The Book of Love

by Phillipa Fioretti

Genres: Romance

Synopsis

Lily, a queen of style in retro clothes, and Robbie, her boyfriend, run a second-hand bookshop in Sydney. In a shipment of old books from Nairobi, Robbie discovers a rare French book of ancient Roman erotica. With only four copies in existence, and valued at twenty million dollars, he is determined to sell it despite Lily's suggestion that they return it to the Italian government. Days later, William, a dashing Russian employed by a fine arts firm in London to retrieve stolen art works, arrives at the shop. Robbie refuses to hand over the book, and disappears, taking his and Lily's life savings with him. What follows is a funny, witty romantic comedy that takes readers from Sydney to Rome, in a whirlwind of pretty dresses (on Lily), daring actions (by William) and clever dialogue.

Release date: July 1, 2010

Publisher: Hachette Australia

Print pages: 320

Sample

 

Lily flicked through the mildewed pages and grumbled to herself about tsetse fly maggots. She smacked the book down on the pile. How to lose a year’s profit in one transaction – give Robbie a credit card and send him to Africa. The cost of buying the entire stock of Mr V.P. Sindrah’s Second-hand Bookshop in the back streets of Nairobi had been too high. Robbie had hauled it all home, hoping for a prize amid the usual tired assortment of second-hand books. With only a few more boxes to be opened Lily gave up and went to bed. Robbie could sleep in the kennel with Otto tonight. And if he got cold? Well, he could cover himself with a layer of mouldy old paperbacks for warmth.

•

Red roofs and swimming pools sprawled into the distance. William glanced down at them, his right ear slowly filling with pain, then turned back to his notes. Schwartzman and Trevennen, Antiquarian Booksellers, Paddington, Sydney. If they were aware of what they had bought, and the dangerous situation they were now in, they would not be giving their address away so easily.

The plane touched down with two thumps and the roar of reverse thrust. Some passengers clapped. As if flying from Nairobi to Sydney was a miraculous act. He tugged at his ear as he made his way through customs. People crowded around the arrival gate, scanning his face then staring past, seeking faces they loved. Cries of recognition and laughter echoed through the terminal, families hugged, couples kissed passionately and small children were pushed at grandparents. William checked his phone and made his way to the taxi stand.

•

Robbie watched the dog sniffing the last boxes. At least someone got a thrill from his buying spree. Sighing, he opened another carton and began to rummage through its grimy contents. A large folio wrapped in brown paper caught Robbie’s eye. He unwrapped it carefully, shaking the dirt from the cover. It was old, made of thick parchment, and the French text was in a font he had only seen in books from the eighteenth century.

Weariness vanished.

He turned to the laptop and typed the title of the book into a search engine. Sitting under the buzz of fluorescent light in the garage, he stared at the screen in disbelief then turned the pages of the folio. Images of naked nymphs, phallic statues, bacchantes, priapic satyrs and Roman citizens on their wedding nights met his gaze.

But it wasn’t the content that astonished Robbie; it was the realisation that the book now lying in his damp garage was one of the most priceless books in existence – and it belonged to him.

And Lily, of course.

•

Robbie made his way inside. With Lily still asleep he had time to think about the book and what to do with it. He sat at the desk in the shop flicking a pen back and forth, dropping it with a start as the telephone rang.

‘I’d like to speak to Robert Schwartzman.’

‘Speaking.’

‘My name is William Isyanov. I work for Weston’s Fine Arts in London.’

Robbie took his feet off the desk. Fine Art? London? This could be a big one. A customer with a capital C. Although he couldn’t think of any books he had in stock that would attract the interest of such an illustrious organisation . . .

‘Mr Schwartzman?’

‘Yes. How can I help you?’ His voice quavered slightly.

‘I’m searching for a particular book and I believe you may know where I can find it. The author is a Colonel César Fanin, the date of publication is eighteen sixteen, The book is called Musée royal de Naples; peintures, bronzes et statues érotiques du cabinet secret, avec leur explication. It contains original lithographs of erotic artworks uncovered during the initial excavations of Pompeii.’

Robbie hesitated. He stared at Otto and the dog stared back, unblinking. Otto adored Robbie, the way a small child adores a distant father.

‘Yes. I know the one.’

A buyer already. Unbelievable. He scrabbled among the mess on the desk. Nail polish bottles, recipes, folders of book reviews cut out from newspapers, bills, receipts, reminders. Really, Lily had to do something about this. He flipped over a recipe for spicy plum sauce, retrieved the pen and waited.

‘I am acting on behalf of a client from whom the book was stolen.’

Robbie was tempted to slam the phone down.

‘I’m hoping you can assist me with my inquiries. Would tomorrow be convenient? At your shop?’

Robbie glared at the telephone receiver. No, it would not. Never would be convenient.

‘Come here? Tomorrow? Er . . . no. Tuesday would be better. I should be here all day Tuesday.’

‘Good. Tuesday then.’

•

William switched off his phone, stretched his leg and pushed the hot tap with his foot. There had to be compensations for trailing around the world after stolen artworks, and hotel baths was one of them. He had no bath in his flat in London and tended to rate hotels according to the size of their bathtubs. Being over six foot, length was as important as depth, and this was as good as it got.

The warm water lapped at his chin. He closed his eyes and let his arms float by his sides. He could be on a flight home Tuesday night, if all went well. Schwartzman had the book, he could tell. Now he just had to pry it from his fingers. Before someone else did.

•

Robbie glared at Otto, and the dog hung his head guiltily, although he couldn’t recall what he’d done wrong.

‘What to do, Otto?’ Robbie murmured. He came out from behind the desk and walked past the antique maps hanging on the walls, and across to the large front window. Lily had made a window display of old books about beauty and women’s wear catalogues. Scarves and perfume bottles were arranged between the books and a movie poster of Jane Russell, smouldering in the straw, hung on the wall next to the maps. Lily changed the theme every few weeks. Marketing, she called it.

He paced back to the desk, smacked it and walked back to the window. That book was not leaving his possession unless he was paid the proper amount for it. And that amount, according to his research, should be well over twenty million dollars. No wonder the owner wanted it back.

No, that was ridiculous. He was the owner now.

•

William stood outside Schwartzman and Trevennen. They were not expecting him until tomorrow, but a quick nose around before he met Schwartzman couldn’t hurt. He crossed the lane and looked around. The bookshop stood next to a lingerie boutique. Both were shut. He looked at the lingerie shop more closely. The name, The World of Suzy Wong, intrigued him. In the window was a range of items in pale blue silk with ribbons, beads, tiny frills and lace. There was barely anything to them; it was hard to imagine what went where, but he tried.

Looking down the hill to the end of the block, he could see an Italian café and bakery. In the other direction lay the main road, Oxford Street, congested with early evening traffic. On that corner stood a French patisserie, busy with customers looking for quiches and tarts.

Around the corner came a neatly clipped schnauzer, pulling on his lead. At the other end of the lead was a young woman, her pale hair swinging as she trotted after the dog. She wore a halter-neck blouse and appeared to be laughing with the dog, who glanced up at her, his mouth open, sharing the joke.

For a second she hesitated and then she smiled at William as well. What the joke was between her and the dog, he had no idea, but her smile suddenly included him, causing him to catch his breath. He managed to nod and return her smile. She walked past, looked over her shoulder at him quickly, then disappeared into the premises of Schwartzman and Trevennen.

•

Otto ran up the stairs ahead of her and Lily followed him, drawn to the aroma of cumin and coriander frying with garlic. Robbie could only cook one dish, but he did it well. So well, he refused to expand his repertoire in case it interfered with the purity of his vision. In other words, he might be expected to cook more often. She took the lid off the pot and gazed at the rich oily colours, the meat beginning to come away from the bone.

‘You’re a genius, Robbie Schwartzman.’

He put down his newspaper and joined her in the kitchen. ‘And how do you show your appreciation?’

‘By eating it?’ she said, pouring herself a glass of water as he rubbed himself against her.

Robbie smacked her rump and said, ‘There are other traditional methods. Come to the bedroom and I’ll explain.’ He took her hand and led her through the living room and into the bedroom. There he peeled off his clothes and lay down, patting the bed next to him.

Lily was tempted to peek over the balcony to see if the man was still in the lane. It made her uncomfortable to think of him standing below while she took her clothes off. He’d caught her eye the way few men did, with his slow smile and high cheekbones.

Robbie thumped the bed impatiently and she looked over at him, then back out the window. He’d smiled at her as if they shared something, just the two of them.

‘Come on, while you’re still all sweaty.’

‘Won’t the curry burn?’ she asked, struggling with her tight pants.

‘Nope, turned it off,’ he said, running his hand over her smooth body. He kissed her neck and under her ears, his hand wandering slowly down her stomach.

She looked up at the ceiling, following the crack from the wall as it meandered towards the ensuite. Even if the man were still there, what would she do? Wave? She shook her head and sighed. Turning to Robbie, she put her arms around him gently. So gently, he was surprised.

•

Sucking the bones dry, Lily searched her plate for any morsels she may have missed then carried their plates to the kitchen. As she stood at the sink, hands aching from the hot water, her thoughts returned to the book.

‘How do you think it got in the box?’

Robbie, engrossed in the newspaper, didn’t answer.

Lily went to the doorway of the living room, ‘What do you think?’

‘I think that with the stock market crash people might invest in rare books and maps instead of rare metals, if we are lucky,’ he said, putting down the paper.

‘No, about the Naples museum book. What an incredible find. We really should notify someone, though. I mean, there’s only four of them in the world and –’

‘We are not going to notify anyone yet. I have to think, get some idea of its market value. We’ll sit tight on it for the time being.’

‘It would have to be priceless,’ Lily continued. ‘I really do think we should gift it to the museum or something. I mean, it’s way out of our league.’

Robbie smacked the paper down on the table, and looked at her as if she’d suddenly sprouted seven heads.

‘We are not gifting it to anyone. Are you completely mad? It’s ours now, to do with as we want.’

‘Yes, but –’

‘Yes, but no. Sebastian can put out some feelers, we’ll discreetly find a buyer, and then we sell.’ He picked up the newspaper again. ‘And then you can buy as many vintage beaded gowns as you want. Until then, stop putting them on Visa.’

Lily went back to the dishes. ‘You put that thumping great plasma TV on Visa and you know I didn’t want it,’ she called.

‘Well, how many dresses from the thirties do I want?’

He had a point. They both had a point.

•

At the end of the long oblong room, in front of a heavy door, stood a desk covered with papers, a laptop, books, cups and folders. At this desk sat the woman he’d seen yesterday. She wore a tight grey cheongsam and had her pale honey hair twisted up and optimistically held back from disorder by a single hairclip. She flicked a glance at him, registering his presence but obviously not keen on any interaction.

He thought about feigning interest in the display of maps, then glanced over at the woman. She looked at her screen. He couldn’t help noticing her slim arms poised over the computer.

•

The man wandered through the map gallery and her chest tightened. She recognised him, of course; such a face would be hard to forget. She’d smiled, yes, but not as a come-on. Robbie told her not to pat cats in the street; they always followed, wanting more. She hoped it was coincidence rather than an interest in her that had drawn him through the door.

She looked up. He looked away. She looked at her screen. His eyes returned to her. She tried peering up through her hair and caught him, still staring.

‘Can I help you?’ she said, finally. She needed to keep a professional distance no matter what he wanted. Maybe he wanted to pay vast amounts of money for some books.

He approached her desk and held out his hand. ‘William Isyanov. Is Robert Schwartzman in?’

Perhaps he was another lunatic artist wanting exhibition space for his latest masterworks. With his pale skin, worn shirt and Fair Isle vest, he could be a painter. Not a sculptor, definitely not, no overt machismo. Or was he a photographer? No, the old shirt and vest had a faint whiff of romantic nostalgia, of bare floorboards in a large Victorian house in Bloomsbury, crimson velvet drapes and naked women. He would recite Pushkin to them while he painted their lush, dimpled buttocks.

Or he was a printmaker, dedicated to the old ways, his lungs scarred by acid fumes, a testament of his commitment to his work. A lithographer, with a name like Isyanov, exploring his Russian heritage with political posters – posters of buxom, fierce-eyed women, hauling steel girders by day and servicing their comrades by night.

She pushed her hair back and blinked, not offering her hand in return. ‘No. He’s not in yet. You have to make an appointment.’ A few taps and their calendar came up on her screen.

‘He’s expecting me.’

Lily frowned and rummaged through some papers, then returned to staring at the screen. ‘He didn’t tell me, the naughty boy,’ she murmured.

‘Perhaps I’ll wait . . . I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?’

He had a smooth BBC English accent with no regional giveaways. No doubt, she speculated, he would have an excellent singing voice, one for calling to the Volga boatmen in his ancestral homeland.

‘Lily Trevennen.’ She stood up and her hand knocked an empty coffee cup. She reached to stop it, dislodging a folder that fell with a smack onto the floor.

Straightening the cup, she said, ‘Perhaps, Mr Isyanov, you could tell me the nature of your business.’

‘Call me William, please.’

Lily nodded. ‘All right, William. And the nature of your business would be . . . ?’

His blue eyes examined her shrewdly, then he replied, ‘I think perhaps Robert should speak to you about that.’

Oh, really. One of those. Too illustrious for the mangy shop assistant.

‘Mr Isyanov, nothing here happens without me. Nothing. Robert and I steer this ship together, if you understand what I am saying. If you have business with him, you have it with me.’

Arrogant sod in his faux shabby chic. Didn’t he realise artists like him – poseur wannabes – were thick on the ground? If he wanted to get to Robbie, he had to get past her, and unless he whipped out a kilo box of Haigh’s chocolates and gave it to her in the next three minutes, he would get nowhere. And another thing, he could stop looking at her like that. The cheongsam was a bad move.

Unless she was making a mistake. Perhaps he needed to see Robbie for some reason that Robbie had yet to disclose to her.

‘Of course, if your business is personal . . .’

The phone rang and she picked up the receiver. What she needed was an Armani suit instead of gadding about in Chinese pyjamas.

‘Yes?’ she snapped into the phone. ‘Yes. I’ll call you back.’

She slammed it down and returned her gaze to the visitor. Mr Isyanov, with your high cheekbones and insistence on secrecy, are you having yourself on?

He sat down, uninvited.

‘Lily,’ he began.

How patronising.

‘Lily, I am making inquiries about –’

She glanced over at the walls covered in framed antique maps and prints. ‘We are not a contemporary art space if you are looking to exhibit.’

‘Yes. I understand that,’ he said, stifling a smile. ‘I am making inquiries regarding the provenance of a particular book you may have in your possession.’

Lily gaped at him, then stammered, ‘Are you implying . . . ?’

‘I work for Weston’s Fine Arts, in protection and retrieval. Here’s my card.’ He handed her a business card.

‘London?’ she said, looking up at him. ‘You’ve come all this way?’

He shrugged.

‘We always check the origins of all our stock,’ Lily said, tapping her pen, waiting for him to get to the point. ‘If that’s what this is about.’

‘I’m sure you do. However, we have reason to believe that the book in question left Italy illegally.’

Lily placed her pen on her desk, where it promptly rolled onto the floor. She ignored it and stared at him.

‘And you want to recover it, is that right?’

‘I am making inquiries.’

‘Like an investigator or something?’ she said, leaning back. She would never have picked him as a private eye.

‘Or something, yes. Weston’s deal in all areas of fine arts – market valuation, collection management and so on.’

‘But you are the muscle, right?’ She stifled a hoot of amusement just in time. ‘Gosh, I’ve never met one of those before.’

‘How fortunate you are, Lily.’

‘Do you have a gun?’

She leaned forward, slightly breathless, waiting for his answer, just as Robbie came into the gallery.

William watched him walk towards the desk, past the shelves, his body giving everything away. He had it. And he wanted to keep it. But William could not be certain how much Lily knew about it.

‘Ah, you must be Mr Isyanov, I wasn’t expecting you so early.’

Lily watched, bemused, as Robbie made a production of fetching another chair from the stockroom then dithered about without sitting.

‘Er, coffee, Mr Isyanov?’ he asked, and scuttled back into the stockroom without waiting for an answer. Lily excused herself and followed him.

‘Get back out there,’ she hissed. ‘I’ll make the coffee.’

Robbie glanced through the doorway anxiously. Lily frowned and pushed him towards Isyanov. When she approached them with three cups of coffee a few minutes later, she noted crossly that Robbie had claimed her chair behind the desk. Lily had no choice but to sit opposite Isyanov. She wished the cheongsam were not so tight. She would throw it out tonight.

‘So, Mr Isyanov,’ Robbie said. ‘How can we help you?’

‘Please, call me William.’

‘William . . . good . . .’ said Robbie, shifting awkwardly on his chair.

‘William, I – I mean, we,’ and he nodded at Lily, ‘are unfamiliar with private detectives and the ensuing protocols.’

‘Of course, Weston’s has –’

‘It’s the César Fanin book, isn’t it?’ said Robbie, jiggling his foot.

Lily scowled at Robbie’s foot, wishing he would stop. Yes, the man was a touch intimidating, but there was no need to pee one’s pants.

She watched William with fascination as he watched Robbie. His eyes were a dark blue, and the black hair swept off his face made his skin appear paler than it actually was. His eyelashes were thick and there was stubble on his chin despite the early hour.

He looked at her and she held his stare for a moment. She hoped her expression did not betray too much anticipation. Being questioned by an attractive investigator would be an interesting change from working with book dealers a. . .