Sunshine beats down and soon we find our groove and the drive becomes a pleasure. The further out we get the more meadows crop up and soon it’s green as far as the eye can see with only little hamlets popping up here and there. A sign announces we’ve entered the lush Loire Valley dubbed the ‘Garden of France’ by nobility in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. It spreads out like a blanket before us. I’m eager to explore this new area, including the famous Château de Blois, despite Rosie’s warnings about ‘death by haunting’.
Mid-afternoon we arrive in Blois itself. The beautiful French weather puts a spring in my step with the promise of fun to be had.
The new nomads are a chatty bunch, and we’re all eager to swap stories. In the late afternoon bottles of cheap red wine are passed around, offerings to burgeoning friendships. I get talking to Violetta. She’s beautiful in that unadorned French way with pixie black locks and wearing minimal make-up that makes her big dark eyes stand out. French women are born stylish and it all seems so effortless for them. But she’s definitely got a quirky side if her choice of music is any indicator.
‘So where to after Blois?’ she asks in heavily accented English.
I wiggle back to get comfortable in my chair. ‘We’re heading to Bordeaux for the wine, food and literary festival. It’s not for another couple of weeks though so we have a few fairs, and roadside stalls lined up beforehand. I sell books, Rosie sells old-fashioned comfort food and Max sells the tonic to living forever.’
As the wine flows so do the words, and before long we’re being told by other campers to keep the noise down.
She laughs, displaying teeth slightly marred from tobacco. ‘And what about her?’ she points to Tori.
I’d almost forgotten. ‘She has a pop-up Pimm’s van. Sells all sorts of summery flavoured alcoholic drinks. Very popular among the nomads as you can imagine. What about you?’ We’re down on the bank of the Loire river so none of our signposted vans are visible, and our group has grown in numbers as they have a tendency to do at campsites like these.
‘I’m a travel agent, my business is called A World of Wanderlust. All I rely on is a good Internet connection so I shell out for that and then I am free to go wherever my heart desires, good, non?’
‘Wow, so you spend your days planning other people’s dream holidays while taking your own?’
‘Oui.’ She stretches her legs. ‘I organize a lot of business travel too. That’s my main income. I have a loyal client base so I look after their travel needs. They are mostly bankers, lawyers, foreign services, consultants. Whatever they do, they do it all over the world.’
‘Do they love the travel aspect of it all?’
She shakes her head. ‘They’re never anywhere long enough. High-pressure jobs like that, they fly in, attend seminars or meetings and fly out the next day, often to another country, another meeting. Such a hectic, sterile way to live. But I suppose they must enjoy it, or why else would they do it?’
‘Sounds dull.’
‘Very dull, but they earn a lot of money.’
‘But don’t have time to enjoy it.’
‘I do have one family who thoroughly enjoy their money, but I’m not allowed to share any details …’ She arches a brow.
In return I playfully slap her arm. ‘You can’t say that and not tell me!’
With a contemplative smirk she eventually says, ‘OK, the father is a shipping magnate, that’s all I’ll say, and he has three daughters who’ – she makes air quotes – ‘are ambassadors for the business.’
‘Ambassadors …?’
‘They fly their private jet around the world, stay in the most upmarket hotels you can imagine, money is no object. When I schedule their holidays I have to factor in every last detail, like cases of Cristal, Beluga caviar, a bowl full of only red M&Ms, the whole celebrity lifestyle cliché. If you can think of it, they’ve asked for it. Usually a scandal follows in their wake and then their PR person is all over the place putting out fires. It’s impossible to imagine how much money these girls burn through; you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’
‘They sound hideously fascinating.’ And instantly I know who she’s referring to. Three sisters who put the Kardashians to shame when it comes to being in the spotlight, and often for all the wrong reasons. They certainly live life in the fast lane and money means nothing to them, because they have so much of it. Well, Daddy does, at any rate.
She clucks her tongue. ‘They are hideously fascinating! And I make a small fortune when I work for them, but it’s nothing compared to what they spend in a day.’
‘I suppose it keeps work exciting though, seeking out hotels where week-long stays cost the same as small houses. Not for me though, I love the solitude I find in my van, and getting lost down lonely roads and parking up with no one else about.’
‘Me too. Their life certainly makes van life more appealing. Who needs all of that, really? We get the same spectacular views being on the road. I don’t envy either group: the execs or the socialites, but I appreciate that they fund my life.’
To those executives and socialites our lives must seem so disorganized, so in flux. So lacking fiscally!
A man comes to join us, he wears loose-fitting jeans and a tight white T-shirt. He plonks beside Violetta and gives her a kiss on both cheeks in the French fashion. It’s when he slings his arm around her I realize he’s more than just a friend.
‘This is Laurent, he only joined van life a month ago, and lucky for him he met me on his first day.’
He grins and kisses her. Is everyone in the whole damn world in love and I haven’t got the memo? Where are all the single people at! I feel like I’m wearing a sign around my neck that says: Solo and sad …
But I shall press on, surely there’re some singletons around here somewhere. ‘What’s your specialty, Laurent?’
‘I type up love poems for five euros a piece.’
‘Wow, I love it! Do you get much of a call for that?’
‘Oui. Everyone loves love!’
Of course.
He’s devastatingly handsome. I bet he sells poems as fast as he can type them. They make a fine-looking pair and are fun and frivolous with it.
‘We’re going to an author event in town now,’ he says. ‘Would you like to come with us?’
‘Oh, who is it?’
‘Jonathan Chadwick, have you read his work?’
The drink I’ve just taken a sip of comes screaming out of my mouth and I cough to cover my faux pas. ‘Yes, yes, I have, just recently.’ Rosie’s not close enough to see my nerves jangle so I make a quick decision before I can overthink. ‘I’d love to come along.’
‘You need a ticket but I know the owner of the bookshop so I’m sure it won’t be an issue.’
‘I’m happy to stand at the back.’ The very back! For obvious reasons I don’t want Jonathan to see me. Part of me wants to see the author in action without him noticing me. Will his public persona be different to the man I’ve met, albeit briefly?
‘Great, let’s go.’
I stand and dust grass from my jeans, trying to spot Rosie in the group. Eventually I see her curled up with Max further down bank of the river. She senses me and turns, a question in her eyes. I dash over to them. ‘I’m going into town with Violetta and Laurent. Back later.’
‘Have fun,’ she says. ‘And lock up your van before you go, will you?’
I give her a salute. ‘Already done.’
‘Wow, you’re learning to live safely.’ She turns to Max. ‘They grow up so fast.’
‘My cash tin is still unlocked.’
‘Well, baby steps. At least the door is locked …’
I laugh. ‘OK, Ma and Pa, see you later.’
Sometimes Max and Rosie do feel like parent figures, even though we’re all roughly the same age. Max is the protective sort and since I’m Rosie’s best friend that extends to me, and Rosie is the chief worrier in our little trio, so she keeps an eagle eye on me to make sure I ge
t through every day without getting kidnapped, robbed or burnt to death by candle. Perhaps they need a new project that isn’t me …
Chapter 12
Blois, Loire Valley
Butterflies swarm in my belly like a vicious plague of locusts and I realize I have no idea what I’m doing. Luckily my two new friends don’t know me well enough to notice I’m more fidgety than usual. In London I made a fool of myself lunging into Jonathan’s arms and smooching him as if I’d never been kissed before so I’d rather he didn’t notice me so I can hide out for say … the rest of my natural born life. Hermit-like. But I do love good fiction so it’s not like I should miss out for making a bad choice or two along the way. Well that’s what I’m telling myself at any rate.
Laurent goes inside the bookshop to enquire about a spare ticket, while we hang outside behind a queue of people waiting to get in. How they’re going to fit such a crowd in the seemingly tiny space is beyond me and I marvel that such a famous name still tours quaint bookshops like this. It says a lot about the man. Don’t tell Rosie that though.
‘Don’t worry,’ Violetta says, clutching my arm. ‘Laurent will find a way, he’s good friends with the author too.’
I gulp. ‘He is?’ Holy mother of plot twists!
‘Oui. They were part of the same writing group for a while when Laurent lived in London.’
Ah, of course, the poetry. Damn it all to hell and back! ‘Oh?’ Words fail me as I picture the French couple rushing up to Jonathan when I’d planned to remain inconspicuous. I do a very subtle side-eye looking for escape routes but find none. I’m wedged in by the crowd.
‘Yes, they even shared a flat for a little while.’ She lets out a small laugh. ‘But as you can probably guess Jonathan doesn’t need to flat-share anymore. He’s got a great big house by the river in St Albans.’
‘I can see why he’s so successful, his writing is illuminating. Quite poetic really, but with those big doses of reality thrown in. The Quiet of Loneliness quite took my breath away.’
‘Isn’t it fantastique? You need to go back to the beginning and read them all. Although this book is very different to all of his others – a new direction so to speak and one I think he has mastered. Everyone doubted him, but once again he proved them all wrong.’
I nod, despite having no idea what she means. ‘I need to get over this one first.’ I lower my voice to avoid spoilers for those around me. ‘It kept me up into the early hours, and by the time I’d finished I swear I could’ve slept for days! Their love affair exhausted me.’
‘This latest is his masterpiece. It captures the very essence of matters of the heart. Every notion you have about love is flipped on its head, but isn’t that how it truly is? We have such limited time on this earth and we have to grab love by the collar and shake it. We have to act! Or what’s the point?’ Violetta’s cheeks pink as her passionate monologue comes to a close.
I cross my arms as the evening air cools. ‘I agree with you but I’m leery of the idea that passionate love is all we exist for. There’s the love of friendships, family, a feeling, a place even, to consider too.’
She waves me away, twisting her mouth as if I’ve missed the point. ‘You don’t believe in soul mates?’
TJ flashes into mind. ‘Of course I believe in soul mates, but I’m less inclined to believe you can have two or even three great loves over a lifetime.’
With a scoff, she stares me down as if she’s actually offended by my ideas. But it rings true for me. A soul mate is someone who shares the key to your heart, and you theirs. It’s rare and it’s irreplaceable.
‘But that is unfair, non? What if your one great love leaves or stops loving you or is already married, then what?’
‘Then they’re not your soul mate, they’re an imitation. Your soul mate can’t be married to someone else for goodness’ sake, that just doesn’t work!’
She waves me away and gives me a look that suggests I’m naive. ‘You Brits are so uptight about affairs of the heart. Of course they can be married and still set your world on fire. They might not have known you were out there, and then worlds collide and suddenly there’s three in a marriage.’
My head’s about to explode. Whaaat! ‘Three in a marriage! You’re thinking about this all wrong.’
She lights a cigarette and blows smoke all over the place. ‘All I’m saying is you don’t get to decide who you love! Love chooses you!’
I shake my head, but smile at her theatrics. ‘I agree love chooses you, but love also chooses the right people, unmarried people. Two people who are a perfect fit.’
‘Fine but if they leave, then the next love of your life will appear. It’s just how it works and it’s what Jonathan’s book shows too, non?’
I consider it. In his book they’d both been married, but their marriages had ended before they’d found each other and realized that despite or maybe in light of their pasts they were perfect for each other. ‘I suppose so,’ I grudgingly admit. ‘But whether I’d call them soul mates is another thing.’
‘Why label it? It is what it is. And their love was fiery, passionate, the stuff dreams are made out of.’ Laurent nudges slowly through the crowd to get back to us as Violetta says, ‘True love doesn’t always last forever. We have to be prepared to open our hearts again, no matter how damaged we might be.’
Thankfully no reply is expected as Laurent flings an arm around Violetta and nods to the side entrance of the bookshop. ‘We can skip the queue and watch from the open gantry upstairs. We’ll have the best seats in the house.’
My shoulders relax; surely Jonathan won’t notice us up there? We go through the side entrance and sneak up the stairs, the air heavy with a thousand stories waiting to be read. My bookworm blood pulses and all I want to do is hunt through the shelves but I let them lead the way up a flight of rickety steps that are probably a thousand years old and settle on some beanbags that have seen better days.
Laurent pulls a bottle of red wine from his jacket and a sleeve of plastic cups in true nomad style.
I laugh. ‘You just happened to have those secreted there?’
With a grin he says, ‘Wine and literature, a perfect match.’
I scrunch my nose. ‘None for me, thanks.’
The last thing I want to do is drink my body weight in wine (again) and throw myself in Jonathan’s arms and kiss him like some lost desperado (again). No, I shall be in full charge of my faculties and not the lax Van Lifer I truly am.
‘Have one,’ Violetta chides. ‘It’s not going to hurt you.’
It would take the edge off, I suppose …
‘Just one then.’ Did I mention I’m easily led if there’s fun to be had?
By the time the author talk starts the bottle is almost empty. I give myself an imaginary pat on the back for loosening up and easing my angst about being here. Really, what’s there to be worried about? He’s an author, I’m a reader, and that’s that.
But good Golem, Jonathan radiates a certain je ne sais quoi that sparks a strange sensation in me. No, it’s probably just hunger, I haven’t eaten after all. Maybe it’s not him it’s simply a dietary issue. That’s clearly what it is. I quaff the last of the cheap wine and hope it fills the void, hunger, desire, whatever the damn hell it is, and settle in to enjoy the talk.
‘Why are you holding yourself like that?’ Violetta whispers.
‘Like what?’
‘You’ve got your face pressed up against the rail – you’re going to fall through it if you’re not careful!’
With a gasp I see what she means. I look like a prisoner pushed up against the bars, desperate to catch a glimpse of the real world. Violetta stares at me as though she’s worried I’m slightly demented. Which I clearly am. ‘Oh, it’s erm … my eyesight. It’s terrible,’ I lie. ‘Can’t see a bloody thing.’
She cocks her head. ‘Really?’
‘Yep.’
‘You should have told us, we’d have asked for seats downstairs. Laurent!’ She sh
outs and I cringe as the sound echoes around the room catching the attention of the crowd below. I edge from the bannister in an effort to hide, but all I see is empty space so I lie flat and hope Jonathan can’t see me.
‘I’ll get Laurent to sort us better seats,’ Violetta says, and then frowns. ‘What are you doing?’
Oh god. ‘I … I, ah lost a contact lens …’
‘Can you see out of the other eye?’
‘I’ve lost them both.’ I can practically feel my nose growing before me from the amount of lies falling from my lips. I sneak a peek downstairs, hoping the crowd has turned back to Jonathan, but find a of mob steely-eyed death glares instead. Violetta’s voice rises as she announces, ‘We have vision-challenged friend up here! She cannot see a thing!’
I want to die. I want to curl into a ball and rock. Must keep up the farce though since everyone in the entire damn bookshop is staring at me. I scrunch my eyes closed and pat the carpet as if looking for the meaning of life, instead of a couple of contact lenses that aren’t there because I am not vision-challenged at all.
In fact, I have perfect 20/20 eyesight which is a real shame in this case, as I can see quite clearly the error of my ways.
The unthinkable happens. Jonathan calls out, ‘Would your friend like to join me on stage? She should get a pretty good view up this close.’
My toes curl.
I cover my face in the hopes he won’t recognize me and disguise my voice by speaking with a bad French accent. ‘Merci, but non, non, that won’t be necessary.’
I peep through my fingers and see a grin on his face. And something else. Wonderment. He knows. Oh god, he knows it’s me. I debate about flinging myself out the window but don’t like the idea of splattering to the ground from the second floor and all.
‘Oui,’ says Violetta and grabs my hand. ‘We’ll be right down.’
No, no, noooo!
I’m dragged along whether I like it or not and pushed into a chair on the stage beside Jonathan. ‘Thanks for being so considerate,’ Violetta says. ‘Poor girl can’t see her own hands right in front of her face.’
Aria's Travelling Book Shop Page 10
