Wandering into our bedroom the other night, I spotted a book on Louise’s bedside cabinet.
“Where did you get that?” I asked.
“Ehh… from the bookshelf” she replied, somewhat quizzically (she doesn’t buy many books).
“OUR bookshelf?” I responded, equally quizzically as I didn’t recall buying it, and don’t think I would’ve bought a book by that author.
“Yes, the one in the office”
“Really?” I said, trying not to sound quite so disbelieving.
“Ohh for God’s sake, c’mere” she said, dragging me roughly by the arm into the office. She then proceeded to pull some books away from the front of one of the shelves to reveal a book sized gap behind them. “It was right there!”.
I peered at the shelves, at the gap where a book had obviously once been located, and scratched my head.
“Really?” I offered once more, as Louise left the room, shaking her head.
“Well I didn’t buy it…” I offered, a little too vocally, to her back.
“Neither did I!” came the dulcet tones as she descended the stairs.
Which begs the question, why would someone buy a book, break into our house and hide it in one of our bookshelves? And, more to the point, why would they buy a James Herbert?!