Page 42 of The Bookshop Ladies

‘Of Shane?’ she laughed. ‘I don’t know. Should I be jealous of Imogene?’ she said then quietly.

‘Oh, God, Robyn, is that why you’ve been too busy to take my calls, because I have a new girlfriend?’ He sighed deeply, but it was the wordNEWthat resonated with Robyn. How many girlfriends had come and gone over the years that he hadn’t even mentioned and if there were a few of them, what did that say about how serious he was about Imogene?

‘Don’t be silly,’ the words felt so hollow. ‘I’m happy for you to have met someone you like,’ she added, because there was no way she was going to lie and pretend she liked her too.

‘It’s going well anyway, since you ask,’ he said lightly.

‘I didn’t ask,’ she countered because, truly, she didn’t want to know. Well, she’d have liked to know if it was all over, then she would have wanted all the gory details. ‘But I’m glad you’re happy.’

‘I know you are and I’m sorry that we had such a flying visit, but it’s good that you met. You see what I mean though, she is really special, isn’t she?’

If he was waiting for her to join the Imogene appreciation society, he’d be waiting quite a while.

‘Like I say, I’m happy if you’re happy.’ It was getting dark outside and Robyn began to yawn. She was tired and tomorrow promised to be their busiest yet at the bookshop. ‘Anyway, time for me to hit the hay, I’ve an early start and I’m worn out.’

‘Okay, sure,’ Kian said but he sounded a little deflated. ‘When did you say you were having your reception?’

‘It’s two weeks away yet, but it’s full steam ahead with the preparations.’ And even though she was tired, she couldn’t help telling him about the miracle of Joy and how she had spent a full afternoon persuading all the businesses in the village to take out a small advert in the local paper. They had even promised to send over a photographer the following day, to do a piece all about the bookshop. ‘She really is putting us on the map,’ Robyn said at the end. She caught Fern’s eye as her mother made her way round the flat gathering up her paintbrushes and selecting colours for the following day.

‘She sounds fantastic,’ Kian said a little flatly, ‘but then, like attracts like, isn’t that what they say? I have a feeling that this is just the start for you, Robyn,’ he said before saying goodnight and his words buzzed around Robyn’s mind for a long time after she hung up the phone. It was a lovely feeling, that sensation that she was on the cusp of something wonderful.

28

It’s true what they say, there’s only so much crying you can do and, after that night on the bench by the pier with Joy, Fern felt as if she’d emptied herself completely. She wasn’t in love with Luc any more. She knew that now. Perhaps she’d known it for some time, but simply hadn’t been brave enough to face up to it. Joy had teased it out of her; admitting it was such a tremendous relief. It didn’t take away the pain, but it felt as if it had cleared a path. She could see a way to go on living. She would find things to look forward to again.

Now she felt only angry with Luc and maybe with herself too. When had she become so utterly pathetic? Margot would have given her some stern talking-to, but of course, Margot was no longer here. Her best friend had slipped away under the water in a warm sea and left behind her a crater as vast as the ocean itself.

Thursday. That was all she had to think about now. She chose a blue cotton shirt. It was smart when she turned up the collar; she layered a few chains and beads around her neck and hoped it would distract from her paint-spattered leggings. The artists were meant to arrive at the bookshop in the late afternoon. At that hour, the street would just be basking in the sunshine as it edged westwards. Over the time they were to be painting, the light would travel slowly around and then, later, sink behind the buildings opposite. It would, she had to concede, at least make things interesting. She pulled out a small canvas, used before but she’d painted over it, a plain cream. She wasn’t holding out huge hopes of creating a masterpiece today, but if she could paint something half passable that would be enough. She might donate it to the circle, they could raffle it to buy coffees or maybe pay for a room for the winter months. Even a half-decent Fern Turner would make enough to cover that. Fern had pulled out half a dozen oils the previous evening. Most of her brushes were in a sorry state, but a soaking in turpentine overnight and they were passable enough for the job in hand.

She spent the morning doing admin work for her real job, to take her mind off the fact that she would have to lead the group. Teaching really wasn’t her thing; unlike most artists at her level, she’d never had to work as a tutor or art teacher. Her rise to success had literally been overnight, from waitress and recent graduate to toast of the town.

The calendar on her phone caught her eye. God, little more than three weeks until Luc’s summer holidays. Where would he spend them this year? Not in Ballycove she was sure of that much.

She took a deep breath; there was nothing she could do about it. If Luc really wanted to cut himself off from them, really there was very little anyone could do about it. Suddenly, Fern felt something lift from her shoulders. She was slowly realising that she was only able to play her own part in their relationship. From here on in, she couldn’t feel responsible for Luc as well.

The artists’ circle was exactly what she had expected, a raggle-taggle bunch of retirees with hardly a scat of talent between them, more interested in the social aspect of the circle than in any real advancement of their work. One man, a late arrival, in his early sixties, set up a little apart from the group. She watched him set up his easel. He placed his brushes and palette thoughtfully on the little stand he’d brought along. He was like a man who always painted on the move. His clothes were paint-spattered, his shoes covered in multicoloured drops and his eyes crinkled as he worked, as though he enjoyed working in the sunlight.

‘Lochlainn Daly.’ He held out his hand when she went over to introduce herself. ‘I rang the bookshop to check it was okay to join in. Shane was raving about it when I picked up coffee a week ago and I couldn’t miss out on the opportunity if there were other enthusiasts in the village.’

‘You’re not from here?’ Fern knew everyone for miles around, she’d grown up here, holidayed here every summer since Robyn was a baby, she would have remembered him.

‘No, I moved here about six months ago. I retired and well, my daughter is married just outside the village, so there didn’t seem any good reason to stay on the east coast on my own, when this place is so beautiful.’

‘So you just up sticks and moved? That was brave.’

‘Was it?’ he shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I think it was complete cowardice. I just imagined the days running into each other with no particular shape to them, while over here, well, my daughter hopes to have a family and there’s just a nicer, slower pace to life. I suppose I traded down in terms of my house, but I traded up quality of life.’

‘That’s a lovely way of putting it.’

‘It’s the truth. I have a little cottage a few miles out of town, it’s small but cosy. I take my easel out most days and paint a new scene in the countryside, some days it’s the sea, others it’s the fields sloping away into the distance.’

‘Always landscapes?’

‘These days, yes, mostly. It’s what I enjoy.’

‘And urban settings?’ She looked up the street towards where his easel was facing. He had a good angle, if he was astute enough to capture it.

‘We’ll have to see, I suppose.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘It’s new to me, but I enjoy a challenge.’

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