Page 45 of The Bookshop Ladies

‘It’s a gift, from Yves…’ Joy started but when she looked at Robyn, she knew that meant nothing. ‘He left it in his will for you, it’s your inheritance, I…’ she stopped, how on earth did she say what had to be said?

‘That’s madness, why would your husband leave me a painting?’ Robyn was smiling now, bemused, not understanding.

‘You’re Yves’s wife? You’re Joie? But you’re not even French…’ The pieces were slotting into place for Fern. She stood for a moment, her mouth slightly opened and then she closed it as if suddenly aware of where she was, what was happening – probably her worst nightmare. ‘You’re Joie Bachand?’

‘Yes. No, I mean, I’ve never used Yves’s name, I’ve always been Joy Blackwood, just Joy, really.’ And she watched as a thousand painful threads were pulled as one and Fern tacked together the final pieces of a patchwork quilt which had lain unfinished for twenty-five years.

‘Hang on, you knew Joy’s husband…’ Robyn gazed across at her mother, as if trying to work out the coincidence. ‘And he bought one of your paintings? For me? I don’t understand, how on earth?’

‘Because…’ Joy hadn’t it in her to tell Robyn that she was not who she believed herself to be, but rather the daughter of Yves Bachand – a man she had never met and now never would.

‘We only came to tell you about the shop… The artists’ circle and… and now this and you’re…’ Fern stopped abruptly, her fingers playing nervously across her lips. She stared at the floor as if there might be some explanation written there that wasn’t immediately obvious anywhere else. ‘He’s…’

‘He died six months ago, but he never forgot. He told me about Robyn just before he died, so I never knew…’ Joy tilted her head. She did not want pity, but neither would she leave Fern in any doubt that if she had realised there was a stepdaughter, she would have reached out much sooner.

‘What is it…’ Robyn reached across and touched her mother’s arm, but even with the distance between them – it was obvious she knew that there was something more here than just a painting, an old friendship, an unexpected reminder.

‘You never knew? That’s such a load of crock,’ Fern said bitterly. ‘Of course you knew! You’ve always known and you’ve come here and wormed your way into our family and what was your plan all along? To get revenge of some sort? Sick, that’s just so sick,’ Fern said, grabbing Robyn’s arm and yanking her off the sofa. ‘Come on, we’re out of here…’

‘But Mum, it’s Joy, she’s…’ Joy felt as if her heart might break, such was the confusion in Robyn’s eyes.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Joy managed, before Fern pulled the door shut with a loud bang and the only sound filling the flat then was the heavy thud of angry footsteps racing down the stairs and out into the dark night.

30

Robyn shoulder-pushed the door closed at the side of the shop while trying to keep her mother upright. Everything about the silence of their walk back felt ominous, as if something terrible had been let loose from that painting, something as unspeakable as it was unstoppable.

When they got home, Robyn automatically drew curtains and switched on table lamps, if there was kindling in the grate, she would have lit a fire in spite of the warm evening. Some deep part of her needed to feel the security of the big old sitting room around her. It had always been a comfort, holding the world’s worries at bay beyond its thick walls. Tonight, even though she wanted desperately to know what that painting meant, fear gnawed at Robyn’s bones, it slowed the blood in her veins, so her ears throbbed with a loud steady thrum. Still, she had to know. She turned and looked at her mother who seemed to be a pale shadow of herself buried deep in the corner of the sofa.

‘You have to tell me,’ Robyn said. Her mother nodded towards the drinks table, but Robyn ignored her, she had a feeling the last thing they needed was alcohol. What they needed were clear heads and the truth of what it was that seemed to terrify both Fern and Joy equally. ‘Okay, who was Yves Bachand?’ Robyn said, because she didn’t know where else to begin.

‘He was…’ Fern threw her head back. ‘He was, I suppose, my mentor, the person who really discovered my work and made a success of it.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘He owned a gallery in Paris; a very good gallery.’ Her words were coming in breathy whispers, as if she could hardly bear to utter them aloud. ‘He was renowned for discovering new talent. Hediscoveredme.’ Her voice was so low, Robyn had to move closer to hear her. ‘He brought my work to the attention of people who matter in art circles. Without him, I might have ended up clearing tables for the rest of my days. I could still be painting portraits next to the Seine for a pittance, in the hope of calling myself an artist.’

‘Oh, come on Mum, you were always better than that…’ Robyn didn’t believe that for one minute. ‘And why would someone who had given you all that, who had never set eyes on me, want to leave me one of your paintings in his will?’ Actually, what she wanted to ask, but she couldn’t find the words for, was, why had the idea of it all set her mother on edge so badly?

‘He did set eyes on you.’ Fern’s voice was ragged and thin. It frightened Robyn. ‘He met you, once, years ago. It was completely by accident. He never knew about you…’

‘But why would that...’ and then, Robyn remembered something. It had happened when she was just a kid, her great-aunt Peggy saying something, something that had jarred, but she hadn’t quite made sense of it at the time. She had been talking about Robyn’s love of books and, when Robyn had said she was like her dad –nurture over nature– Peggy had off-handedly said something about Yves Bachand. ‘Mum, tell me what it is that’s made you so… whatever it is, it can’t be that bad.’

‘I needed to tell you the truth years ago. There never seemed to be the right time and then… when you were old enough, a teenager, that year when Kian came to stay… I thought you were old enough, it would be the perfect time, but you were so…’ she stopped. There were tears streaming down Fern’s cheeks now, but worse than that was the fear in her eyes. ‘So sad, that year, you were so utterly miserable in yourself. I couldn’t make things worse for you…’

‘Please, don’t make this about me.’ Because although Fern might be right about that year, surely, she couldn’t mean to say that Yves Bachand was her… Oh God, she was going to be sick. She raced to the small cloakroom toilet beneath the stairs and vomited until she felt empty. When she finally walked back to the sitting room, her mother was perched on the edge of the sofa with a large glass of what looked like neat whiskey in her trembling hand.

‘I’ve poured one for you too, I think you’re going to need it. I know I do.’

‘Thanks.’ But Robyn thought the last thing she needed was whiskey, even the idea of it turned her stomach.

‘It was one night. One foolish night, when everything seemed to be up in the air. Yves meant everything to me, in one way and not enough in another. I mean, he had opened so many doors for me, but I wasn’t in love with him. I knew he was married. I knew he was cut up about losing their baby. I didn’t plan it and I think, afterwards, we both regretted what happened but… you can’t turn back the clock, can you?’

‘So, you had an affair with Yves Bachand?’ It was hardly the end of the world, not in the world her mother lived in. Artists were notoriously bad at monogamous relationships. ‘It’s a long time ago, surely…’

‘It’s not that long ago. It happened nine months before you were born…’

‘Oh, God.’ Robyn felt the blood rush from her head.

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