Page 9 of The Bookshop Ladies

‘Perhaps you bring it out in me.’ He smiled. ‘But you’re here alone and I think, maybe, you are too young to holiday alone, so either you have given up on life or…’

‘My husband died a few months ago. I came here to clear up some loose ends.’

‘Ah, that’s hard, I’m so sorry for your loss.’ He lifted his glass as if in salute to all those people he had perhaps lost along the way also.

‘Cheers.’ She raised her glass as well and toasted the memory of Yves, or at least the memory of the man she still wanted to believe he had been.

‘Ah, it is well for you young things, to sit here and dream of better days and enjoy wine late into the night, but my old bones need rest. I will say goodnight to you, Madame…’

‘I’m Joy Blackwood,’ she said softly. ‘Just Joy.’

‘And I am Albie. Albie Keeling, at your service.’ He drained the last of his drink. ‘Perhaps some morning you will join me for breakfast outside…’ he nodded to the street below. ‘I can promise you the best croissants and café au lait in all of Ireland. My son, Leo, he has the lightest touch with pastry and imports the very best coffee, roasted right here at the back of the shop. If you close your eyes, you’ll think you’re sitting at the best restaurant on the Champs-Élysées.’

‘That’s so sweet, count me in for sure.’

‘Perfect. We’ll make it a date for tomorrow morning so, bright and early.’

She stood there for a while, looking out across the rooftops and towards the Atlantic, whispering the changing tide in the distance. God. She hardly knew what was real and what wasn’t any more. None of it made sense.

And more than anything, she needed it all to make sense. She needed to meet this Robyn to find out exactly why Yves was leaving her his most prized painting. Deep down, she knew Robyn must be either his lover or his daughter. Oh, God. Even now, the thought of that was like a knife twisting in her gut.

These were the thoughts careering through her mind the following morning as she made her way to the bookshop. She had looked it up. Of course she had, she’d pored over the only review (five stars, of course) on Google. The review gushed about the quirky little bookshop in one of the most beautiful villages in the west of Ireland. Experience told Joy that a review like that could only have been written by a friend or a relative of the owner.

What difference did it make to Joy what the bookshop was like? The reality was, it didn’t actually matter at all. The only thing that counted now was that Joy would have to face this woman. ‘Damn,’ she cursed, she had pulled the front door of the flat out too quickly and her belt was now wedged in the jamb. It was stubbornly stuck. She was trapped on the main street, in full view of the whole village. Not that there was anyone around to see her, or to save her! A thin wedge of sweat seeped along her spine. This was all she needed, to be stuck here, like a dog tethered to a lamppost, when what she wanted to be was quintessentially chic and superior. Hah, so much for elegance. She tried wriggling and coaxing it, beads of sweat on her forehead only enlarging a ball of panic that had taken up residence in her chest and threatened to spill over into a torrent of tears at any second.

‘For goodness’ sake, what on earth are you trying to do to the door?’ an angry voice startled her from behind. ‘Here, give me that…’ He grabbed the key from her. ‘You’ll break it, you silly woman.’ The man was dressed in a chef’s uniform and had a baker’s toque balanced on his greying, slightly straggly hair.

‘I didn’t mean to…’

‘Pah!’ He wriggled the key, twisted it over and back a few times, but it wouldn’t budge. ‘Excuse me?’ he said, but then he looked down and spotted her belt stuck in the closed door. ‘Give me patience.’

‘How rude,’ she gasped.

‘It is…’ he said as he turned the key again and she could feel the heat of the kitchen where he’d been working. He smelled vaguely of cinnamon and she suddenly felt conscious that they were standing much too close to each other, if she could feel her skin warm from the proximity of him. ‘Simple, if you don’t force it…’

‘I didn’t force it…’ she said under her breath. And then, miracle of miracles, the key twisted easily and with the man’s strong shoulder to dislodge her belt, she was liberated. Her grumpy rescuer pushed the door in and they both almost tumbled through it. Joy managed to free herself from the tangle of her liberator, patting down her coat and then, automatically, moving her hands to her hair, as if he was going to notice.

‘See.’ He pulled the key from the lock. ‘Step through the door, before you pull it out behind you.’ He really was an arrogant man.

‘Okay. I’m not stupid,’ she managed. Then she held out her hand for the key. ‘Thank you.’

‘Humph. Well, just try not to lock yourself out when there’s no one around to help you,’ he said grumpily, then he loped up the stairs without so much as agood luckor ahave a nice day. Joy watched him take the steps two at a time until he was out of sight. Leo, she assumed. Well, his father might have taught him how to bake the best croissants but he certainly had not taught him how to charm tourists.

Once she had pulled herself together again, Joy straightened out the belt on her coat. She looked at her watch. After nine o’clock. She had been awake for hours, waiting to arrive at the bookshop at a reasonable time and be back to have breakfast with the old man, Albie, at ten. Now she was making the journey, her stomach churned with unexpected nervousness, which really, she supposed, was completely natural. She followed the route towards the harbour in her mind’s eye. It was not a long walk and if she had not been so distracted she would have enjoyed the bustle, the colour and the life of it.

Too soon she was coming onto the narrow street where the bookshop sat in a line of tall old buildings, some with bulging fronts and sinking roofs. The street wasn’t busy, with just one or two early shoppers. At this time of year, the locals had it mostly to themselves and the voices around her all sang with a glorious soft Irish lilt.

She arrived at the front door far more quickly than she had expected, fighting the nest of butterflies that felt more like wasps in her stomach. She pushed against the door. Just before it opened, she realised she had no idea what she was going to say to this woman. This woman who she had built up in her mind astheother woman – she should have prepared something.

Her head began to swim. She couldn’t go through with it. From somewhere at the back of the shop, she thought she saw a figure moving about, but Joy knew she couldn’t push through that door even if the devil himself was on her tail. Instead, she took a step back, pretending to read the notices in the door.Please do not leave boxes for donation.A small flier for a visiting circus, Joy leant in a little closer, for support.Staff wanted apply within – voluntary positions only. And,Come in, we’re open.

Joy felt hot tears sting her eyes. She willed herself once more not to cry. Not here. Not in front of some two-faced Irish woman who had managed to steal her husband from under her nose. In the shadows behind the glass, she thought she could make out a figure coming towards her. Joy backed away, propelled by a mixture of fear and panic, and walked as quickly as the cobbled street would allow in the opposite direction.

7

2002

It turned out being the toast of Paris was hard bloody work.

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