Aria's Travelling Book Shop

by Rebecca Raisin

  ‘Of course! Six-foot-four muscle man. How could I forget.’ She slaps her forehead.

  I lift a palm. ‘So he’s a gentle giant? No one needs to know that.’ As much as I’m capable of standing up for myself, sometimes I miss the fact I could shove my husband to the fore and let him deal with slimy men like Jean-Pierre. Although TJ would have killed the guy with kindness until he eventually gave in …

  We head into our new town, chattering about the beauty before us as we wander down narrow medieval streets. The brisk morning air is like a tincture and I feel refreshed after the long drive the day before and I soon forget Jean-Pierre.

  ‘I didn’t even consult my maps for a bookshop for you,’ Rosie says.

  I raise a brow. ‘Progress.’

  ‘No, it’s not that. I know you’ll sniff it out, you’re like a bloodhound when it comes to books. Is it something you learn, or does it just come naturally to bibliophiles like yourself?’

  I knock her with my hip. ‘Very funny.’

  We zigzag our way through the streets full of colourful buildings before Rosie stops at un épicier to stock up on baking essentials for the fete. The figs are lush and ready to burst and will make the most delicious jam for her French twist Devonshire teas. The grocer promises to deliver her haul to the campsite in a few hours’ time.

  Onwards we go, stopping at the fromagerie which is ripe with the smell of exotic cheeses. Rosie gets to talking to the fromager about all the various types. She’s a wealth of information about French cuisine from her fifteen years at Époque, a French restaurant in London. He offers us a taste of an aged comté that is so delicious I’ll die if I don’t eat more. Next, he cuts a wedge of gooey camembert that’s so creamy and lush I vow to only eat French cheese for the rest of my natural born life. I spend far too much money but leave the fromagerie happier than when I came in.

  And I put all thought of a budget to one side. The universe will provide, isn’t that the Van Lifer catch phrase?

  The hair on my arms stands on end and that can only mean one thing. I’m close to a bookshop. I can almost smell it, the heady scent of adventure trapped between parchment. Eventually I spy it. The most beautiful bookshop I’ve ever seen; the curved old stone building that leans slightly to the left as if seeking tentative rays of sunlight that eke in from the open square. Pale-blue weather-beaten shutters are thrown open, ivy snakes through the wood.

  Rosie sees the excitement on my face and with a sigh glances at her watch. ‘No more than one hour, Aria.’

  I scoff. ‘It depends on how many floors it has.’ I gaze up at the windows, sheer curtains flutter in the breeze as if welcoming me in: We’ve been waiting for you, Aria …

  ‘One and a half, that’s my final offer.’ I grin as I pull her inside. ‘OK, nope, I take that back. I’m going to need two hours,’ I say breathlessly. Tiny fairy lights blink in the shadowy space, dark wooden shelves curve around the room in an arc, snaking from the floor all the way up the ceiling.

  It’s my kind of bookshop, shelves full to bursting, novels spilling over, double and triple stacked. In the centre of the room sit two antique French chaises in pale pink and ruby red, chenille throws draped over the arms patiently waiting for a bookworm to plonk down and relax for a time. Magazines sit atop a coffee table, all that’s missing is a pot of tea and a tin of biscuits and then no way would one and a half hours suffice.

  A staff member wanders over and asks in perfect English, ‘May I help you find something?’

  ‘Where are the cookery books, s’il vous plaît?’ Rosie asks.

  ‘Back there to the left.’ She points to another rabbit warren of rooms. ‘Let me know if you’d like any further assistance.’

  ‘Thank you.’ We watch her walk away on sky-high heels. Even booksellers are glamorous in France. I dip my head to my own outfit which could be described more as bookworm chic. Jeans and a literary tee is about as fancy as I get these days. I don’t think I can even walk in heels anymore.

  I nudge Rosie. ‘She could tell on sight we weren’t French.’

  She gasps with the realization. ‘How? It’s not like we’re wearing rainbow-coloured happy pants like Lulu does!’

  ‘Maybe it’s the way we hold ourselves?’ The opposite of shoulders back, proud, the way French women seem to master from a young age.

  Rosie holds up a finger. ‘We’re not wearing scarves! It’s French fashion etiquette 101. You must always wear scarves. And there’s a particular way you wrap them depending on the fabric.’

  My eyebrows shoot up. ‘You studied French etiquette before we arrived?’ This is Rosie’s way of coping when she’s in an unfamiliar situation – she studies whatever it is to the nth degree. My guess is she knows every French rule about etiquette there is to know, including the more bizarre ones.

  She gives me a look that says I’m obtuse. ‘Of course! And you should too, you know. There’s a lot of unwritten rules that we’d do well to follow if we want to fit in here.’

  I hadn’t thought about the need to fit in. ‘Wouldn’t that just happen naturally?’

  ‘Urgh, you and Max with your sunny, winning personalities don’t have to work at it as hard as the rest of us. But still, the French have so many rules, it’s been fun to study them. Do you know that if they serve grapefruit juice at the end of a dinner party it’s a sign that your host is ready for you to leave? The wine disappears and voila, you have a glass of juice that signals it’s time to go. Isn’t that magnifique! I abhor it when guests overstay their welcome. I think I might be a little French on the inside.’

  ‘Well, you studied French gastronomy, so you’re practically French, Rosie.’

  ‘Oui,’ she says seriously.

  I shake my head, again unsure if Rosie is joking. ‘Come on my little ingénue. We’ve got treasure to find.’

  But she doesn’t move, she’s frozen to the spot.

  ‘What? What is it?’ I swing my gaze to where she’s looking and I spot it. A black-and-white picture of Jonathan with that lovely mysterious smile of his. We stumble closer. What on earth is a picture of his face doing tacked up to a wall in a bookshop in France? I hastily try and make sense of the French words.

  ‘No!’ How, how could I have missed such a thing?

  ‘Yes!’ Rosie says, her face alight.

  My stomach seesaws in surprise. ‘I can’t believe it. How did I not put two and two together?’

  ‘You didn’t ask him what his surname was, did you? Jonathan is no other than the incredibly famous writer, Jonathan Chadwick!’

  ‘How can that be?’ Rosie knows more about the guy than I do, it beggars belief!

  ‘We’ve just missed a talk he gave here!’ She’s one step away from jumping up and down.

  ‘Whaaa …’ I’m trying to make sense of it all but my brain is stuck like a scratched disk. ‘He’s an author and my Spidey senses didn’t pick that up? Boy, am I slipping!’

  ‘Maybe we’ll run into him somewhere in France?’ Rosie is so excited she’s practically yelling. ‘Writers of his calibre usually become reclusive, don’t they? They don’t drop in to gorgeous little bookshops like this. That’s saying a lot, don’t you think?’ Rosie’s babbles continue like a run-on sentence.

  ‘Yeah, it’s saying huge marketing budget.’

  She tugs on my arm. ‘Oh, golly even I’ve read one of his books, and I’m not a voracious reader like you! I can’t believe it’s him and he never mentioned a word. He didn’t tell you he was a writer, did he?’

  I shake my head, bewildered by it all. ‘No, he didn’t! We talked about romcoms for hours, and he never mentioned it. Don’t you think that’s odd?’

  With a swift shake of her head she says, ‘No, I think it’s lovely. It shows he doesn’t have a massive ego.’

  ‘It’s a lie by omission. I feel so foolish!’ I say wringing my hands. ‘Banging on about books like I’m an expert, when he’s clearly the expert. I must’ve looked like a prize idiot to him.’ My brain rattles at my stupi
dity and I slap my forehead to settle it.

  She puts her hands to my shoulders, her big eyes round. ‘Not at all! He’s the writer, you’re the reader. You are the expert!’

  Maybe. Possibly. No.

  Hilarity takes over as I sift through the memories of our time spent together. ‘I spent the better part of an hour explaining to him what the word trope meant!’ Way to go, Aria!

  ‘Jonathan is as popular as Lee Child, Nicholas Sparks …’ Rosie says.

  ‘And there I was giving him lessons about writing – kill me now!’

  She clucks her tongue. ‘It shows how sweet he is that he let you “teach” him.’

  ‘How did I not pick up he was a writer?’

  ‘Well, how would you know? It’s not their bio picture you’re interested in, it’s their words. Have you read one of his books?’

  ‘No, I haven’t. I haven’t really even heard of the guy to be honest.’ My voice trails off as another memory forms, this one of my husband, TJ.

  ‘What is it? You look like you’ve seen a ghost or something.’

  My heart stops. For a fraction of a second I’m stuck in limbo, half in the present, half in the grainy sepia of the past. ‘He knew. How though?’

  ‘Who knew?’ she says, giving me a puzzled look.

  With wobbly legs, I say, ‘I have to sit down.’

  She guides me to the chaise, her forehead furrowed. ‘Do you need water?’

  ‘I need wine, lots of wine.’

  She tuts. ‘That’s not going to help.’

  ‘It will blot out reality for a while.’

  ‘What is it?’

  I take a deep breath and debate whether to tell her, but Rosie won’t let it go now I’ve cloaked it in mystery.

  After a deep steadying breath I say, ‘I just remembered something TJ said and it’s given me goose bumps. I’ll tell you but you have to promise you won’t overreact.’ She’s going to overreact. I steel myself for it.

  ‘You have my word.’

  I narrow my eyes but press on regardless, ‘TJ and I were in the Lake District – we knew at that point we didn’t have much time left. He kept insisting on me finding someone else after he’d gone, he wouldn’t let it go. I kept changing the subject because who wants to even consider such a thing at that point? Just before he drifted off to sleep that afternoon, he said he’d had this vision of the guy I’d move on with and said he’d be a lover of words …! At the time I didn’t think anything of it, I couldn’t even contemplate it. Do you think he meant Jonathan?’ I gasp. ‘Could TJ have known such a thing?’ My head feels foggy with it all. No, it’s ridiculous, it’s a stretch, it’s wishful thinking on my part.

  Rosie stands up and bounces around as if she’s a puppet being pulled by strings, her face ablaze. If there’s one thing Rosie loves, it’s a plot twist when it comes to my life. For the last year she’s been at me to date, to at least try. And now I’ve virtually handed her this on a platter.

  ‘Sit down, Rosie. And don’t give me that look.’

  When she drops back down, I put a finger to her lips. I can practically see the words threatening to bounce off her tongue. ‘Don’t say it.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No buts,’ I admonish her.

  ‘But, but, but, Aria, that’s not fair! You gave me so much grief before about Max.’

  I tut. ‘That wasn’t grief, that was good solid advice.’

  ‘Semantics.’ She lifts a shoulder. ‘It’s only fair that I can offer my own kernels of knowledge in such a situation.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes,’ she says.

  ‘That’s unfair.’

  ‘Life is unfair,’ she says with a harrumph. ‘And we could do this back and forth all day. But you’re a complete fool if you don’t see that the universe is showing you the way, and that it’s time to think about your own happiness for a change.’ She does jazz hands before I shoot her a look and then she snatches them back as if they’re acting of their own accord. ‘TJ has had a hand in this somehow,’ she says. ‘You have to admit, the timing of Jonathan being here a day before us is uncanny, or some would say, a sign.’

  I let out a long sigh as if she’s speaking nonsense but secretly wonder too. ‘How can TJ have had a hand in this, when there isn’t even a this? Listen to me, gah! Also it stands to reason the biggest bookworm on the planet would be drawn to a lover of words. Anyone could guess such a thing, or else he was just holding out hope, but god knows why.’

  I’ve done an about-turn so fast even Rosie is shaking her head at me.

  ‘Geez, Aria, you are all over the place!’

  ‘You should see inside my brain right now.’ It does give me pause though. Is TJ rewriting my life from wherever he is …? No, impossible! I need more sleep, and less wine. I need to meditate, do yoga, become one with the earth! Or something …

  ‘Well, I highly doubt he was holding out hope. TJ knew! He was halfway between this world and the next and there’s a lot we don’t know about such things.’ Her face is so serious it breaks my heart for some reason.

  I do what I do best and deflect. ‘Honestly, Rosie. He was heavily medicated, more like.’ But part of me wants so desperately to believe such a thing is possible. That those feelings I’m developing for Jonathan are natural, that it has been written in the stars.

  Rosie concedes defeat and flops back against the chaise. ‘You’ve got to admit that Jonathan keeps popping into your life in the most unexpected of ways. What for, if not love?’

  ‘Meet-cute style too,’ I admit. ‘But it feels wrong, still. Like I’m not ready and never will be. I don’t know.’ There’s that guilt again, creeping up and tapping me on the shoulder like the friend who won’t take no for an answer.

  Rosie’s shoulders slump. ‘Well, it can’t hurt buying his latest book, can it?’

  ‘Sure, I’ll take a copy of his latest book. I’m intrigued actually.’ Books are so safe compared to the real world.

  Her eyes twinkle like she knows a secret and she goes to a display shelf stacked with his latest book titled The Quiet of Loneliness and hands it over to me. The cover features a blurred black-and-white picture of an entwined couple sitting in a park.

  ‘Their faces are obscured but the image manages to conjure the feeling they’ve been through a lot and are rekindling a love affair, don’t you think?’ Rosie asks.

  I search their body language for clues – the way they clasp hands seems fragile as if they’ve just made up. ‘Yeah, it feels as though they lost their way for a while but they’ve realized what they needed was right in front of them all along. Aren’t cover designers the unsung heroes in literature?’

  She nods and gives me one of her unfathomable Rosie looks.

  ‘What?’ I ask.

  ‘Nothing. I think I might buy myself a copy of The Quiet of Loneliness too.’

  ‘Good plan, and then we can unpick every chapter and look for meanings that aren’t there.’

  ‘My favourite way to spend an afternoon.’ She grimaces. Rosie reads sporadically and doesn’t tend to enjoy disassembling books as much as I do. But for me that’s half the fun of it, going back and searching for clues the author cannily left us, sneakily woven into the fabric of the story if only we take a moment to consider the order in which the words are placed.

  We spend the next hour in paradise, hunting high and low, and leave the bookshop a little dustier than when we arrived. I resolutely turn my head the opposite way when I pass Jonathan’s poster.

  ‘Let’s retrace Joan of Arc’s footsteps,’ Rosie says.

  ‘Starting where?’

  ‘The Church of St Joan of Arc on the Place du Vieux.’

  Anything to get my mind off the two men who are intent on scrambling my thoughts despite them both being absent. I sure know a thing or two about The Quiet of Loneliness …

  After Aria Summers’ husband died she made herself a promise. She’d never love anyone again. Easy, right? After all, she had her romance novels to
see her through and so she fell in love with fictional characters instead. Sheiks, princes, and even the odd billionaire or two were enough for her. But that all changed when the past merged with the present and suddenly it felt as though her life was being orchestrated from above, as though it was written in the stars. But Aria knew a plot device when she saw one, so was it simply a matter of being faithful to her promise or was it a sign from above?

  Chapter 7

  In the old market square, there’s an enormous gold clock above us that captures our attention. Rosie points up to it and then takes out her guidebook. ‘I’ve read about this.’ She finds the page. ‘It’s called Gros Horloge and it was handcrafted in the fourteenth century.’

  It blows me away how these relics are still around after all this time. ‘How many eyes have gazed up wonderingly at it through the ages? Thousands of people, some gone from this world and still the clock ticks.’

  ‘God, you should write song lyrics,’ she deadpans.

  ‘Very funny, Rosie.’ I laugh as we continue to the church.

  ‘This church is newly built for French standards, completed in 1979 in honour of Joan of Arc. Isn’t it a thrilling design?’

  ‘Is it meant to look like a fire-breathing dragon?’ As far as churches go it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before. It’s contemporary and artistic and I love it on sight.

  ‘It’s meant to reflect the flames that consumed her.’

  ‘Wow. She was burnt at the stake here?’

  ‘Close by in that little garden bed. People confuse the cross at the church as the spot, but it isn’t so.’ We find the location and the plaque that confirms it, and a shiver runs the length of me imagining Joan’s demise but how brave she had been standing up for her country.

  ‘She was so courageous. Can you imagine?’

  Rosie shakes her head. ‘A woman leading the French Army to victory back then is almost unheard of. I wonder how she managed it. But then to lose her like that. She was only nineteen.’

  ‘She left one hell of a legacy.’

  We go back and tour the church and get a history lesson too in which we learn more about Joan of Arc and how much she packed into such a short life. ‘I need to read more about her,’ I tell Rosie as we wait for an interactive display to start.