“Excuse me, Madam,” the porter said to me, “Tennis shoes are not allowed in the Breakfast Room.”
My cheeks flashed red hot. I looked down in horror at my painted Converses. They were a black mark against the opulent, rouge-velvet carpet. My beating heart was almost audible over the tinkling piano music and the gentle clanking of fine China tea plates coming from inside. I sensed Will hovering over my shoulder. I tried to soften the blow,
“Not even to just look around—”
“Certainly not,” the porter replied, “We’ll be happy to seat you on another visit, should you be capable of adhering to the dress code.”
I glared at him. But with little else to say, I sauntered away. Will followed behind me. He caught up once we were out on the street. The remnants of rain sparkled over the bonnets of black taxis and sheer fronts of the red double decker buses. The grand windows of the gentlemen’s clubs of Green Park towered over us.
“Whatever,” Will said, “I didn’t care that much about visiting The Ritz anyway. Bunch of toffs, as far as I can tell.”
“Completely,” I spat. Still, I felt my posture slump as we walked away.
My perfect date with Will was going terribly. Well, at least the parts of it that I had planned. Will was still very fit. He was just as tall and spindly. He had brown-blonde curls and thin round glasses. He still had that nerdy, orchestral schoolboy appeal. His jaw was sharp, and the tip of his nose was rounded like the curves of his short-heeled Dr. Martens. I liked his navy blue cashmere jumper.
At the time, we were both 18 and angsty. We had met on my school ski trip, as Will’s dad was a teacher at my school (a story for another time). But more importantly, Will had schlepped all the way from his boarding school in the countryside to see me in London. In a few short months, our time in secondary school would be over forever. And there was no telling if and when Will would be back in London again.
I had planned everything around the sites of Piccadilly, close enough to where his father lived to be sure that Will could make it back in time for dinner. It was one of my favourite parts of the city, and yet a sinking feeling was coming over me: I hadn’t planned for us to go anywhere private together. We were still out in the middle of the city, and now our time together was running out.
As we turned down Jermyn Street, I no longer wanted to show him the fancy chandeliers inside the gentlemen’s clubs, or the green silk walls adorned with portraits. I began to care less about the boater shops and blazer shops and top hats and tails shops that I had dreamt about us visiting for weeks. No. I was overwhelmingly disappointed. This day was a complete waste! No tiered tea trays or soon-to-be-eaten scones or cucumber sandwiches could fix that.
Somehow, Will was still in good spirits. Down to St. James Square, he seemed to enjoy reminiscing with me about the dirty deeds we had done on the ski trip. I was hardly listening to what he was saying. His smile was so charming; he was looking so dapper, I scolded myself. The prospect of us having fun together faded evermore into the distance.
There was one last location I had planned to show him, tucked away in the corner of the square. We passed around the black-painted iron gates that surrounded the trees and green grasses of the square. Beyond the parked motorcycles and a set of Boris bikes, we reached the front of the building. The windows were wide and vast and curved at the top. I noticed the grey stone of the Victorian façade was weathered. And yet the whole place felt steeped in magic.
“It’s the largest private lending library in the world,” I said matter-of-factly, vying for Will’s intellectual approval, “It’s got over one million volumes.”
We climbed the worn stone steps and hustled ourselves through two sets of narrow wooden doors. We passed the blue iridescent sign which read “The London Library”. Once inside, a cool air crept over us, chilled with the wisdom of perspiring paper. Will gazed up at the plaster flowers painted over the baby pink ceiling. The entryway was large but peaceful. Librarians and members shuffled between catalogues, computer screens, lockers and books.
I dug in my wallet and retrieved my membership card. I ran it through the reader. The waist-height glass door quickly sprung open. I muttered to Will,
“It’s one of my favourite places to write—”
“Excuse me, Madam,” came a gruff voice over my shoulder. I turned around.
A round, balding man was staring at me from behind the counter, half-hidden behind the upright computer monitor. He quickly added, “All visitors must be announced in the visitors record book.” He pointed towards a large book that lay open below the window. It was mounted at an angle, as if perched on an altar.
I gritted my teeth. I felt myself sear with embarrassment once more. Yet this time, a slow, menacing fury was building within me.
“Silly me,” I said sarcastically, stomping over to the visitors’ book. The previous entries in it were all but illegible. Will followed silently behind me. As I reached for the scratchy ink pen, the empty lines below the heading seemed to mock me.
Full name. Telephone Number. Address. Time of Arrival. Time of Departure. Signature.
I heard voices taunting me in my ears.
“Only gentlemen are permitted as members of the East India Club!”
“Natasha, pull your skirt down. That is most unladylike!”
“No backpacks allowed in the museum. It’s the rules!”
I scribbled some vague points of Will’s details on the paper.
“Are you okay?” Will asked, noticing that my hand was shaking.
“Fine,” I said, smacking the pen back down on the book.
I looked up at him. Will’s green eyes glinted back at me from behind his glasses. He looked cheeky, hopeful even. Or was that only what I was reading into his smile, followed by his pursed lips?
“Why don’t you show me round the stacks?” Will said. Did he just wink at me?
All of a sudden, I felt a wave of something new growing inside of me. It was a sense of callous, internal control.
“Come on,” I said, taking his hand. As we passed through the barrier, I heard from over my shoulder,
“Visitors are permitted for one hour and must be escorted at all—”
But I didn’t turn back. Will’s fingers were slim and calloused to the touch. I marched him up the stairs, to the end of the last shelves, and up more stairs still. We climbed higher and higher. Passed yellowed rooms of folios lit by reading lamps. Passed The Reading Room where typing wasn’t allowed. Passed The Newspaper Lounge where old men smoked pipes and snored. In the back stacks, the stairs were shallow and made of iron. Books surrounded us on all fronts, covering the walls and peeking through the beams of the floor. There were hundreds of thousands of volumes in Greek, Latin and Olde English, tales and academic research and fact and fiction.
“It’s dark in here,” Will said. I batted his hand away from a small rope dangling from a light bulb. It was only in that moment that it dawned on him. He knew what we were about to do.
At last we reached the back of the 7th floor annex, the section for Heraldry and Parish Registers. All of a sudden, I leant back against a bookshelf and pulled Will over to me. I kissed him, grabbing the thin torso of his jumper. Will kissed me back. His lips were dry to the touch. His cheeks were soft. He grabbed my wrist and pinned it over my head against the bookshelf. Will’s glasses slid down his nose. I felt him smiling as he kissed me. I felt his breath warm against my face in the darkness and deepness of the books.
I wrapped one of my legs around him, groping his back with my foot. He rubbed his pelvis against mine. Will was tall, but not strong enough that he could lift me up completely. Still, I could feel his body panting. He was gearing up. He ran his hands up my tights, underneath my dress, tugging and fumbling at my bra. His fingers cupped my boob. The cold of his hand was a shock. Against the warmth of this sensitive part of my skin, it was enough to make me run wild. He twisted my nipple. Then he bit my tongue as he kissed me.
“Here’s a condom,” I grasped for my wallet. Will undid his trousers. I heard the familiar tearing of the metallic plastic packet. I perked up, glancing down the stacks. Stillness. Silence. I shrugged to myself. I guessed no one was looking at Parish Registers that day.
Will and I stood in front of each other, essentially fully clothed in the empty corridor. We moved our limbs at different angles.
“Should we…um…”
“How about….uh…”
“Maybe this way?” I said. I turned away from him. I pulled down my tights and held up my dress. I faced the bookshelves. I stood on the tip toes of my Converses. Will bent his knees. He angled himself inside of me. I felt myself being hoisted up slightly, as he thrust himself deeper into me. He was slow to start. But soon he was thrusting faster. This was not a long, winding, tender, loving moment. This was dirty. This was quick.
Will groaned as he pushed me harder against the bookshelf. I moaned lightly, biting my arm to stop myself from getting any louder, even though I wanted to. I heard his Dr. Martens squeaking against the linoleum floor. He pulled my hair. I felt him bite my earlobe, felt the frames of his glasses scratching my face. I struggled under his control. He only re-angled his feet, one of the ground, one of the shelf, bending his knees to push himself into me deeper.
I could tell by the shaking of his body; it was barely three minutes before he came.
“Urgh,” he shuddered.
I paused for a minute. I felt for my ponytail. It was wonky. Half of my hair had fallen out of it. I let out a deep sigh, as I pulled up my tights and fixed my dress. I caught Will’s eye as he took off the used condom. He made a face, as he tied it up and put it in his wallet. I giggled. Will grinned back at me.
I didn’t know if I would ever see him again. But the truth was that Will had helped me achieve something far greater. A sense of mischievousness had roused in me. It was a middle finger to the establishment, if you will. In the months afterwards, I was still told by people all over London to be ladylike. I was reminded of the rules yet again. I was still told not to walk on the grass, and to take my elbows off the table at dinner. But something had changed. I felt differently about it. Whenever it happened, I thought back to the time that Will fucked me in the book stacks at The London Library. And then I let it be.
Secrecy, I have found, can be an excellent form of resistance.
