Page 2 of The Secret Christmas Library

Once inside, Mirren made her way quietly to a side room.

Even though she came here often, it never ceased to impress.

It was a cool, temperature-controlled space, in near-total darkness, where you could walk in – where, amazingly, anyone in the world could walk in – and see some of the most extraordinary books ever made.

A Shakespeare first folio. A fourth-century bible. Middlemarch, written out by hand. It was a book-lover’s paradise. And there, right at the end, sometimes with a huddle around it, was her book, on display: A Child’s Garden of Verses, with original illustrations by Aubrey Beardsley.

On this particular day, a tall, sandy-haired man in rather scruffy clothes – not, it had to be said, an unusual sight in the British Museum – was staring closely at the book.

She smiled happily to herself, liking the man without knowing a thing about him, just because he was appreciating it.

He turned suddenly and beckoned an attendant.

‘When it says “found” . . . ’ he said in an unusual accent Mirren struggled to place. She was eavesdropping furiously.

‘Yes?’ said the attendant, who, unlike the security guards, never noticed Mirren coming and going, or, if she did, never let on to the pale girl with the large grey eyes and russet-brown ringleted hair who was so often in the room.

‘How did they find it?’

Mirren was surprised. Nobody had ever asked about her before. They normally asked if they had any of Beardsley’s other work, by which they usually meant the naughty paintings.

‘It was in an attic.’

‘Oh,’ said the man, sounding disappointed. ‘It’s just, it says “found”, as if they were searching for it.’

The attendant shrugged. ‘Dunno. Maybe it was a really big attic?’

The man paused and looked at the book for a long time. Then he took out a phone that looked as old as a BlackBerry. The attendant gave him the Paddington Bear stare she reserved for everyone on their phone in the library exhibition, but he didn’t notice.

‘Ugh, you can’t Google . . . him? Her?’ he said. ‘Apparently Helen Mirren and Donald Sutherland made tons of films together.’

Mirren’s heart leapt suddenly. Wait. He was . . . he was Googling her? She blinked rapidly, feeling more like an eavesdropper than ever.

‘Um . . .?’ she said quietly, clearing her throat. Neither of them turned round and she sank back into the gloom.

‘Oh, well,’ said the attendant, and walked away, leaving Mirren alone with the tourist, and that odd feeling she had, of having nowhere particular to be at that moment; nobody who would miss her if she was or wasn’t there, among the nine million souls in the great city.

She had a loving family, of course, she always reminded herself.

But it was also a family that would show quite a lot of that love by slagging her off and asking her when she was going to get a better job, and did she know that everyone she was at school with had a baby now, every single one of them?

‘Excuse me,’ she said, stepping forward, speaking more loudly. The attendant looked back, and Mirren moved away from her and towards the man.

‘Yes?’

The man looked down at her. He was in his early thirties, thin, in need of a haircut. He had a long, elegant nose and a strong chin and hooded hazel eyes. His hair was a sandy brown, thick and too long.

Mirren instantly felt herself flush with the sheer embarrassment of talking to a stranger in London. This was completely ridiculous. She shouldn’t have said anything. But she was here now.

‘Sorry . . . I’m Mirren. Mirren Sutherland,’ she added, for clarification.

‘Eh? Who? What?’

Mirren looked at the display case and he followed her gaze then looked back at her.

‘Erm, yeah . . . I couldn’t help overhearing.’

He looked even more uncomfortable. ‘So you’re telling me you’re . . . ’

‘I’m the person who found the book, yes.’

He looked completely unconvinced. ‘So, er, you just happened to be passing . . .?’

‘Yes,’ said Mirren. ‘Would you like to see my driver’s licence?’

He made a slightly wobbly line with his lips, because obviously he did want to, but was too well-mannered to insist. Fumbling, Mirren pulled out her wallet and showed him instead her British Library card, of which she was inordinately proud.

‘Ah,’ he said, but he still looked puzzled. ‘And you were in the area? Just a massive coincidence?’

Mirren frowned. ‘I work not far away. And sometimes I like to visit my book,’ she said.

He grinned then and it changed his rather pointed solemn face completely; lit it up. Finally, this made sense.

‘You come and watch people visiting your book?!’

‘That’s not all I do,’ said Mirren, suddenly slightly stung.

‘Do you wait to hear them talk about it and then confront them? Weird hobby. Ooh – or do you wait for them to talk about you!’

‘It’s not a hobby,’ said Mirren, a little stiffly. He was taking the piss now and she didn’t like it.

‘It’s something you repeatedly do of your own free will? Because I have to tell you, that does sound quite a lot like a hobby.’

Mirren was annoyed suddenly. Who even was this guy?

‘Well, I love that book, and I loved the person who asked me to find it,’ she said, her voice a little tight.

He held up his hands. ‘Of course. Sorry. Sorry. I didn’t mean to tease. Did you really just find it in an attic, though?’ His eyes were curiously searching, as if he wasn’t just making conversation, he really wanted to know.

‘No!’ said Mirren. ‘I searched the entire country. That’s just where it was, in the end. And by the way, half of the UK was looking for that book.’

‘I bet they were,’ he said. ‘But you tracked it down. Well, well.’

He glanced at his watch and winced.

‘Meeting,’ he said. Then he took out a small white embossed card with his name and number – nothing else – on it in raised black print.

‘Jamie McKinnon?’ she read aloud.

‘Uh-huh,’ he said. ‘Non-finder of books, unfortunately.’

She looked at him uncomprehendingly.

‘Listen . . . if you’re ever interested in a job, call me.’

A job? thought Mirren. But also: a job?