‘Please,’ Violet said, wincing, as the woman started heaving her off the bed, none too gently in Mirren’s opinion. ‘Please could you see if you could find it? Please?’

Mirren nodded.

Chapter 4

Mirren assumed this would be a matter of internet sleuthing, which she was rather looking forward to. But she found there was almost nothing more written on the matter. She dived down a few rare book rabbit holes, but their definition of rare books generally centred quite a lot aroundMein Kampfand various old witchcraft and pornography titles, so she didn’t stay very long.

She also wondered how on earth she could find out where Violet’s mother would have sold the book. Did she even know that she had something quite precious on her hands? Where would she have taken it? They lived in London; would she have gone to a book dealer? There used to be so many, on Charing Cross Road, but they had mostly all gone now, turned into coffee shops just like everywhere else.

Mirren chose the ‘premier antiquarian bookshop in Europe’, in Kensington, and decided to go in and have a look, not wanting to phone – who does that? – and also she feared feeling like a total idiot if they had never heard of it or thought she was being stupid. Her plan was to just wander in after work on Monday and have a look round, then leave.

After a quiet weekend, and an equally quiet Monday, Mirren finished early, at 4 p.m., and marched up the wide high street. The weather was getting cold – cold enough forboots – and there were posh lights hanging all the way up the high street, big shiny chandeliers. Not like the tacky balls and sponsored illuminations on Oxford Street. These were proper lovely lights, pale whites and yellows sparkling in the early evening gloom. Designer shops displayed tiny expensive handbags surrounded by twinkling lights, and thick nests of fir tree branches covered in snow, with sparkling jewellery or oversized watches. In one, beautiful little stuffed birds were casting beady eyes over glistening bracelets on realistic frosty twigs.

The people walking by – mostly women – were incredible. Beautiful, long-limbed, fresh-faced. Even in early December, some had bare tanned legs that obviously weren’t outside in the cold for long enough to get remotely goose-bumped. Others wore white jeans and big furry gilets – with real fur? Surely not. And high ponytails and seemingly unnecessary sunglasses and everyone was blonde and about nine feet tall as they clopped past her on wedge trainers. Mirren, with her hard-to-tame curly mop and Next suit, felt very small and suburban among them.

Finally, Mirren reached the shop she was after. It was painted a dark green, with Palliser & Sons Booksellers spelled out in immaculate gold cursive over the shiny darker green door. It looked like something out of a Charles Dickens novel. There were very few books displayed in the window; those that were there were big and heavy, without prices. Mirren pushed on the door before realising, feeling foolish, that you couldn’t just walk into this shop. You needed to ring a little bell, presumably so they could come down and inspect you first. Suddenly feeling nervous, she pressed the button.

Chapter 5

It had frankly never occurred to Mirren to dress up to go to a bookshop. Quite the opposite, in fact; if it was up to her, she would turn up in her pyjamas, grab a clutch of things off the shelf and go curl up on a beanbag with a bag of fudge. But now, as a man appeared at the door, absolutely immaculate in what looked to her – not terribly trained – eye like a bespoke suit in soft grey flannel, a pink shirt with a white collar and a pale teal tie that shouldn’t have gone with it but somehow did, perfectly, Mirren wished she had made more of an effort, rather than sticking with her old cheap suit. She had felt fine leaving the house, and now felt really scruffy. Stupid Kensington.

‘Can I help you?’ he asked, slightly sneerily, as if he was already pretty sure he couldn’t.

‘I don’t know,’ said Mirren nervously. ‘I’m looking for a book?’

‘Well, there’s a Waterstones . . .’

Mirren felt a sudden flush of anger at his patronising manner.

‘A RARE book,’ she said crossly.

‘Ah,’ he said, then, reluctantly, ‘Come inside.’

Undeniably, Mirren could see why he wouldn’t want just any old people in his shop. It was really, really gorgeous in there; polished wood floorboards with Persian rugs laid on them. There were proper antique desks set at intervals, then dark wood bookshelves that reached up to a high ceiling with a tiny gilded stair on wheels. The noisy road outside had vanished as if it had never been there; somewhere, very soft classical music played. There were comfortable leather wing chairs and an actual fire in the grate. The air smelled of sweet cedar, even though Mirren was reasonably sure you weren’t actually allowed to have open fires in central London. There was probably some royal exception. The gold royal appointment logo was discreetly etched on to the window.

There was a young man in the outer office, then a beautiful young woman passed by the doorway – there were two doors, leading into other rooms in the same rich colours of brick red and a kind of greeny blue, dimly lit, but also full of books, ancient, in their raised lettering, behind locked glass. The woman was holding a tray of delicate patterned china with a teapot, but the man made an infinitesimal movement of his head and she withdrew. Obviously, Mirren was not the kind of client that got tea. Or anything from the decanter of rich brown liquid on the antique desk.

‘So,’ he said. ‘Do you know what kind of book you are looking for?’

He said it so patronisingly Mirren was tempted to say, ‘Oh no, I don’t know, one with a dog on the front.’

Instead, she said, ‘I’m looking for Robert Louis Stevenson.’

He nodded quickly.

‘Which.’

‘A Child’s Garden of Verses.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That book has sold and sold ever since it was published. Even a first edition isn’t particularly rare. Shouldn’t set you back more than ...’

He glanced at her.

‘. . . a couple of thousand.’

FOR A BOOK WITH POEMS ABOUT BEDTIME IN IT????!!!!!!!! is what Mirren would have spluttered outside, but of course she didn’t. She kept her face completely blank, still annoyed.

‘I’m looking for something quite specific,’ she said. ‘The Aubrey Beardsley edition.’