Aria's Travelling Book Shop

by Rebecca Raisin

  My darling girl, each breath brings me closer to the last I’ll take so I want to leave you with this. If I had one wish, it would be that you enjoy every minute of the rest of your life. Don’t second guess yourself. Follow your heart. Make mistakes. Drink all the wine and dance on tables (I can picture this already and it makes me smile). Hug a koala. Travel far and wide. Trust people based on instinct. And never, ever look back. Live outside of your comfort zone.

  You’ve made my life on earth a joy and now it’s time for you to start afresh. Do that for me. The road ahead for you is a long one, so make it count, my beautiful girl.

  I love you more than words can say xxx

  Tears run down my face as I sit and absorb the words. How I love that man. His generous heart, his loving soul.

  He’s right, and he’s been right all along. Opening my heart again won’t damage what we shared. But it might help to ease the pall of sadness that’s plagued me since he left. My husband was always the clever one and I should have listened to him when he tried to tell me back in the Lake District. But I wasn’t ready back then. The diary was misplaced for three years for very good reason and as strange as it sounds, I think TJ sent it to me when I needed it most and not one moment before.

  I’m ready to love again. Or at least entertain the idea of it. And Jonathan is the man for me, the one I want to read side by side with and take long walks and discuss romcoms with, because whatever I pursue it will be have to be at a long, slow pace and if he’s the right person then he will understand that. And somehow I think that he is. Whatever magic that is in play here has made me sure of that.

  I kiss the diary once more and hug it to my chest. Only parted until we meet again, TJ my love. I wait for a butterfly or some other sign that he’s here like you read in the books but none come and that’s because he is here, he’s with me in my heart, and my soul and he always will be. Already, I know I won’t read this diary again. I’ll put it in a special place but now it’s time for me to say goodbye to that chapter of my life and start the next as per his wishes.

  As I walk back to the van I marvel at so many happy faces, so many people in love and feel hopeful that soon I might be one of them too. I won’t have to hide behind a smile anymore because it’ll be real.

  When I get back to the new campsite I find Rosie’s van and park beside her. I knock on her door and fall in, the tears starting again.

  She looks up alarmed. ‘Are you OK?’ Her gaze drops to the diary. ‘Oh. You read the last passage?’

  I nod.

  ‘Sit, sit. I’ll make some tea.’

  I duly sit and wait for Rosie as she hurries to make tea and serves me a slice of cake so large it has its own postcode. ‘How do you feel?’ she asks.

  I go on to explain what it said and how I felt, that I’d let him go with his final words. ‘Only because I know it’s not forever,’ I say. ‘TJ will be waiting for me just like he promised, and he will always be in my heart. And it’s OK to want to chase happiness.’

  ‘Of course it is. And hasn’t everyone told you so, but you had to believe it for yourself.’

  I sip my tea trying to get a handle on all these emotions fluttering inside. ‘Yeah, I guess it’s that long, lonely process that only you can go through. It sort of feels like I’m coming out the other side and isn’t it bright and sunshiny here?’

  ‘I’m so happy for you. You deserve to start again, Aria, whatever that entails.’ She gives me a big hug and holds me while I cry.

  ‘I need to find Jonathan and tell him how I feel and see if there’s anything there.’

  ‘He’s in St Tropez too.’

  ‘I thought the tour finished yesterday?’

  ‘It did. He’s writing his next great novel from some rental he’s got for the rest of the summer. Methinks it’s just because he knows we’re in the French Riviera for the season, but what would I know?’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. And there’s more news.’

  I put a hand to my heart. ‘What is it? I don’t think I can handle much more today.’

  ‘Musician Axel has arrived and declared his undying love for Tori.’

  ‘He has? Wow, that’s fabulous news.’

  Her mouth hangs open and I realize I haven’t had time to tell her about Tori’s confession and subsequent apology.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I hope she finds happiness, I truly do.’

  Rosie raises a brow. ‘You’re being really good, forgiving her after what she’s done.’

  I shrug and fill Rosie in about the deal Tori and I made. ‘And she was the catalyst in some respects. If I hadn’t felt threatened when she was around Jonathan, I probably wouldn’t have acted at all. But when it looked as though I might lose him before I even had him, well that got my attention.’

  ‘So, now we’ve nutted out all the plot holes in your life, what are we going to do about the romance?’

  ‘I’m going to find Jonathan and invite him for drinks in the van and then I’ll see how I feel …’

  ‘Wow, fancy.’

  ‘Well that’s the best gauge of character, right? Whether he can handle my book babies.’

  ‘And your clutter?’

  ‘Hush your mouth!’

  She grins. ‘I love your book babies no matter how much dust coats them.’

  ‘You’re a liar.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘OK, so what do I wear and where do I find him?’

  ‘Show me your casual wardrobe,’ she says, heading next door to my van. ‘I think it’s best you’re just your beautiful carefree self, going forward.’

  ‘You mean dishevelled, don’t you?’

  She grins. ‘Yes. Bookworm sprite.’

  We settle on an outfit of cut-off denim shorts and a T-shirt that reads: I have no shelf control. ‘OK, maybe I’ll text him: ISBN thinking about you …?’

  She stares at me like I’ve lost the plot. ‘Have you been sniffing books again? What’s gotten into you?’ Rosie pinches the bridge of her nose as if my lame jokes inspire headaches. Which to be fair, they probably do.

  ‘I do feel like I’ve been on a book-sniffing bender!’

  She shakes her head. ‘Bookworms, a breed of their own.’

  ‘You know it.’

  ‘I do know it.’

  ‘I see what you’re doing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Delaying the inevitable.’

  Shoot. ‘OK, I suddenly feel nervous. What if he thinks I’ve got too much baggage? What if—’

  ‘What if the sky falls down? We’ll deal with it as it comes and you’re only inviting him over for a drink, right? Keep it simple. Get dressed and don’t text, that’s such a cop-out. Go to his villa and invite him over.’ She jots down his address on a slip of paper.

  I nod. ‘God, OK. You make it sound so easy.’

  ‘It’s not bloody easy, but nothing that’s worth it ever is.’

  ‘Fine.’

  She kisses me on the cheek and her eyes well up. ‘Oh god. I have to go before the waterworks begin in earnest. But I am proud of you, Aria!’ She leaves with a sob and one hand on her belly.

  I throw myself in the shower and then wear my everyday clothes, not bothering with my hair or make-up. Instead I spritz on perfume and take my phone for directions and go.

  Aria Summers thought that putting love on the backburner was a sure-fire way to honour the love of her life, TJ. But when a long-lost diary appears, it turns every belief Aria had about life, love and friendship upside down. Can she follow her heart and the open road, or is love a one-way street?

  Chapter 26

  St Tropez

  I get to his villa which is more like a castle etched into the hillside and something royalty would stay at. It stops me in my tracks. I’m not a fancy sort who swans around with Côte d’Azur millionaires, and for a second my enthusiasm falters. Then I centre myself. I’m not marrying the man, I’m merely going to invite him for a drink. He might not be the swan-around
type either. He hasn’t appeared that way so far. And I know not to judge a book by its cover, right?

  I ring the bell and wait. After an age the door opens and he’s standing there in denim jeans and a T-shirt that reads: ISBN thinking about you. It’s all I can do not to double over and lose it laughing. If this isn’t a sign then I don’t know what is.

  ‘I like your shirt,’ we say in unison.

  ‘Thank you.’ Again together which provokes laughter.

  ‘So,’ I say, ‘Rosie told me you’re holed-up here for the summer?’

  He grins, his lovely author eyes crinkling like stars. ‘Got the mad urge to write, you know how it is.’

  ‘I get it. So hey, would you like to come to my van for drinks tonight? If you can bear to leave your writing, I know what it’s like to be in the zone. Well from a reader’s perspective.’

  ‘I’m ready now, if you are?’

  Holy mother of the bride. ‘I was born ready.’ Oh god, Rosie turns robot and I turn stupid. ‘That’s to say, no time like the present.’

  He grins and it lights up his handsome face that is all so new to me. His eyes are dark blue, flecked with hazel and I wonder if I’ll be the one who loves this man next?

  ‘Give me two secs,’ he says and dashes back inside. When he returns, he’s holding a bottle of fancy champagne and a book.

  ‘Are we celebrating?’ I ask.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘And the book?’

  He gives me a sheepish look. ‘I don’t like to go anywhere without one.’

  I laugh. ‘You’re my people, no two ways about it.’

  ‘I feel the same about you, Aria.’

  I’m not sure what to say so I walk to my van and he falls into step beside me. ‘I was hoping you’d give an author talk for the Little Bookshop of Happy Ever After. I know you’re much in demand and everything but it would just be an intimate affair.’ Maybe just us …

  ‘I’d love to.’

  ‘Well, come and visit and see what you think first.’ Jonathan has spent time in the van before, way back when, but things have changed and I want to make sure we gel before I make any decisions about moving forward. My book babies are my life, and the way I live will never change. I’m not sure how a man could even slide into life with me, but I suppose if it’s meant to be, it will be.

  He hops in the van and we chug along the sun-drenched streets of St Tropez, squinting against the sunlight that fills the cabin. Silence falls and I think we both can gauge nervousness in one another.

  ‘What’s the book?’ I say falling back to the safety of what I know.

  ‘After He Left.’

  My eyebrows shoot up. ‘You’ve read the whole series?’ A series based on a woman losing the love of her life one wet, wintry day when he stepped out to save a child who slipped on the road.

  He blushes. ‘I wanted … I wanted to know more about how that sort of tragedy felt.’

  It dawns on me. He is doing his own version of research into grief, the same way I would through fiction. ‘And what did you learn?’

  The campsite comes into view, and I see a bunch of nomads in a circle having a continental picnic. My favourite kind where everyone contributes whatever they can and it’s usually a feast of weird and wonderful from so many cultures.

  ‘What did I learn?’ he asks, rubbing at his chin. ‘Well, the person left behind will never really be the same but they’ll grow, become a new version of themselves, slightly battered and bruised but stronger for it, even if they can’t recognize that in themselves.’

  ‘Huh.’ I park my van and shut off the engine, contemplating it all. ‘You’re right, I think.’ I want to lighten the mood so I give him a dazzling smile, and say, ‘Would you like to attend your first nomad picnic? You might have to throw your fancy champagne into the mix, that’s all.’

  ‘I’d love nothing more.’

  I get the feeling Jonathan is the patient sort and happy to give new experiences a go too. Maybe it’s the writer in him and this is all potential book fodder or maybe like me he’s trying to open up to the world more, step from the shadows of loneliness. And I can appreciate that, while I’ve spent the last three years hiding behind laughter or a smile when inside I was dying, he lived behind his words and used them to blot out the world.

  I jump from the van and close the door with a bang. Jonathan takes the champagne and his book and joins me. We approach the group and Rosie stands and gives me a hug. She’s changed into a long flowy dress that highlights her tiny bourgeoning baby bump.

  ‘Hey Jonathan, how are you? Want to join us for a picnic?’

  ‘I’d love to,’ he says and hands her the champagne. ‘I promise there’ll be another one of these just as soon as you’re able to toast to the health of the baby.’

  She laughs and kisses his cheek. ‘That sounds mighty fine. Until then I’ll stick with my kale juice or whatever it is Max insists I drink.’

  ‘Come and sit,’ I say and laugh because it all feels a bit culty. My nerves jangle as if I’m bringing a new member to the tribe, which I suppose I am.

  Max wanders over, guitar in hand, singing Michael Jackson’s ‘Earth Song’ quietly to himself. When he notices Jonathan he abruptly stops. ‘Hey, man! How’s things?’ He shakes his hand.

  ‘Great, got myself that little villa and have settled in for the summer. You’ll have to come and visit.’

  Little villa? How humble the man is! It’s a bloody great big castle that overlooks the sea. Is he downplaying it for our sake or does he truly not care about such things? I’m sure it’s the latter and I get the feeling Jonathan would be just as happy in a little campervan, or is that wishful thinking …?

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ Max says. ‘We’re here for a couple of weeks, a month maybe. Rosie has an ultrasound coming up and a few appointments so we’d rather have a base for a while at least.’

  ‘You guys can always come and stay with me.’

  ‘Nah, man we’d get in the way of the writer at work. We’re cool here. But we’ll come and visit for sure.’

  We sit on the velvety grass and I introduce Jonathan to the other Van Lifers, some like Violetta and Laurent who’ve been with us since Rouen (who he already knows, I remind myself), and others like Claude and Emily who we’ve only just met. Plates of food are passed around, from French cheeses, fresh bread to open cans of sardines and pungent anchovies. Packets of crisps, slices of sun-warmed tomato – it’s anything goes.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say and go to my van to grab something to add to the mix. All I can find is a gourmet box of chocolates from a local chocolaterie, so I give them up to the greater good and console myself that I still have Rosie on hand for any sweet treats I might crave.

  Laurent plonks himself between me and Jonathan. ‘How’s the latest book doing? I see it advertised everywhere.’

  ‘It’s been my highest seller to date. I think there’s something refreshing about writing romance, although my publisher took some convincing.’

  I realize I haven’t read his backlist yet and I’d just presumed they’d all been the same genre. ‘What did you write before?’

  ‘Thrillers. Espionage.’

  My mouth falls open. Some Internet stalker I turned out to be. I’d been so distracted by his puppy photos I hadn’t got much further than that. ‘What? That seems so incongruous.’ He has never struck me as the manly man sort, I can’t see him writing explosions and tough burly characters somehow. To me, he’s more poetical. Deep. The type of guy who writes about love and makes you rethink every notion you had.

  He runs a hand through his hair. ‘I know, but I had that brand built up over a decade of writing and it was hard to shy away from it. My publisher thought The Quiet of Loneliness would be the death knell for me but I had to write it, I felt the story in my bones, you know? I had to take the risk and write it, even if it damaged my career in the process.’

  ‘Why take such a gamble?’ I ask. ‘Couldn’t you have written The Quiet of Loneliness
under a pseudonym?’

  He’s quiet for an age and everyone around me drops their gazes to the green of the grass. It’s like they all know a secret and I struggle to make sense of what’s going on.

  ‘Well?’ I ask, miffed at the change in the group.

  He coughs, clearing his throat but bookworm extraordinaire that I am, I know that’s a tactic to buy time to think of a response.

  Rosie joins me and stares into my eyes like she’s trying to hypnotize me. What am I missing here? She blinks rapidly and I start to worry she’s had too much sun or something. With a long, weary sigh she says, ‘Perhaps Jonathan wanted the book widely read.’

  ‘Well, of course. Wouldn’t every author?’

  ‘Widely read by people who he admires.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘People who are voracious readers …?’

  I shoot her a blank look.

  ‘Voracious romance readers. Who might have recognized his author picture on the back cover?’

  Me? Is she referring to me?

  ‘You wrote it for me?’ I whisper, wishing that the bunch of sunburnt nomads were suddenly anywhere else but here.

  If flushing were a sport, Jonathan would be a gold medallist. ‘It was inspired by you. That time we met at the music festival.’

  How could I not see it when it’s so obviously us. A fictionalized version of us with our messy pasts. Now I know why I felt so confused at the author talk in Rouen, like the novel was speaking directly to me because it was speaking directly to me! I’d just been too closed off from the world and all it offered up to make sense of it.

  ‘Wow, I didn’t realize …’

  ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ he says. ‘I find inspiration everywhere but I’ve been endlessly intrigued by you.’

  Endlessly intrigued.

  ‘No, I don’t mind. But how did you know about my past?’ Of course it wasn’t a direct retelling of my life but it had been similar enough with layers of loss and heartbreak.