A good part of this frantic day spent at Heathrow, I look forward to the peace and quiet of my west London maisonette. That I feel more at ease in this humble eleven-room apartment than my sprawling estate in France is in no way an insult to my home country. Grand memories of my current surroundings warming me as if a crackling fire, I simply have not the will to abandon such comfort. This home was a gift from my mother two decades ago. One of many she owned, it was one less to cause her worry. It also served as the background to a good many days of my childhood – including the day I remember most. The maisonette and every furnishing given to me on my 18th birthday – aside from the library – I have changed nothing since. Concerning this one vast room I treasure above all others, the faded script handed down to me demanded I change everything. Made to be both indestructible and impossible to break into, the library cost more to make this way than the apartment itself is worth. Millions more. What it keeps safe, however, is priceless. A most special place that guards six precious possessions, this fortress-like room is my sanctuary. Although I must soon allow it, even my own husband has yet to see its insides. The rest of my home quite modern, if not for the library’s many security measures, its mahogany bookshelves lined with ancient books and furniture centuries old would fit right in with the Renaissance period.
