open the curtains she smiled.
She had not, after all, come to Soho to sleep.
That morning she decided to find a library. There was no telephone directory in her flat and she wanted to look up Clara Pickle. It was a slim chance, and she was sure that Arlette must have tried directory enquiries over the years, but still, it was worth a bash. As she walked out onto the street she saw the record-seller was putting out his pitch opposite her front door. He was wearing a hat today, a kind of fisherman’s affair, black felt with a small metal badge on the front. Two curls of hair flicked out from either side like dancers’ legs. The silly bits of hair softened his appearance, put Betty at her ease. That and the fact that she suspected that with her hair up, and without Arlette’s incongruous fur, he probably wouldn’t notice her anyway. So she picked up her pace, kept her eyes to the pavement and marched determinedly onwards although she had not a clue where she was supposed to be heading.
‘Morning,’ he said.
She stopped mid-step. Then she turned. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘hello.’
‘How are you settling in?’
Betty couldn’t speak for a moment, so taken aback was she by his friendly interaction.
‘Fine,’ she said, after a moment. ‘Just, er, popping out.’
He nodded at her and looked as though he were about to end the conversation, but then: ‘I know someone you could sell the fur to,’ he said almost nervously, ‘if you’re interested?’
‘Sell it?’
‘Yeah. The fur coat. I assume you want to sell it. It being a bit of an obsolescence and all.’
‘Oh,’ Betty said. ‘Yes. I hadn’t really thought. But, yes. Maybe I should.’
‘It’s my sister. She runs a clothing agency. For TV and film and stuff. She’s always looking for furs. Hard to find these days, apparently.’
‘Wow,’ she said, ‘what a brilliant job to have.’
‘Well, yeah, our dad’s an antiques dealer, our mum’s an auctioneer – old stuff kind of runs in our blood.’ He smiled and Betty noticed that when he smiled his crow’s-feet fanned out like peacocks’ tails and the groove between his eyebrows completely disappeared. ‘Anyway,’ he continued, his smile straightening out, the crow’s-feet regrouping, the groove resetting, ‘think about it. She’s only up the road. Let me know.’
‘I will, thank you. Yes.’ She turned away first, slightly flushed by the encounter. She was about to head on her way when it occurred to her that this man might be a good source of local knowledge. ‘I’m looking for a library,’ she said. ‘Do you know if there’s one round here?’
He raised a curious eyebrow. ‘No idea,’ he said. ‘Not much of a reader. Toff,’ he called to the man on the next stall, ‘is there a library round here?’
‘Yeah,’ Toff said, ‘of course there is.’ And he gave Betty directions.
The route to the library took her past the front of the house she’d seen from behind the night before, facing out onto Peter Street. She stopped for a moment and appraised it. Its windows were taped over with opaque film and the front door was painted shocking pink, with the number 9 nailed to it. Betty extinguished a roll-up beneath the heel of her trainer and put her hands into her pockets. She studied the building for a
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