Once we’re finished in the church, I stock up on biographies of Joan in the gift shop before we wander around the old town square marvelling at the ancient town, rich in history and beauty.
‘Lunch?’ Rosie says.
‘Do you even need to ask?’
We find a little café called La Couronne that Rosie claims was established in 1345. ‘There’s signed photographs of Salvador Dali and Bridget Bardot who visited here,’ she says as a teaser to tempt me in, but just the smell of creamy French food is enough for me.
We’re seated by the maître d’ who wears an elegant black suit and bowtie. He pulls out chairs for us and places linen napkins over our laps. When he rushes away to get who knows what, I lean over and hiss to Rosie, ‘Are you sure this place suits our budget? We don’t usually eat in establishments with proper napkins …’
Patrons are glamorously dressed and I feel downright shabby in comparison. The thing about van life is money rules, and it’s always at the back of our minds, every penny accounted for. Food is always the last thing we splurge on, and Rosie feeds us all anyway. And I’ve just spent a few days’ worth of takings on books, which is typical of me.
Rosie nods, and looks up as the waiter returns with two leather embossed menus. ‘I checked already. The basic three-course lunch menu is twenty-five euros and I’ve made allowances for this in my daily expenditure since it’s for research and all.’
‘OK. I guess we can splurge if it’s for the benefit of your business.’
My willpower is also fairly weak, and I’ll follow anyone anywhere if there’s fun to be had, money be damned.
The menu has a selection of mouth-watering options. ‘How amazing does the Normandy Cheese platter sound?’ I have no idea what the cheeses are or how to pronounce them, but any cheese is always good in my opinion. ‘What’s the Neuf …’
‘Neufchatel,’ she finishes for me. ‘A delightfully pungent cheese that will blow your socks off.’
‘Well, we’d better get through entrée and main first!’
As we slowly consume our body weight in rich, French food, Rosie builds up to another inquisition. I can read her like a book – she begins by sitting straighter, fidgets with her napkin, looks everywhere but me while she rages an internal battle about how to begin.
‘Just say it, Rosie.’ She feigns confusion but Rosie is a hopeless liar. ‘You’re acting like you’ve got ants in your pants and that can only mean one thing, so just get on with it.’
Her mouth opens in protest but then she notes my steely-eyed gaze and drops the farce before it truly it begins. ‘Well if you must know, I was just hoping you’d be amenable to catching up with Jonathan at some point? We could easily find him online now we know who he is.’
‘What for?’
‘I’m thinking Cupid might be around and can sprinkle a little love dust over you, so shoot me.’ She puts her hands up in surrender.
With a sigh, I say, ‘Truth be told, I can’t stop thinking about the guy, which fills me with the worst pangs of guilt, because TJ is still with me’ – I tap my heart – ‘so how can I even consider such a thing?’
‘It’s just – don’t take this the wrong way – but I can feel your sadness, Aria. It comes off you in waves. It worries me sometimes, that you’re going through life with a big smile plastered on your face but inside you’re screaming. Tell me to shut up, but that’s the impression I get.’
I thought I’d acted my part so convincingly. ‘You’re right, Rosie,’ I say with a sigh.
‘Tell me more about TJ, and what made him so great.’
Where to begin? ‘He treated me as if I was his every wish granted. How to explain without sounding cheesy?’
‘It’s me, Aria,’ Rosie says softly. ‘You know you can tell me anything.’
Doesn’t everyone think their love affair is unique and special, as if no one else has ever loved quite as hard, quite as much? ‘TJ’s love was palpable; I could feel it as soon as he walked into a room. I’d get that fluttery feeling and that never waned. He made me feel like every person on the planet paled in comparison to me, it was such a heady love. I hope I made him feel the same way. To me, he was a prize and I felt so lucky he was mine. And that he chose me.’
‘He sounds like a wonderful man.’
‘He was. The best. So full of life that it seemed so cruel that it had to end. Who’d ever be able to live up to him, and why would I want them to? Wouldn’t it be greedy of me to expect someone else could love me as much as that?’
‘Why greedy? Why shouldn’t you have high standards for love? We all should! And if one man can love you like that, then why can’t another? You don’t get a quota in this life, Aria. It’s not like you’ve used your voucher and it’s now expired.’
TJ’s face flashes into mind, and then Jonathan’s face too. Both men are similar in their reflective and gentle ways, their expressive faces unable to hide every emotion they feel. I love those kinds of people, the ones who aren’t closed off, who relay every thought and mood keenly in the shape of their face, in the complexity of their eyes. The way they worry their hands, expressive whether they mean to be or not.
‘Yeah, I know, Rosie. And I’m happy for those who manage to fall in love again, and find a sense of peace after loss, but I feel like I’d just compare the two men and as lovely as Jonathan is, I’m guessing he’d come up short to TJ. Everyone would. And that’s so unfair of me.’
‘Even as a friend?’
I shrug. ‘I think so. Maybe it’s the fact the diary turned up but I feel like TJ is right beside me, walking along these cobblestoned avenues marvelling at this and that. It’s so wrong that he doesn’t get to have any of these experiences. I feel robbed and bitter at the world. I try so hard not to fall down that dark hole but sometimes it just swallows me up and I think I’ll never find my way out. Without him …’ I stop as tears pool in my eyes, and silently berate myself. Once they start though, there’s no stopping them. Like a floodgate, tears and emotions rise to the surface. ‘Life isn’t the same …’
‘I get that,’ Rosie says, laying her hand on mine.
I choke on a sob, willing patrons to look the other way. Magically they do. ‘It’s just that we had this full life planned, you know? Renovations on the cottage for the big brood of children we were about to start trying for. TJ would quit his teaching job eventually and open up a centre for kids with special needs so he could focus solely on them. Imagine the amount of lives he would have changed. TJ saw his students as kids with unlimited potential, a puzzle to solve, so they’d have the best chance of the future they deserved if only he could translate their needs, especially for the non-verbal kids in his class.’
‘I wish he’d got to fulfil that dream.’
‘Me too. That was his number one priority, and I loved that about him. We wanted to travel.’ I take my napkin and swipe under my eyes. ‘Bare bones style, like we do now. Hike, help build wells in developing countries, show our kids the real world, not the resorts and theme parks, and then one day, we’d retire, we’d be sitting on our front porch on our love swing, stars twinkling above, reminiscing about our full and happy lives, how our kids grew up to be kind, and that’s all you can ask for, right? And none of that can happen without the man himself. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for the time I had with him but it’s broken me for anyone else. I admit, I’ve toyed with the idea of finding love again lately but then I get cold feet and realize it can never be. There was only one man for me and the love we shared will remain in my heart for the rest of my life – it has to sustain me, right?’
Rosie’s eyes well up and she swallows hard. ‘Right.’
I’ve upset Rosie but I feel like a weight has been lifted explaining just how my husband fulfilled me and why I can’t just carry on as if everything is OK. ‘Sorry, Rosie, I didn’t mean to unload all of that on you.’ I’ve shared snippets before with Rosie but never in as much detail as today.
She dabs at her eyes, trying despera
tely to compose herself. ‘Don’t apologize, I’m crying because it’s beautiful in its own tragic way. Not many people find a love so strong, and it’s shattering that you lost TJ. I guess I’ve never thought about the future that you lost too, you know? When I think of TJ, I think of the man who’d be by your side, I never thought of the father, the special education guru to generations of kids, the grandfather. The guy who’d grow into the grey-haired man on the front porch sitting with the love of his life while she reads yet another book. It makes me to want to weep for you.’ Rosie colours. She’s not one to display emotions, always keeping them bottled up tight. I try to comfort her, knowing it’s a lot to take in. She’s probably picturing herself without Max and thanking her lucky stars it’s not the case.
‘Yes, that’s the crux of it, Rosie. Jonathan has made me realize my heart works just fine, but that’s all it can be. Just the knowing. The broken pieces aren’t ever going to mend, they’re just barely holding together. And it’s enough, truly, it’s enough, to know that I caught Jonathan’s eye, that I mattered to him for that brief moment we shared. Trust me, if I wasn’t married – widowed – if I was someone else, I’d be beating down his door. But it’s not fair to either of us to start something I’d eventually run away from. I’ve already made some rash decisions there under the influence of sauvignon blanc.’
‘I hate it – I can’t argue, you’ve tugged at my heartstrings and made the robot cry.’
I laugh. ‘Well, wonders will never cease, eh?’
A silence descends so we do what millennials do best – take out our phones. The mood lightens when we check Facebook to see what our fellow Van Lifers have been up to since we parted back in London. As promised, they’ve scattered around the globe. Rosie checks on Max’s parents, Nola and Spencer, who’re spending the warmer months in the Czech Republic. They’ve tagged us in numerous pictures, including the Idiom Installation, a cylindrical well of books, stacked like a game of Jenga. It’s impressively long and makes my belly drop thinking of the depth.
‘Oh, and there’s Kafka’s head, spinning for eternity!’ Rosie says, delighted by the moving sculpture. ‘It’s meant to reflect his torment. He was somewhat troubled, it says.’
‘Aren’t most writers?’
She raises a brow. ‘I know one you could ask …’
‘A great conversation starter, if there ever was one.’ Is Jonathan troubled though? There’s something wildly enigmatic about the man. He’s full of fictional stories, but what about his own? Is there any point wondering? Probably not.
We get to the third course and groan once the waiter has walked away. ‘We ordered too much.’
‘No such thing,’ Rosie says, spearing a candied strawberry.
‘I guess I can always try.’
‘It would be rude not to.’
Is there anything better than eating your body weight in French food? I think not. Especially when love is not on the menu …
***
After helping Rosie make fig jam in preparation for the upcoming fete, I finally escape to the comfort of my van.
PJ clad, I squish myself into bed, and take the diary from the drawer. What will it contain? My heart thrums at the thought, but I know my TJ and I trust he’s penned this for a very special reason.
If you’d asked me a year ago, I’d have said a diary is a strange pursuit for a thirty-something-year-old man – after all, who wants to hear about my innermost thoughts, fears, secrets? I’m just a regular guy with a regular job who just so happens to be married to my dream girl.
So why now? Why commit anything to these pages? It’s nothing concrete that I can fathom. I woke from an obscure dream a few days ago with this strange feeling of knowing that I had to commit some thoughts to paper for my word nerd. Strange, eh? I hope it doesn’t mean I’m going to get hit by a bus or struck down by a bolt of lightning or something! All I know is, I must write to her and express my love in a way that resonates most. What to say to the woman who reveres such things? If I were to be abducted by aliens, I guess I’d want her to know that she lit up days and my heart. Not everyone gets a love like this …
He could have been saved if only he knew what that dream meant! But he remained physically fine until it was too far gone, too late. His words, his parting gift, lift my heart as if he’s right here next to me. I’m so grateful that I got to be TJ’s one great love even if our time had been cut short.
I send Rosie a quick text.
I’ve read the first diary entry … I’m all good, just wanted you to know.
Within seconds a reply beeps back.
Do you want to talk about it? I make a mean hot chocolate which is medicinal … xxx
I’m all good, Rosie, but thank you xoxo
I switch off the light and sit in the dark. Time can’t take away the love we shared. It can’t take away the memories. I hug the diary close to my chest, conjuring the man. His Oceana cologne is trapped in the parchment, bringing him to life inside my mind. I close my eyes, his face a whisper away …
Chapter 8
Rouen
A couple of days later I wake up groggy after an all-night reading binge and like almost every morning I wish I’d had a little more shut eye. Needing distraction from the diary and the feelings it had produced, I’d started Jonathan’s book, became engrossed and desperately wanted to finish it but my eyes kept slipping closed and that was that. #BookwormProblems.
I’m not sure what I’d expected his prose to be, but I found it the complete opposite. He too is the heart-on-sleeve type, or at least that’s what my take is. I know it’s fictional but I kept picturing him as the hero.
Like your typical bibliophile, I’m counting down the hours until I can get back to it and see where his love birds end up.
After a long, hot shower, I dress and head outside to find real-life love birds Rosie and Max sitting on a rug by the river soaking up the morning sunshine. Teapot in hand Rosie pours me a cup and hands over a floral-scented tea – her homemade blends are one of her bestsellers, and she has a range for every mood. Pick-me-ups, wind-me-downs and even a bouquet for the broken hearted.
‘She’s alive!’ Rosie jokes. My sleeping patterns can best be described as erratic, while Rosie awakens each morning at exactly the same time, or two hours earlier if worry bothers her.
I yawn. ‘Could have slept all day but I dragged my sorry self out of bed just for you.’
‘Hashtag blessed,’ she jokes. ‘Max went hunting and gathering early this morning and came back with croissants and baguettes for us. Help yourself.’
‘Thank you. Oh, there’s fruit too!’
‘A man can’t live on fresh air alone,’ Max says, grinning. Clearly he’s heard our jokes about him.
‘Not a man your size.’
I sip the tea trying to gauge the type of flowers and what healing properties it has. ‘It’s some kind of relaxant, isn’t it?’ I ask, feeling lulled somehow. Rosie is an alchemist, no two ways about it but I’m leery in case it’s some kind of love potion and next minute I’m declaring my love for some broody French man. You have to be on your toes with this little tea merchant.
With an eyebrow waggle she says, ‘It’s a secret recipe I’m still tinkering about with. It will give you clarity for the day ahead if nothing else.’
‘I’ll have another then,’ I say. ‘Does it prevent blisters too?’ Adventuring tends to shred my feet as I like to walk until I’m lost and try to find my way back. A pastime Rosie doesn’t share with me.
She laughs. ‘I haven’t figured out a blend for that yet, but I’m sure I could make some kind of tincture …’
‘You’re starting to sound like a tree hugger, Rosie.’
She guffaws. ‘Look, I hugged that bloody tree but I don’t think it did any good. In bare feet! Earthing.’ She shakes her head. ‘What a notion.’
When I first met Rosie, we went to Magic Tree forest, and I made her – no, practically forced her to – hug the magic tree, which is well known t
o have restorative powers. She pretended it didn’t heal her from the tippy toes up, but of course it did.
She puts all these new age things down to wackiness but I do think our little A-type is turning. ‘Liar.’
Max pipes up. ‘It’s well known that the magic tree grants the wishes of those who hug it in just the right place.’ His face is a mask of earnestness so it’s hard to tell if he’s winding her up or not. ‘But I believe, as the saying goes, if you don’t believe you don’t receive …’
‘See!’ I say, giving her a pointed look. ‘Did you make a wish, Rosie?’
Turning away, she mumbles incoherently and it’s then I remember our conversation that day which had been all about Max, and how the tree resembled him in sheer size and toughness alone.
‘Rosie?’ I prod.
‘I don’t remember.’ She averts her gaze.
‘I believe we were talking about some hot specimen of a man, but I could be wrong …’
Max emits a low growl as if he’s a wild man, and grabs Rosie in a hug, taking her down on the picnic rug. ‘Is that true? Who is this hot specimen you speak of?’
She pushes him away not wanting to concede the point. ‘Stop it, you two, you’re like children at times.’
‘Tell me his name!’ he cries out in jest, drawing the startled attention of other campers wandering past.
‘Oh my god! Fine, I might have thought of you briefly as I hugged the damn tree but I highly doubt that the bloody thing granted me one wish and there you were – how ridiculous!’
‘I don’t know, Rosie, you’ve got to admit it was all a little magical.’
‘Yeah, if you believe in fairy tales …’
What a ride it’s been! The tree is magic, no two ways about it.
‘Well, I was going to play it all macho, but back then I also happened to stop in Magic Tree forest and made a wish.’
This time Rosie jumps atop him and tickles him to confess. ‘Did you now?’
Aria's Travelling Book Shop Page 7
