The crowd softens their steely gazes out of misplaced concern.
‘Welcome,’ Jonathan says. ‘Are you comfortable? Can I get you anything?’
An invisibility cloak would be good, right about now. My voice curt, I say, ‘I’m fine, thank you. Please continue.’
‘You seem so familiar to me …’ I can hear the sarcasm if no one else can.
‘I wish I could say the same, but I can’t quite make you out.’ I make a show of pressing my hands in front of me as if he’s right here, not a few steps away.
‘Allow me,’ he says and moves to place his face in my hands. Talk about backfire.
I press at his face and accidentally-on-purpose stick a finger in his eye socket. ‘Ouch.’
‘Sorry!’
‘Ringing any bells?’
‘Nope, not a one.’
He grins, his face flushed, probably from the pain I inflicted digging into the soft flesh of his eye.
‘Perhaps you came to me in a dream?’
I narrow my eyes. ‘This is real life, Jonathan, not fiction.’
‘Can’t we pretend it’s the same?’
‘Only a pen pusher would hope for such a thing.’
‘Right.’
I note the crowd starting at us intently and I wait for coughs of impatience but none come so I take matters into my own hands. ‘Why don’t you continue with your talk and I’ll do my best to listen.’
‘Sure, sure, thank you. Love the blue of your shirt, brings out the coppery colour of your hair.’
‘Thanks, your shirt isn’t too bad either.’
The crowd gasp.
‘I can tell by the feel of it.’ I say quickly feeling it. ‘Burnt orange, magnificent colour on a man.’
‘It’s green.’
‘My mistake.’
The crowd collectively sag in relief.
‘Right, where was I?’ Jonathan asks, running a hand through his hair. ‘Ah, yes, so what made me choose two lost souls to write about in Loneliness? Well, who isn’t lost in some way? We’ve all had pasts that lead us to a certain point, a sink or swim moment, and I used that to see what mettle my characters had. Their fragility is what made them so special, what drew them together, and by the time I’d finished the book I didn’t want to let them go.’
The gathering nod and a few wipe away stray tears. Oh, he’s good at this.
‘But does that not mean those people would be wary about jumping into another relationship so soon? I mean, haven’t they learned their lesson? Tread water for a while, for goodness’ sake!’ Why oh why did I speak out loud? I’m not doing a very good job of hiding in plain sight at all.
‘Why place oneself in purgatory and pine for what is lost for so long?’ he counters.
‘Because it matters!’
‘Of course, it matters but should life be put on hold forevermore?’
Like a tennis match, the crowd turns from him to me and back to him.
‘Why is it on hold? Just because she’s choosing not to love again? That’s not exactly on hold, is it? She still goes about her everyday life.’
‘But it’s empty. Void of meaning.’
Is it? I’m suddenly confused who we’re talking about as I put myself in place of the main character. I double blink, comprehending the book in a completely new way. It’s too much, though, it’s too complex a notion to process on stage in front of so many people. I feel exposed as if my own grief is pasted on my face for all to see.
Stunned, I sit mouth clamped closed while questions and answers flitter back and forth. A numbness creeps over me. Do I have the right to start over? Could I?
One long lonely night in a bookshop in France, widow Aria Summers has a revelation … Her broken heart will never truly mend, but new love just might ease the ache. That’s if she’ll let writer Jonathan into her life. But how can she test her theory when she’s still so damaged, so unsure of herself? And what does she really know about the man except that he can kiss the pain away …? All she knows for sure is this limbo style life she’s walking has to change, but how?
I pull myself from the daydream, hoping I didn’t speak out loud. Scanning the room, I can’t spot my new French friends anywhere. There’s a gaggle circling Jonathan, so I attempt to creep out the side door and hotfoot it back when a voice calls out …
Chapter 13
Blois, Loire Valley
‘Watch out, Aria, you’re about to walk into that door!’
I freeze, knowing I am about to do no such thing. Jonathan says his goodbyes and joins me, grabbing my arm as if helping a little old lady cross the road.
Once we’re outside I say, ‘You can drop the pretence now.’
With a shrug, he drops my arm.
‘Definitely one of the most unusual author talks I’ve had.’
I groan. ‘I’d planned to hide upstairs and creep down later. I got the shock of my life when Violetta called out to you.’
‘Interesting charade.’
‘Meant only for Violetta!’
‘Your acting skills are to be commended.’
I can only imagine what my stricken face must have looked like and laughter gets the better of me. ‘You’re a very good sport.’
‘How long are you in Blois for?’
‘We leave tomorrow, this was just a quick stop along the way.’
‘It seems a pattern with us.’
‘The life of a nomad.’
‘You ever think of staying put?’
‘Never.’
‘Right.’
‘Sorry, I just mean that life isn’t for me. Not anymore.’
‘I can understand that. Who wouldn’t want to go and drive off into the sunset when things get hard?’
I bristle. ‘Is that what you think?’
He says, guilelessly, ‘Isn’t it what you’re doing? Escaping?’
No one has pulled me up on that before. I’m a nomad after all but he senses it’s an escape rather than a journey but still it irks me that he has the audacity to call me on it. ‘If this is about the kiss in London …’ I turn on him, because he knows the real me somehow.
‘It isn’t.’ Head cast down, he slips his hands into his jean pockets.
‘Well, that was a mistake and I’m really sorry I latched on to you like some kind of sucker fish. I don’t know what came over me.’ Although I haven’t been able to forget how his lips felt against mine …
Surprised laughter barrels out of him. ‘Sucker fish?’
‘Urgh, don’t remind me. When I relive that night I see this caricature version of myself. It doesn’t bear thinking about.’
‘I’m sorry the memory bothers you.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ve made a vow to drink in moderation going forward.’ He must think I’m some desperado flinging herself into strange men’s arms whenever the mood strikes. And then I recall I just sank the best part of the bottle not leaving much for Violetta and Laurent. Really, I can’t be trusted around wine when I’m hungry.
‘Lucky me.’
Colour races up my cheeks.
‘Yes, well I hope you’ll accept my apology.’
‘No need.’
‘Friends?’ I hold out a hand for him to shake.
He pauses before taking my hand. ‘Friends.’
We stand under the moonlight for so long it becomes awkward. ‘Well, thanks for walking me this far. I know the way back, now my vision has been miraculously restored.’
‘It’s OK, I can walk with you. Max invited me over for a few beers.’
‘Of course.’ Face palm! Here I’d been thinking he was doing the gentlemanly thing and walking me home in the dark when really he wanted to visit Max and unwind for a while.
We carry on in silence, before he eventually says, ‘You argued at the talk that we only get one true love. Do you really believe that?’
‘Of course, don’t you?’ I feel defensive somehow, as if he’s going to insist I’m wrong and then I’ll have to explain about TJ which would be w
eird considering.
‘No, absolutely not …’
This is the theme of his latest book so I shouldn’t be surprised but just for once I want someone to side with me on this. ‘I’ve had my one great love, and I know it’s irreplaceable.’ My words come out by rote, just like always, but as I say them I feel how hollow they are. Do I really feel this way still, or am I just so used to having that guard up?
‘So that’s it for you? You’ll never entertain the thought of love ever again?’ His voice seeps with incredulity and he stares at me with those mesmerizing unfathomable eyes of his. I quickly look away before I get lost to him.
‘It goes deeper than that.’ My voice comes out curt. I’m so confused which Aria I’m supposed to be with him. Happy-go-lucky Aria that the world sees, or the real me?
‘But you’re so—’
I cut him off. ‘Don’t you dare say young.’
He grins. ‘I was about to say lovable.’
My heart stammers. ‘No, you weren’t.’
‘You’ll never know.’
He always manages to lighten the mood, and part of me is relishing this one-on-one time. His dark hair curls around his ear and for one instinctive moment I go to brush it aside, and then catch myself and snatch my hand back. Thankfully he doesn’t notice, and I struggle to focus on the subject at hand.
I shake away my haziness and ask, ‘Have you been in love before? Proper heart beating out of your chest, dreamy, intoxicating love.’
‘Yes, of course. I’m not a priest.’
‘So how did it end?’
‘Badly, for me, at any rate. I didn’t see the end coming, not even a hint of it.’
There’s a story there but I don’t prod him. ‘Therein lies the difference. Yours ended by choice. Mine didn’t end because I chose it to.’
‘But isn’t any end of love, bad?’ His velvety voice is gentle, but I surmise that Jonathan is one of those people who gives it his all when he loves someone and whatever happened left its mark on him.
‘You wordsmiths, always trying to twist things.’ Love is such a messy subject …
He laughs. ‘My relationship didn’t end happily, but really, when do they? Not many people celebrate the dissolution of a marriage. We’d changed, both of us, as people, as partners, and you can’t really change back, you know? But that doesn’t mean I won’t love again.’
He speaks as if by rote too, as if he’s said the same line over and over. I know because I do the same thing when pressed about TJ. What happened to this lovely guy to make him stand on the edge of the world? I’m sure it’s not as simple as two people growing apart. ‘It must have been a shock, but I’m glad it hasn’t ruined you for someone else.’ Perhaps death is the difference? The shock of losing someone forever and ever with no chance to rekindle what is lost.
His face shines under the moonlight. ‘I hold out hope, what if the first go was a prelude to something better? Wouldn’t you agree?’
‘Not for me, no I don’t think that’s possible.’ TJ will always remain my one and only true love, otherwise what kind of wife would I be?
‘Ah, but you can’t actually know that yet.’
‘I can.’
‘You really can’t.’
‘I know it in my heart.’
‘A fickle beast if ever there was one.’
‘Maybe for you but not for me.’
He raises a brow. ‘Sometimes you just have to take the plunge and see.’
We walk in silence. I can’t think of an answer that he’d understand and that doesn’t sound like I’m forcing myself to live in some kind of purgatory. We come to the famous Jacques Gabriel Bridge. It’s yellow under the moonlight, the Loire river below gently lapping like something out of a fairy tale.
‘Don’t you ever get lonely?’ he asks.
All the damn time.
He notes my hesitation and continues on. ‘I’ve spent a lot of my life lonely.’
‘Despite being mobbed by fans, adored the world over?’ I gently tease.
He smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He wears loneliness on him like a perfume once you recognize it for what it is. It’s the sadness in his eyes, the half-smile. The way he’s always looking just off in the distance as if waiting for something to materialize. ‘They love the characters, not the writer.’
‘I doubt that. So why not find this grand new love you speak of?’
‘I’m trying.’ He averts his gaze and I don’t know what to say. Does he mean me? Pick me, I want to scream and then correct myself, not available – sorry. Here we are, both a little displaced in the world – are we both running from hurt destined to don fake smiles and pretend we’re living full and happy lives when inside we’re empty?
Is that really it for us?
But he has the world at his feet, people scurrying after him just to get a glimpse. If anyone had a chance at love it would be him. Or maybe they only love the idea of him, the celebrity side and really he’s all alone in this world? I feel a pull towards him, as if we’re both struggling with how to live after loss, albeit different kinds. He reminds me of the hero in his book, so struck by heartbreak he can’t see what’s right in front of him because he’s so busy looking backwards. Or is that more like me? Once again, I get that feeling it’s all too much to process when I’m in the middle of a conversation so I pack it away to think about later.
‘I’m curious. Why didn’t you mention you were a writer back at the festival where we met last year?’
When he gazes at me my heart stops, his eyes are full of such longing. For what? Acceptance? Understanding? ‘There was no expectation from you, you didn’t know me, didn’t ask anything of me, we just spoke like two regular people who love words. Why ruin that?’
I nod. ‘Do people act differently when they know who you are?’
‘Some do. It’s not like I’m Bono or anything. But there’s always a shift if they know my work and I don’t mind that, of course, I’m the same way with authors I like. But when it’s someone I want to get to know, especially a book lover … I found it refreshing that we just connected on a clean slate, knowing zero about one another.’
He kind of is like Bono, or at least the bookselling equivalent. Up there with Nicholas Sparks when it comes to copies sold, according to Rosie. ‘I get that. So it’s just you and your work most of the time?’
‘All of the time. I get lost to it. Not so great when it comes to relationships, you know?’
I give him a wide smile. ‘That I can understand. I do the same with reading. It’s what’s saved me, these last few years. Having worlds to escape into that weren’t my own.’
‘The beauty of literature. It’s always there when people aren’t.’
Isn’t that the truth of it? When all else fails there are worlds out there to secrete you away where real life can’t intrude, at least for a little while. ‘I lost my husband to cancer and I felt like I would die without him, literally die, so I escaped into reading, fully immersed myself and without that portal to another world, I wouldn’t have survived. There’s nothing like the magic of reading to ease the most damaged heart.’
He considers it, taking his time before eventually saying, ‘There’s a healing quality to reading, even to writing, I guess. I find I can delve into my characters and my own problems fade. But for you, Aria, I’m very sorry to hear you’ve been through such a tragedy. That kind of thing shapes the rest of your life. Now what you’ve said previously makes more sense and I’m sorry for making light of it.’
‘Don’t be sorry. I don’t usually tell people about TJ. I don’t want to hear platitudes like time heals all wounds, and you’re still young, impossibly thoughtless remarks that are actually nonsensical.’
‘People are just wired to trot out the same old lines they’ve heard; they don’t think about what they’re saying in times like that.’
‘Yeah, I get it. They just don’t know and I’m glad they haven’t had to lose someone, but I can be a little defe
nsive about it too. That’s why I don’t usually tell people, and they don’t notice.’
‘Thank you for trusting me with it.’
I wave him away as if it’s nothing when really it’s a big thing for me and I love how he’s answered just the right way for my sensitive heart to cope with. As we turn into the campsite, I see Rosie and Max are still where I left them. ‘There they are.’ I point. Thankfully Tori is nowhere to be found. Rosie looks like she’s fast asleep, her head resting against Max’s chest.
Chapter 14
Blois, Loire Valley
We approach Max and Rosie quietly. They’re the only ones still on the embankment. Rosie is fast asleep on Max’s chest, a checked blanket draped over her.
‘Aww,’ I whisper. ‘She’s out of it.’
Max smiles and says hi to Jonathan. ‘She was mid-sentence and she dropped off just like that. Not Rosie’s style at all.’
I tut. ‘The last few days she’s been run off her feet. Maybe she needs a proper day of rest.’ Rosie has a night-time ritual and I know she’ll be anxious having missed it. She cleans her already clean kitchen, sorts her fresh produce and gives the inside of Poppy a thorough going over or else she can’t sleep, so this is really out of character for her.
‘Yeah, I’ll suggest that to her, but I don’t like my chances.’
Rosie doesn’t have days off. ‘True. Maybe she just needed an early night.’
‘Maybe,’ he says. ‘How’d the author talk go?’
Jonathan and I exchange glances which Max catches because his gaze soon bores into mine as if he’s trying to read my mind, the devil he is. Now I’ve been spotted with Jonathan, I’ll have to tell Rosie all about it tomorrow. When really it’s nothing, is it?
‘It wasn’t boring, that’s for sure,’ Jonathan says and coughs into his hand.
‘Aha, never a dull moment when Aria’s in the house, eh?’ Max says with a fondness in his voice.
But I groan as I remember the evening, charades and all. Max knows me too well, including the fact these kinds of disasters seem to follow me. ‘How about I wake Rosie and take her to her van so you guys can catch up?’ And then I don’t have to stare at Jonathan and talk myself down from the ledge.
Aria's Travelling Book Shop Page 11
