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“There’s a private library I’ve bought in Barrington,” he said, “not so very far from you.” Not even a word of Hello or How are you doing? So like him.
“Um, Olivier,” I replied, “It’s over three-hundred miles.”
“Well, you’re a great deal closer than I am.” Spoken in his posh West End tones, which I’m told isn’t an honest accent. “All I need is for you to work up an itemized list. You know the drill. Title, author, date, where published. It’ll be coming as a collection so no need for individual values. Though I am declaring it as six-fifty...”
“Six-hundred and fifty thousand?”
“They belonged to Tannen Northridge’s wife.” Spoken as if he were shocked I didn’t already know.
That name raised issues. I’d worked at Variman's Antiquarian Book Shop for two decades, and I'd had to deal with the woman on several occasions. My first time was when she had loudly complain that the books I’d shipped her were not packed well-enough. She wanted them wrapped in tissue, then in Kraft paper, then with bubble wrap around them and put in a box with bio-degradable peanuts. All of which I'd done. But on top of that, the box should have gone into another box and, since the value was exceptionally high, that box into another. Rather like a Russian Doll.
I'd done it that way thence forth, when she had ordered online, but no compliment was ever given. Of course, no further complaint, either. About that. Instead, she would snarl about how incomplete the description was. And the three times she set foot in the shop, she'd complained the air conditioning was too cold, and there needed to be better climate control...and so on and so on...
She also took her time paying, usually sixty to ninety days instead of the usual thirty, and then only after our accountant, Arnell, had given her two reminder calls. She was not someone I wanted to deal with. So there was another red flag telling me to not agree to do this.
“There are only about a hundred titles,” Olivier said.
“Mrs. Northridge is selling her books to you?” I asked. “Not to Variman’s?”
I thought she'd got on with the two men who owned it...Tomas Varisç and Harold Harman. They looked so much alike people thought they were brothers, but one was from Oregon and the other from Atlanta. Though they did like to bicker like an old married couple. They were now well into their eighties, but the store was still going strong so I'd have thought that would be the first place she'd contact about selling.
Then Olivier sighed and said, “She’s passed away.”
Mrs. Northridge? Gone? That surprised me. I'd thought her impervious to the laws of existence. “I hadn’t heard.”
“Her husband kept it low-key. I knew her well-enough to be informed of her passing, so got the jump on it. Now I’d also like you to make a condition report on the books...”
“Oh...oh...Olivier, that is so time-consuming...”
“Nothing major. Just make certain she took care of them and they haven’t been trashed. These are antiquarian books, and you know how to handle those. Her? I halfway suspect she may have broken a couple of them to remove illustrations.”
“Oh, God, it’s good she’s gone.” That burst out of me before I could even think to stop it.
“Well, Simon, I had no idea you were so judgmental.”
“When someone tears apart a book just for the pretty pictures...” I hated people who destroyed books.
“Understood.”
“Olivier, I don’t know that I’d be right for this.”
“No, you’re perfect...”
“But it means traveling to another state and hotel nights and...”
“It’ll be easy, Simon. I promise. Shouldn’t take you more than a day. Wait, you do have a laptop?”
“Of course I do.”
“And Excel?”
“Yes...but...”
“Then the list will be easy.”
“You only say that because you’re not doing it.”
“Simon, please. I would do it myself but I’m nearly four-thousand miles away and the Chelsea Book Fair is happening, next weekend. And Tanner wants this done as quickly as possible, or he’ll have someone just come take the books.”
“This is so odd. I haven’t heard anything about that collection being up for sale...”
“Told you, I got in before anyone even knew about it. She’s got some nice editions of Brontë and Austen, a lovely Rubaiyat bound by Sangorsky-Sutcliffe.”
Which I had heard about through the bookseller grapevine but hadn't seen. “Well...I am familiar with a nice set of Fielding’s Amelia she bought from Variman’s.”
“I didn’t know about that one. So it’s a hundred-and-one books.”
“You mean titles. That one’s four volumes in a slip-case.”
“See? See?! You know exactly what needs to be done.”
I was still unsure. But he was being his usual cajoling self, referencing how I’d already done a couple of similar jobs for him. One of which included air travel. So I sighed and said I’d head down Sunday.
“Can’t you go, tomorrow?” he asked. “Start Thursday? Finish Friday?”
“I have to make plans and...”
“C’mon, Simon. You could head out tonight, if you wanted.”
“That...is an absolute no. Why are you in such a rush?”
“Not me. Tanner. I mentioned, he’s pushing to have it gone ASAP. I'll pay you for your drive time.”
“You would, anyway. But all right; I’ll drive down, tomorrow.” My thought being it would be an excuse to break from that artwork and think about the final touch. I wasn’t due to ship it off till next week.
“Thanks, mate. You’re a life-saver.”
What an ironic comment, considering the damage he did to my world.
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