definite turn for the better? Never mind that the drink she shared with Ben Williams and Geraldine was two weeks ago. Never mind that she hasn’t seen Ben Williams properly since their brief sojourn on the Internet. Never mind that neither Geraldine nor Ben has suggested a repeat drink. That one evening was enough to set a chain of events in progress. Cause and effect, except Jemima doesn’t quite know the full effect just yet. Nor do we.
But nevertheless, two weeks have passed and still Jemima’s feeling so happy, so high, so full of excitement at her new life, she treats herself to a taxi to Hampstead. She stands on the corner outside the Kilburn Herald, eyes full of hope, hands full of bags, and she hails a black cab.
p. 52 “Hampstead, please,” I tell the driver, climbing awkwardly into the back.
“Whereabouts, love?” he says, a middle-aged man with a kind face.
“Do you know Waterstone’s?”
He nods, and off we go. Up through West Hampstead, passing the hordes of young people on their way home from work, zippy suits, designer briefcases, aspirations in their eyes. Up across the Finchley Road, up Arkwright Road, cut through Church Row as I stare with envy at the houses that once contained bohemian artists and writers, and now contain wealthy businessmen, and right at the tube, down Hampstead High Street, he pulls up, double-parking, for of course there are no spaces in which to park, and clicks his meter.
“Keep the change,” I say, handing him £6, for today is the beginning of my new life, and I can afford to be a bit extravagant. I might even do a little shopping, because it’s only 5:45 P.M., and the shops will be open for a while yet, tempting me with their glamorous window displays.
But first into Waterstone’s, dark, cool, calm, I breathe in the air of reverence and feel a sense of calm wash over me. Books are my special treat, and today I’m going to treat myself. I’ve decided that I’m going to buy at least three books, and I’m going to browse for hours and soak up the atmosphere, enjoy the anonymity, revel in the fact that no one in here is looking at me or passing judgment on my thighs rubbing together as I walk because they too will be immersed in books.
I start with a table near the front, and gently brush the piles of hardbacks. No, I tell myself, that really would be extravagant, and today is a paperback day, so I walk over to another table. Covers, so many covers, so many different, delectable pictures, and although, metaphorically speaking, it is the thing I hate most, when it comes to literature I always judge books by their covers. First the cover will catch my eye, then I read p. 53 the back of the book, and then finally the first page. I pick up one, a new novel I’ve read about in a magazine. “A modern romance that puts all other romances to shame,” says the back cover. I open it up to the first page and start reading. Yes. This is the first book I’ll buy.
Then I pick up another book. No picture, just a bright yellow cover with large purple letters, the author’s name and the title. Hmm, interesting. I read the first page, where I meet Anna, an eighteen-year-old girl about to embark on a university degree. She is going to meet her future lecturer, who will, she suspects, quiz her about her reasons for taking an English degree. It is beautifully written, the sentences so clear, so concise, so vivid, I almost forget about adding it to my pile. I forget I’m in Waterstone’s, to be honest I seem to forget about everything, and, as I read on to the fourth page, the fifth, I become Anna’s invisible acquaintance, a secret shadowy figure who lurks silently in the background, looking in on Anna’s life, holding her hand as she meets the gruff professor.
Jemima is so immersed in Anna’s world she doesn’t see that on the other side of the room, standing almost exactly parallel to where she is now, is Ben Williams. Ben is also immersed in a book, back to
But nevertheless, two weeks have passed and still Jemima’s feeling so happy, so high, so full of excitement at her new life, she treats herself to a taxi to Hampstead. She stands on the corner outside the Kilburn Herald, eyes full of hope, hands full of bags, and she hails a black cab.
p. 52 “Hampstead, please,” I tell the driver, climbing awkwardly into the back.
“Whereabouts, love?” he says, a middle-aged man with a kind face.
“Do you know Waterstone’s?”
He nods, and off we go. Up through West Hampstead, passing the hordes of young people on their way home from work, zippy suits, designer briefcases, aspirations in their eyes. Up across the Finchley Road, up Arkwright Road, cut through Church Row as I stare with envy at the houses that once contained bohemian artists and writers, and now contain wealthy businessmen, and right at the tube, down Hampstead High Street, he pulls up, double-parking, for of course there are no spaces in which to park, and clicks his meter.
“Keep the change,” I say, handing him £6, for today is the beginning of my new life, and I can afford to be a bit extravagant. I might even do a little shopping, because it’s only 5:45 P.M., and the shops will be open for a while yet, tempting me with their glamorous window displays.
But first into Waterstone’s, dark, cool, calm, I breathe in the air of reverence and feel a sense of calm wash over me. Books are my special treat, and today I’m going to treat myself. I’ve decided that I’m going to buy at least three books, and I’m going to browse for hours and soak up the atmosphere, enjoy the anonymity, revel in the fact that no one in here is looking at me or passing judgment on my thighs rubbing together as I walk because they too will be immersed in books.
I start with a table near the front, and gently brush the piles of hardbacks. No, I tell myself, that really would be extravagant, and today is a paperback day, so I walk over to another table. Covers, so many covers, so many different, delectable pictures, and although, metaphorically speaking, it is the thing I hate most, when it comes to literature I always judge books by their covers. First the cover will catch my eye, then I read p. 53 the back of the book, and then finally the first page. I pick up one, a new novel I’ve read about in a magazine. “A modern romance that puts all other romances to shame,” says the back cover. I open it up to the first page and start reading. Yes. This is the first book I’ll buy.
Then I pick up another book. No picture, just a bright yellow cover with large purple letters, the author’s name and the title. Hmm, interesting. I read the first page, where I meet Anna, an eighteen-year-old girl about to embark on a university degree. She is going to meet her future lecturer, who will, she suspects, quiz her about her reasons for taking an English degree. It is beautifully written, the sentences so clear, so concise, so vivid, I almost forget about adding it to my pile. I forget I’m in Waterstone’s, to be honest I seem to forget about everything, and, as I read on to the fourth page, the fifth, I become Anna’s invisible acquaintance, a secret shadowy figure who lurks silently in the background, looking in on Anna’s life, holding her hand as she meets the gruff professor.
Jemima is so immersed in Anna’s world she doesn’t see that on the other side of the room, standing almost exactly parallel to where she is now, is Ben Williams. Ben is also immersed in a book, back to
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