,”she had added furiously.
“I think, Mrs. Knight,” Mrs. Spong had replied, utterly deadpan, “that you might have more luck with Soldier of Fortune magazine.” Cassandra had never heard of it, but she liked the sound of it. It must be for rich military types. Another good reason for going to the library. She could save money by helping herself to their copy.
Cassandra swept into Kensington Library and sailed straight for the shelf with her works on it. She was horrified to see that the whole fat-spined four of them were in residence. Furious, she pulled out Impossible Lust ,marched purposefully towards the display cabinet at the back of the room, and replaced Captain Corelli’s Mandolin with it. Who wanted to read about a bloody mandolin anyway? Feeling better, Cassandra returned to her shelf and flicked to the front of The Sins of the Father ,the book that had gone through the five hundred thousand barrier and netted her the Schnabel. She felt comforted by the date stamps tattooing the first and second pages—there had obviously been no shortage of borrowers. Then, absently, she flicked to the back, whose last page, she was disgusted to see, was covered in shaky initials in pale blue Biro; put there, she knew, by old women who couldn’t remember what they’d read. Realising that the initials at the back tallied roughly with the number of date stamps at the front, anger coursed through Cassandra. If only the old bags would leave her books on the shelf for more than five seconds ,perhaps some fashionable people would have a chance to borrow them.
Her mood did not improve as a stooping old woman with a slack, trembling jaw, thin grey hair, and skin like a raisin came shuffling into the room and made the sort of line a shaky, ancient bee might manage in the direction of Cassandra’s shelf. Cassandra shrank against the Sidney Sheldons—at least they weren’t all out either—and watched in disgust as the woman took Impossible Lust between her liver-spotted fingers and turned to the back page. Apparently unable to decipher her initials, the old woman grunted with satisfaction and shuffled off with the volume towards the librarians’ counter. Cassandra’s hand flew up to her skinny throat. She felt violated. Seeing that old woman’s filthy old hands over her precious words was, she shuddered to herself, like being raped .Bile welled up within her. Cassandra hated most of her readers—the pitiful, pathetic, poor masses who bought her books in their hundreds of thousands. But even more despicable were the readers who got her books free from the libraries.
As best she could in her crippling heels, Cassandra rushed dramatically out of the room and into the library foyer, where she paused to catch her breath against the noticeboard. As her hammering heart calmed down, her eyes wandered across the many ruled and drawing-pinned pieces of card offering everything from Opera Camp for musical fives-and-up to wine appreciation courses for under-eights. There was hardly time for a panicked Cassandra to wonder whether she should be sending Zak on the latter before her eye fell upon the bright pink card pinned next to it. English Graduate Seeks…Cassandra did a double take. Her eyes narrowed. She read it, then read it again. Finally, she snatched it off the board, slipped it into her plastic zebraskin pocket, and left. It was only when she was halfway up Kensington Church Street that she realised she had forgotten to look for Soldier of Fortune .But hopefully she wouldn’t be needing that now.
Chapter Six
Anna heard the snap of the letterbox and wandered slowly down the long, white-painted corridor to the post lying on the mat. Not more wedding invitations for Seb, she thought in amazement, picking them up and almost buckling under the weight of the thick, cream envelopes.
Over the few weeks since she had moved into his flat, the wedding invitations on Seb’s solid Edwardian marble mantelpiece had grown from a mere
“I think, Mrs. Knight,” Mrs. Spong had replied, utterly deadpan, “that you might have more luck with Soldier of Fortune magazine.” Cassandra had never heard of it, but she liked the sound of it. It must be for rich military types. Another good reason for going to the library. She could save money by helping herself to their copy.
Cassandra swept into Kensington Library and sailed straight for the shelf with her works on it. She was horrified to see that the whole fat-spined four of them were in residence. Furious, she pulled out Impossible Lust ,marched purposefully towards the display cabinet at the back of the room, and replaced Captain Corelli’s Mandolin with it. Who wanted to read about a bloody mandolin anyway? Feeling better, Cassandra returned to her shelf and flicked to the front of The Sins of the Father ,the book that had gone through the five hundred thousand barrier and netted her the Schnabel. She felt comforted by the date stamps tattooing the first and second pages—there had obviously been no shortage of borrowers. Then, absently, she flicked to the back, whose last page, she was disgusted to see, was covered in shaky initials in pale blue Biro; put there, she knew, by old women who couldn’t remember what they’d read. Realising that the initials at the back tallied roughly with the number of date stamps at the front, anger coursed through Cassandra. If only the old bags would leave her books on the shelf for more than five seconds ,perhaps some fashionable people would have a chance to borrow them.
Her mood did not improve as a stooping old woman with a slack, trembling jaw, thin grey hair, and skin like a raisin came shuffling into the room and made the sort of line a shaky, ancient bee might manage in the direction of Cassandra’s shelf. Cassandra shrank against the Sidney Sheldons—at least they weren’t all out either—and watched in disgust as the woman took Impossible Lust between her liver-spotted fingers and turned to the back page. Apparently unable to decipher her initials, the old woman grunted with satisfaction and shuffled off with the volume towards the librarians’ counter. Cassandra’s hand flew up to her skinny throat. She felt violated. Seeing that old woman’s filthy old hands over her precious words was, she shuddered to herself, like being raped .Bile welled up within her. Cassandra hated most of her readers—the pitiful, pathetic, poor masses who bought her books in their hundreds of thousands. But even more despicable were the readers who got her books free from the libraries.
As best she could in her crippling heels, Cassandra rushed dramatically out of the room and into the library foyer, where she paused to catch her breath against the noticeboard. As her hammering heart calmed down, her eyes wandered across the many ruled and drawing-pinned pieces of card offering everything from Opera Camp for musical fives-and-up to wine appreciation courses for under-eights. There was hardly time for a panicked Cassandra to wonder whether she should be sending Zak on the latter before her eye fell upon the bright pink card pinned next to it. English Graduate Seeks…Cassandra did a double take. Her eyes narrowed. She read it, then read it again. Finally, she snatched it off the board, slipped it into her plastic zebraskin pocket, and left. It was only when she was halfway up Kensington Church Street that she realised she had forgotten to look for Soldier of Fortune .But hopefully she wouldn’t be needing that now.
Chapter Six
Anna heard the snap of the letterbox and wandered slowly down the long, white-painted corridor to the post lying on the mat. Not more wedding invitations for Seb, she thought in amazement, picking them up and almost buckling under the weight of the thick, cream envelopes.
Over the few weeks since she had moved into his flat, the wedding invitations on Seb’s solid Edwardian marble mantelpiece had grown from a mere
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