Chapter 3

Should I have said something to Dale about my date with Toby? He might think I was taking revenge on him for coolly charming my prize away at the Give and Take. Better surely to say nothing; Toby might have decided one night with me was enough. Although my constant hope was to find a boyfriend, for months and months my love life had not progressed further than casual one-nighters.

I left a 'See u again?' message on Toby's phone the next day. For more than a week no reply came; clearly he was not yearning for my company. Then at last he rang, and asked me to go to a club in South London with him that same evening. I said yes, trying to sound moderately pleased, while hiding the euphoria that hearing his voice again had engendered.

The club was a short walk from Brixton underground station. Mixed straight and gay, it had everything to make a great night out — good dance music, terrific lights, and an attractive crowd full of life. Not knowing who you might run into in a new club is part of the excitement. Toby had lots of friends there. He used his phone every few minutes to send or receive messages. At first I thought he was contacting people outside, but seeing so many inside the club use their phones, then gesture to friends across the room, I realized that most of these messages were to other clubbers. They were the most practical way of communicating, since making yourself heard over the loud music was near impossible.

As often as not, when he received a message, he went off to see someone on the crowded dance floor, and would come back to me after ten minutes or so. Once he disappeared for about twenty minutes, and I sent him the text message 'gon ome ave u?' He came back and opened his hand to show me some pills.

'Want one?'

'What are they?'

'Specials. Like Ecstasy. New love drug.'

The incident of Jake lying unconscious in the bath did not encourage me to try suspect pills. Anyway, being with a man as stunning as Toby was enough of a love drug for me; no chemical assistance was required. 'I don't need it.'

'Suit yourself, ' he said, and put one in his own mouth.

What made him so sure, I wondered, that what he was taking was a new love drug, and not something meant for worming cats? His willingness to take a god-knows-what-might-be-in-it pill surprised me.

Soon the noise and flashing lights became overpowering. The club had filled up, and the bigger crowd made the atmosphere frenetic. Up at the bar I had to shout my order several times to be heard. Beer frothed over the top of the plastic glass onto a bar surface already awash with liquid. A lad so young he was probably still at school jostled his way past me in a dash for the toilets, slopping everyone's drinks as he hurried by. He threw up, slipped over and crashed to the floor, his legs splayed out in his vomit. An older guy helped him up and pushed him towards the exit, his adventures over for the night. No one tried to clear up the mess.

Thinking this might be a good time to leave, I shouted to Toby, 'Things are getting a bit frantic.' He pulled me into the middle of the dancers, where somehow we found enough space to move our limbs a little in time with the music. Happiness at being with him returned. Everyone could see we were together, that I was with the most stunning guy in the place.

During a brief lull in the sound he said, 'There's someone I need to talk to. Shouldn't take long. After that we'll go.'

He passed the patch of vomit, now marked by a sign saying 'Danger Wet Floor', and disappeared through the doorway leading to the toilets. Beyond them, past a couple of seats, was an outdoor area for people to smoke or cool off after the heat of the club. What was he doing out there? Dealing in drugs? When he came back he said, 'Had enough of this?'

'Yes.'

Outside he asked, 'What did you think of the club?'

'Great. Exciting — a bit hectic.'

'You need to unwind more, Ben. Take an Ecstasy or have a few lagers before you go in.'

'Oh, well ... I'm not dragging you away?'

'I've seen the people I came to see. So what now? My place or yours? Suppose I could say your old place or your new place?'

At Fulrose Court we might, of course, encounter Dale, so we went to the flat that had once been mine and was now his. The Jays must have gone out, for the house was quiet. In the main room Toby said 'Let me undress you, ' as though I was the one whose looks made an inch-by-inch exposure of flesh thrilling. He said, 'Wide shoulders, slim hips, yes, you'll do for me.' He made me feel more attractive and desirable than anyone ever had before, but how much of his desire was due to me, rather than the 'love drug' he had taken?

'That's it, keep still, ' he said as he struggled with the button on the waistband of my jeans. Though I held my tummy muscles taught, he continued to fumble. I wanted to help but he pushed my hand away and lightly smacked my thigh. 'No, keep still now. Let me.' I suppose he wanted to be in control, but as it took him about two minutes to undo that one button it was a strange bit of foreplay. Still, anything that pleased him was enjoyable for me too. Any doubts about what he had been up to in the club vanished in the glow of making love.

After sex he said, 'Now be a good boy and go and make me some coffee.' I had to hunt for the mugs and coffee jar, as they were not where I used to keep them.

Going out with him always meant spending more money than usual. He would call a cab, even when a bus would have been almost as quick. His favourite club charged admission, and their drinks were expensive compared with the Give and Take. It was not somewhere you could go wearing any old clothes. Hard up after a particularly extravagant night out, I asked Dale if he would mind waiting a week for a contribution to the kitty for cleaning materials and household items ― only a few pounds. As we had a good stock of essentials this was no big problem, but it meant him knowing I was out of money. He offered me a loan, but on my modest pay, borrowing would only put off the hardship until later. Economies were the only answer. If necessary I might even have to turn down a night out with Toby.

By this time I had told Dale that Toby was my boyfriend. He did not appear surprised or concerned, but inevitably our friendship suffered. Visits to the Give and Take together became less frequent, and our once regular Sunday afternoon outings became rare. We were still good friends, but inevitably time spent with Toby was time not spent with Dale.

To save money I avoided the High Street shops, where an impulse buy might be tempting, and went more often into charity shops. Most of the men's clothing they had was not worth bothering with, but the bric-a-brac and second-hand books made interesting browsing. The volunteers were usually happy to have a few minutes chat, even without me buying anything. One, that raised funds for cats' and dogs' homes, had flimsy shelves that had bent under the weight of second-hand books, mostly crime stories and other cheap fiction. On the floor underneath the bottom shelf were some cardboard boxes, full of odd items shoved down there out of the way. From the bottom of one of these I extracted a huge old hardback. It turned out to be a Complete Works of William Shakespeare, printed in an antiquated style, the letter 's' confusingly like the modern 'f'. The lady behind the counter who served me checked inside the front and back cover but no price was marked, and she let me have it for five pounds. 'You don't happen to know where it came from?' I asked.

'Not the vaguest idea. People bring in all kinds of old cast-offs. A lot of them go directly to the bins. A book like that will always be useful, though. An aunt of mine used one that size for pressing flowers.'

In Jeremy's bookshop we had sold a couple of old volumes of Shakespeare to collectors for hundreds of pounds. Of course my find might not be worth much, but on the way home I began to feel guilty about the idea of making a profit at the expense of a charity shop. If it should turn out to be worth a fortune, a donation to the cause would ease my conscience.

Back at Fulrose Court I examined the illustration on the title page again. It was a head and shoulders engraving of Shakespeare, the alert eyes glancing to one side. Above the picture were the words Mr William Shakespeares (sic) Comedies, Histories, & Tragedies, Published according to the True Original Copies. Below was written London. Printed by Isaac Iaggard, and Ed. Blount. 1623. It could not, surely, be a genuine first folio edition? Copies were worth hundreds of thousands, possibly millions. My spine tingled. The book was old, but surely not that old. A hundred or more years maybe, not nearly four hundred. The cover, a thick, dark green woven fabric, had an elaborate embossed design, which was very even and regular. It had surely been machined rather than hand tooled. Imagine, if a genuine sixteen-twenty-three folio edition of Shakespeare really had somehow been left in the bottom of a charity shop box. If only that were possible. My purchase might go for auction at Christie's or Sotheby's. Was it conceivable, even, that the pages of a seventeenth century book might have been rebound in a Victorian cover? If only. Thinking that was as pointless as dreaming of being as handsome as Toby or as sensible as Dale.

In the bookshop, Jeremy's professional eye quickly assessed my discovery. He wasted no time in bringing my pipe dreams to an end. After all of twenty seconds he said, 'It's in excellent condition. A Victorian copy, of course. You realized that, I hope. You didn't pay a lot for it?'

'Five pounds, ' I said flatly, suddenly fearing the charity shop might have done well to get that much for it.

'Oh, well done. It's not bad. A charity shop, eh? Always worth keeping your eyes open. If you want to sell I'll get you at least fifty for it, easily, at the next book fair. You're developing the knack for this business, aren't you Ben?'

He was good-hearted, and using his knowledge of the trade would get me a fair price, keeping nothing for himself. 'By the way, ' he said, 'The Booksellers' Guild's annual dinner is in a few weeks' time. Be nice if you came along. Help to give you a broader picture. As well as rare book dealers, quite a few of the independent booksellers will be there.'

'Errrh, nice of you to ask, but I don't have clothes for a formal dinner, ' I said, thinking that the event sounded boring.

'The Booksellers' Guild dinner is not an occasion for formal attire. Smart casual ... newish jeans ... will be fine. You really should come. The after dinner speaker will be the veteran novelist Loyd Larcher. I know him slightly.'