Page 52 of The Bookshop Ladies

It was the most amazing thing. Finally, it seemed as if the bookshop was really taking off. Robyn was full of all their plans to make a go of it. So why did Fern feel as if she couldn’t quite celebrate her daughter’s good fortune?

‘I think you’ll find it’s called cutting off your nose to spite your face,’ Albie muttered. They were having coffee at the bakery, her first time out of the flat sincethatnight. Probably, Robyn and Joy would be drinking their afternoon coffee about now too. That just twisted something she didn’t want to name even tighter in her heart. Jealousy or loneliness? ‘You can’t hide away forever.’

‘I’m certainly not hiding away. I couldn’t hide, even if I wanted to.’ She looked at her watch. The artists’ circle was due to meet in less than an hour and already she’d spotted one of the old dears – Hilda Newsome – going into the church across the street with her easel under her arm and a bag over her shoulder that looked fit to bursting with paints and brushes.

‘Hmph,’ he said. ‘You need to get down there and straighten things out with Joy.’

And Fern knew he was right. It was why she couldn’t quite celebrate her daughter’s optimism. It felt as if it all belonged to Joy and Robyn together.

‘What am I supposed to say to her, I mean, I don’t know where to start…’ and that was the truth, because the torment she’d felt for years about having gone behind Joy’s back had turned into something far more complex now. It wasn’t guilt any more, but it was anger and maybe grief. Grief? ‘It’s complicated,’ she said, catching his eye.

‘Listen here, Fern, I know, you lost Margot and it was the most awful thing for you, but I have a feeling that Joy was just beginning to fill some of the space she left behind.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ And it was at that moment, Fern felt as if a light bulb went on somewhere at the back of her brain. Of course, he was bloody right. Why hadn’t she seen it before?

‘Look, it’s as plain as the nose on my face, you two could be great buddies, you know… We all need that, Fern, there’s nothing wrong in admitting it.’

‘Sometimes, you can be so annoying.’ Fern rolled her eyes, no point saying he was wrong, because he knew her too well for that. But it still niggled; the idea that somehow this woman had come over here and begun a relationship with Robyn without so much as a by-your-leave. Joy Bachand or Blackwood or whatever she wanted to call herself, had furrowed into all of their hearts under false pretences, even Fern had liked her. That’s what made everything ten times more complicated. ‘I meanwhatdo I say to her?’

‘Sorry wouldn’t be such a bad place to start,’ Albie said and he looked away because he wasn’t setting out to be cruel.

If only it was that easy. God, seeing that painting again had been like walking into a glass door. It felt like a form of concussion, it was shock of course. It wasn’t just about seeing the painting. It was more than that, it was everything it represented and Yves Bachand and that secret she had kept for so many years, spilling out between them. And Joy – the woman she had spent so long feeling guilty about, it came as an enormous jolt to realise that she had been here all along. And, maybe more than all of that, Fern had grown to really like her – that was the bit that perversely annoyed her now on top of everything else. It would be easy if Joy had turned out to be a total bitch – that would be so much simpler.

There was no making sense of any of it. This time, Fern couldn’t varnish reality with a veneer that suited her own ends. The truth was out. Robyn knew it now andshewas holding out an olive branch to Joy.

While Robyn said she understood the reason for the lie, it still sat there between mother and daughter, silently, festering. It was the most upsetting thing, being found out in the lie she’d lived by for years, the one thing she’d never wanted. She could kick herself for her stupidity.

There was as much enthusiasm for the second outing of the artists’ circle as there had been on the first. They assembled at the bookshop and greeted each other as if the arrangement had been going on as long as mass in St Peter’s. In spite of everything, Fern found the familiarity of the group to be an unexpected comfort. The sun was shining, it was a beautiful day to paint and the only fly in her oil paints was the fact that she couldn’t help but feel a little self-conscious as she moved over and back in front of the shop window. It was almost, she thought at one stage, as if she was back to being a teenager again, engaging in some complex ritual, whereby she was aware of not wanting to put a foot wrong in the limelight of the bookshop window.

She moved from one of her artist group to the next, discussing the work they intended to do for the afternoon, angling their easels to get the best view, discussing colour and light and brushes and generally setting them up before she moved on to the next.

And then, a half an hour later, she stood before her own canvas, took a deep breath and felt the stress magically melt from her shoulders. For a blissful hour or two, she promised herself, she would not think of those things that had been crowding out her thoughts and emotions.

She dipped her brush into a buttery yellow, mixed it in with dark red and let the brush find its place on the canvas and lost herself in the process of the work.

‘Oh, how I’d love to have even a spoonful of your talent.’ Hilda Newsome was at her elbow.

‘You have more than enough talent of your own, Hilda.’ Fern laughed.

‘Still, that’s something special.’ Hilda stood back and admired the canvas that Fern had brought to life over the course of the hour she’d been working on it.

‘Thank you, yours is lovely too,’ Fern said, moving across to admire Hilda’s painting of a seagull sitting on the path. It actually was very good.

‘It’s for my grandson, Will, have I mentioned him before?’

‘Yes, he’s the guard, isn’t it?’ Fern smiled because Hilda mentioned him every time she got a chance. She was obviously very proud of him. Fern suspected she had high hopes that he and Robyn might be a match. Fern had her doubts, but she wouldn’t say that. It was obvious her daughter was still carrying a torch for Kian. More than once, Fern found herself thinking,be careful what you wish for. Kian was a nice lad, but somehow, she’d always felt, there might be someone else out there for Robyn.

‘Detective,’ Hilda corrected her, as if that might somehow make him a better catch in Fern’s eyes for her daughter.

Before Fern had a chance to say another word Shane arrived to take orders for coffee and they all drifted to the comfy chairs outside the bookshop watching the day segue into evening and made plans to meet up at the reception a few days later.

‘You’ll be there, of course.’ Lochlainn was sitting in the chair next to her, his coffee finished, eyes closed and enjoying the late evening warmth against his bare legs. Fern couldn’t help noticing how tanned and toned they were, she assumed he was a cyclist, and she thought of Luc, who wouldn’t be caught dead in shorts or on a bicycle, for that matter. Luc had legs like matchsticks, but then they weren’t why she’d fallen in love with him all those years ago.

‘I won’t have any choice,’ Fern laughed, but truthfully, she was absolutely dreading it. It was a strange thing; she went to openings and receptions every other week in Dublin. She was used to strolling about from group to group with a topped-up glass of wine in one hand, but this was different. This was intimate – not like Dublin, where it didn’t really matter. Here, it felt as if so much more than just the survival of the bookshop hinged in some way on its success. More importantly, this was a huge thing for Robyn. Fern wanted the evening to be perfect for her. ‘Seriously, I’m really looking forward to it,’ she lied. Well, what was one more lie when you’d lied on the scale that she had over the years.

‘I heard the food is going to be to die for…’ Shane laughed, as he put a tray of tiny rolled-up chocolate treats down.

‘Aww,’ she said in thanks. ‘It always is when you’re in charge, thanks for these, Shane.’

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