Page 11 of The Bookshop Ladies

‘Oh Yves,’ she whispered and felt her own face crease up with the sadness of it. The women behind them who had cackled so loudly on arrival at the bar had thankfully moved off to a booth. Now, it felt as if they were alone, which was absurd, as music must have been playing and the bartender must still have been talking to customers. Fern thought she could hear her own heart beat at this moment, such was the emotion connecting them.

‘She went into labour on the first Wednesday of February, late in the evening and I drove her to the hospital. The baby arrived the following morning. Six a.m.! If you can believe it?’ he shook his head as if he still couldn’t quite take it in. ‘I was a father and… we were so happy, and then…’ he began to sob.

‘Don’t, please don’t…’ she said.

‘No, I want to tell someone, I haven’t actually told anyone. I’ve just turned up at the gallery each day and said and done nothing, I’ve been numb, and now, just talking about it, I feel…’ he wiped away the tears more fiercely this time, ‘angry, if that makes sense…’ he said.

They sat there for a long time, staring ahead at the bar, trying to make sense of a world that will halt the life of innocence before it gets the chance to live at all.

They tried, after a while, to talk about the things they normally would when they met up like this. To Fern it felt stilted, as if there was an energy released between them that had suddenly nowhere else to be. It scared and excited her in equal measure.

‘Jacques is doing most of the travelling these days, on the lookout for new work and keeping clients wined and dined.’

‘Any artists I need to watch out for?’

‘Not a single one.’ He laughed. ‘Unfortunately for all of us, Fern Turners only come along once in a lifetime and only if you’re very lucky.’ He smiled at her and she felt her heart tumble with love for this man to whom she owed so much.

‘Well, that’s very kind of you, but I think it is time to fill up my creative well again,’ she said wearily and she told him of her plans to take a few months away from the studio. She was not unaware of the fact that it was much easier to say this now her bank account was healthy and she knew that if she didn’t sell another painting for a year, she could live comfortably. She was lucky, she knew it.

‘It is impossible to create anything worthwhile from an empty well.’ Perhaps it was then she knew that things were changing for both of them, but what she could never have guessed was that the dynamic between them would never be the same again. For this one last night, he was the hero who had carried her artistic dream to fruition.

He was staying at the Ritz on the Place Vendôme. A treat, he told her, because his wife was in Boston. And when he invited her up for a drink, of course she accepted. They had shared too many bottles of champagne in his suite not to indulge this time.

‘I’m sorry, for… you know,’ he said when they were alone in the lift.

‘It’s okay.’ Instinctively, Fern reached for him and suddenly he pulled her to him with a need that was as hungry as it was fervent. She met his kisses and his seeking hands with equal force. Somehow they made their way to the hotel room. Once inside, it seemed as if they were taken over by something far beyond their control and, before she knew what was happening, she was biting at his skin, pulling at his jacket, opening the buttons of his shirt and they were moving together, as one, towards the oversized bed with covers conveniently already turned back.

It was the strangest thing, but the following morning, she did not regret what had happened. Later, weeks, months and years later, she would think of that night and wonder why on earth she hadn’t for one moment felt an ounce of guilt about the fact that Yves was a married man. His wife was at her lowest ebb, probably, deluded and lost in grief. There would be other thoughts too. They would rush at her when she remembered the frenzy of their love-making. Perhaps, even in the desperation of the moment, they both knew it was wrong. It was born out of shock and grief and sadness and the desire to somehow make things better. There was love, but at the same time, even as they were writhing together in the most physical of moments, Fern knew, they were not in love with each other.

Yves was in love with his wife. And Fern was just burned out, running on empty maybe wanting to make something right, even though she would never describe what she felt for Yves as pity. Itwaslove, but not the sort of love she would ever want to last.

‘You’ll have breakfast, before you leave?’ he asked her, but after the intimacy of the previous night, it seemed now that an uncomfortable gulf of unfamiliarity stretched between them.

‘No, I’d better dash,’ Fern said, hardly able to meet his eye. She was standing by the door, her coat slung across her arm. ‘Are you sure you’ll be okay?’ She knew he felt the same as she did and it almost seemed as if, standing there in that awful moment, the relationship that had brought them both so much joy before was now dying in embers on the Maison Pierre Frey carpet at their feet.

A little part of Fern knew, as she stepped into the lift to bring her down to the ground floor and out onto one of the busiest streets in Paris, she would not be seeing Yves again. And suddenly, as she walked to the edge of the pavement, hoping for a taxi, she felt hot tears prick at the corners of her eyes. One foolish night had cost her a friendship that had been so much more than just a business arrangement. Yves Bachand had been her saviour and suddenly, even if she had the world as her oyster and an able agent at her back, she knew she could not be part of his life again. She knew as certainly as if she’d made up her mind months ago, her time in Paris had come to an end.

8

Joy stumbled rather than walked with any dignity into the first busy café she came to. She stood for a moment, her eyes adjusting to the relative darkness, unsure whether she should take a seat or go directly to the counter and order the strongest coffee they could brew.

Before she knew it, she was being herded towards the counter. ‘Coffee, black, no sugar?’ she mumbled.

‘Sure,’ the guy said, giving Joy time to pick out a table near the window.

She sat there for a while, lost in thought, neither noticing the view nor tasting the coffee. She had to be reasonable. She came here with a purpose, to meet this other woman. Either she should do that, or she should go back to Paris, look up some of her old friends and resume the life she’d left behind there. She could have had the damned painting shipped across and forgotten about any mention of a daughter. Could she convince herself that life with Yves really had been what she had believed it to be? No. She couldn’t do that.

No matter how hard this proved to be, she had to figure out what was real from what was not and the only way to do that was to confront Robyn Tessier. She finished the coffee before it went cold. It was good coffee, strong and fortifying. Now she made herself get up and slung her scarf over her shoulder, determined to put one foot in front of the other and march into that bookshop.

What would she say? She had no idea. But, she would think of something when she got there. She had got there much too quickly the first time. There was nothing for it as she stood once more at the door with the sign that said –Come in, we’re open. It was as near to an invitation as she was likely to get.

Damn it anyway, the place was empty. The figure standing at the back of the store earlier had disappeared. For a moment, taking advantage of the fact that she was alone and had time to gather her breath, Joy looked around.

It was a beautiful bookshop, with tall oak shelves running high up the walls and above that again, a bottle-green colour rising to the ceiling. The bookshelves were unevenly spaced, as if in some previous incarnation they might have held loaves of bread or cans of preserve. They looked almost as old as the building, with intricate carvings of vines running along the edges and, at four feet apart, ornate columns decorated with carvings of woodland creatures. Mice, stoats, badgers and mink were among those Joy could identify. The ceiling was as ornate as the shelves, with heavy cornicing and leafy details around flamboyantly sparkling chandeliers. Perhaps they had been plucked from some castle nearby? Probably, though, a little cynical part of Joy’s brain said, they had come from eBay. At each corner of the covings, there was a huge seagull, the plasterwork birds faced from north, south, east and west towards matching wooden pairs carved at the top of the oak shelving units.

The books were all second-hand, from what Joy could see, but in good condition with some fairly recent titles thrown in too. At the back of the shop, she spotted a copy of a newly released thriller on her wish list for this year. She had hoped Yves might buy it for her but he had passed away before it was even published. She walked towards the shelves now. Should she pick up a copy while she was here? Perhaps better not to.

‘Good morning.’ A young woman emerged from steps that descended to what looked like a stockroom beneath the shop. She stopped abruptly when Joy turned round to look at her.

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