Page 5 of The Bookshop Ladies

‘It turns out, it might be my best.’ He smiled at her.

‘Oh?’

‘I met someone. Joie.’ His face lit up with a serenity that was at odds with the frenetic pace of the evening. ‘Quite by accident. She has absolutely no connection to this world, but I think when I’m with her that I have never felt so content.’ He looked out the window as if talking to himself. ‘This must sound so ridiculous to someone who has their whole life before them,’ he threw his head back and laughed. ‘I think I’m going to ask her to marry me.’ It sounded as if the idea had only recently occurred to him. ‘But…’

‘But?’

‘She might not say yes.’ He stopped and she could see, suddenly, without the paraphernalia of his career about him, Yves Bachand was unsure of himself.

‘Of course she’ll say yes.’ Fern laughed and she wondered what sort of woman could make a man like Yves doubt himself.

‘Perhaps,’ he murmured.

Fern could wish nothing but happiness for Yves, but there was a small voice in the back of her mind, wondering what would happen to her career if he threw everything up in the air for this woman. As they arrived at the Ritz, Fern knew she had to say something. Anything, because otherwise, she wouldn’t sleep a wink.

‘Yves, what would become of… that is, I hope you don’t mind me asking, but have you thought about…’

‘Really, I haven’t thought about anything much beyond what I’ve just said, but you don’t have to worry, tonight has set your star in motion. Even if I fell off a cliff tomorrow morning, you would have the best agents knocking on your door.’ He reached out and squeezed her hand. ‘It’s official; you are the toast of the Paris art world now, Fern. You don’t have to worry about a thing.’

4

Precisely six months after she buried her husband, Joy gripped her handbag tightly as she sat on an uncomfortable chair waiting for Pierre Poston to pour coffee that she didn’t want and she wouldn’t drink. She had put today off for too long and now she was here, the feeling of dread every time she thought about the reading of her husband’s will rose up afresh within her.

‘Thank you,’ she mumbled as the solicitor pushed the unwanted cup of coffee towards her. There had been too many undrunk cups since Yves died. They littered the apartment. Each morning the first thing she did was pick up discarded cups, rinse them in the sink and start all over again.

‘Shall we?’ Pierre smiled at her, as if they were about to open an eagerly awaited invitation. The fact was, she already knew, or assumed she knew, exactly what Yves’s will contained. They had shared almost everything, apart from a savings account, some stocks and bonds and a few valuable paintings he’d picked up. His only other real assets had gradually become less important to him. So, in the last year, he had found a buyer for the gallery. His international business had been handed over to a partner, although he would still get an annual dividend from it. He had sold the vintage sports car that had been his great joy for many years. It had become obvious they would not need a second car in retirement. He liked to say he travelled light because he had always believed in living well – in the present moment.

The apartment they shared had been his when they married. He had bought it in his late twenties with a small deposit and a mortgage that probably felt exorbitant at the time.

‘It’s all straightforward, I expect?’ She took up the coffee cup and admired it for a moment; it was paper-thin, with elegant lines. She breathed in its strong aroma and placed it back on its coaster again.

‘Yes, well, there are a few personal bequests, as you might expect.’

‘Of course.’ She sat back while Pierre rambled through the legal jargon. The vast part of Yves’s estate was, of course, left to his wife – Joy. There were small gifts of appreciation to Mabella, his assistant at the gallery, to Jacques Rigney, his long-standing business partner. There was also a sizeable donation to the local dogs’ home which made Joy laugh and interrupted Pierre.

‘What is it?’

‘Oh, nothing. A private joke.’ She shook her head and for a moment felt grateful that the solemnity of her mood was broken. ‘It’s silly. Yves was allergic to animal hair but he knew I always longed for a dog.’

‘Well, maybe this is his way of pointing you in the direction of having a little four-legged friend now.’

‘Yves always was a silver lining sort of man. I suppose he’s still trying to show me that even in the worst of situations there might be something to smile about.’

‘You should think about getting a dog, it would be wonderful company and…’ he stopped, perhaps realising she was not here for therapy, just to have her husband’s will read.

‘Let’s keep going,’ she said. She could hardly think about getting out of bed in the morning since Yves’s death, much less take on the responsibility that came with a dog.

‘There’s one more bequest. It’s a painting calledThe Seine. Do you know it?’

‘I do.’ Joy knew exactly which painting it was. Yves had hung it in the little spare room he used as a home office. She’d never liked it, although he told her it was very valuable. To her, it spoke of things lost and abandoned. It screamed of guilt and emptiness and missed opportunities. ‘It’s a very valuable painting, my husband always said it reminded him of things he hadn’t done, but should have. I’ve never liked it, it speaks too much of regret.’ No sooner had the words come to her, than she wondered who this parting gift had been intended for. ‘And he’s giving this to?’

‘It’s for a woman called Robyn Tessier,’ he said with far more calm than the words deserved.

‘He has included an address?’

‘Yes.’ Pierre scanned the pages before him, unaware of the gravity of his words. ‘It’s Robyn Tessier, Ballycove.’

‘Ballycove?’

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