Page 47 of The Bookshop Ladies

‘You deserved better too.’

‘Marriage is not easy.’ It sounded like a hard-learned lesson.

‘It certainly doesn’t seem to be.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Now Joy reached out and touched Robyn’s hand. ‘Really, not just for your mother, but for you too, this… Yves and everything, it’s a lot to take in, I’m sorry you have even more on your plate.’ She smiled sadly. ‘I thought I could help, you know, in some small way, make things a little better by helping with the bookshop, even if you hated me at the end.’

‘Oh, Joy, I don’t hate you, I couldn’t hate you if I tried,’ Robyn said, because it was true. ‘Even upset as I am, I can see you’ve only set out to help me since you came here. I don’t suppose you fancy some breakfast, do you?’ she said shyly.

‘I…’ Joy looked around the flat, as if seeking permission from some invisible source. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course, it’s only breakfast, but maybe it’s a start.’

‘I would love that.’ Joy wiped away a tear.

‘Is that…’ Robyn squinted at the large canvas as they were just about to go out the door. ‘Is that really one of my mother’s?’

‘Yes, yes, of course, it’s for you. Yves left it to you in his will. It’s been in our apartment in Paris for years. He kept it in his study. I always knew he loved it, much more than I did.’ She shrugged again. ‘Maybe I always knew in my heart.’

‘That’s so…’ Robyn bent to examine the painting. She wanted to say it was sweet, but actually, there was something a little sad about it. ‘It’s one of her early ones. It must be worth a fortune at this stage…’ The more she studied it, the more she recognised. Her mother had spoken about this particular painting often over the years, never quite sure who had ended up buying it. Now, examining it, Robyn could see exactly why her mother was so talented, it brought a lump of emotion to her throat, she actually thought she might cry at the sheer beauty of it.

‘It’s very valuable at this stage, probably the most valuable one we owned. He wanted you to have it; perhaps he was sending it home?’ Joy sighed. ‘Whatever happens, I’m glad that I came here and delivered it to you personally.’

‘I’m glad too.’ Robyn might be feeling like hell, drained and dazed, but she was very glad to have met the woman who had been the love of her father’s life.

‘Come on, all the croissants will be sold out.’ Joy smiled.

‘Don’t worry, Leo always keeps back a few for regulars, he does a brisk trade after morning mass, the old dears pop in for a pot of tea and fresh pastries, his croissants are always in demand then.’

‘You know everything,’ Joy laughed, ‘but will he let us have them, do you think?’

‘He won’t have any choice,’ Robyn said, racing downstairs. ‘I know where he hides the stash.’

As it happened, they made it into the bakery with perfect timing.

‘So, you’re still here?’ Leo scowled across the counter at Joy.

‘It certainly looks like it.’ Joy held his gaze.

‘Listen, Uncle Leo, we’ve had a long chat and, regardless of how you two got off on the wrong foot,’ Robyn put up her hand to stop him interrupting her, ‘I’m hoping Joy will hang round for the summer to help out in the shop.’ She went up behind him, grabbed two croissants. ‘Just so you know, she’s family now, so you’ll simply have to put aside whatever has been bothering you and be civil to her.’

31

What a night, Fern groaned and pulled the quilt up over her head to block out the morning. Sunshine was the last thing she needed today. How could anyone be expected to get a night’s sleep after a revelation like that? Yves Bachand had come crashing back into her life with one painting and it felt as if the cornerstones in her world had been hacked away from beneath her. Joy had tried to explain but there were no words adequate to cover over what amounted to a lifetime of lies.

In that flat, in that moment of truth, it was worst for Robyn. Shock. Fern feared their relationship might never recover. And then, they had come back here to Patrick Street and she tried to explain the unforgivable – why she’d lied to her for years.

When Robyn was small, it made sense not to complicate things. Yes, all right, so it was easier for Fern, but she’d never wanted to share her daughter with a family in Paris. She couldn’t bear the idea of shunting her back and forth. It never worked; Luc and his boys were testament to that. Deep down, Fern had always known this day would come sooner or, as it had turned out, later. Never, had she imagined it would come like this.

And to think, she had actually liked Joy.

That was the worst of it, for the first time since Margot died she’d felt as if she’d found someone who could be a friend, a real friend. Hadn’t she raced downstairs so many times just so she could pick up coffee for them? Just so she could be part of this bond that was forming between Joy and Robyn; she wanted to be part of it. Oh, of course, in Dublin, she and Luc had a big circle of friends, but they weren’t real friends. If they had been, surely one of them would have told her that Luc was having an affair behind her back. They had to know, certainly, Pauline Bamford might have been good at keeping secrets about the disintegration of her own marriage but she’d always been a terrible gossip about everyone else’s.

With Joy, she had felt there was something different. There was a real connection, a shared communication, an understanding. Shared? Hah! She felt sick to her core at the thought of it.

It looked as if the joke was on her.

All that time, while Fern had been pouring her heart out to Joy, she must have been rubbing her hands together and thinking –about time she got a taste of her own medicine. That was it. Karma. All of this, losing Margot, Luc and his fling, the truth about Robyn’s father and what felt like the ultimate betrayal – Joy not being at all who she thought she was – it was all karma for a one night stand that had meant nothing and everything, even as it was happening.

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