Page 88 of The Bordeaux Book Club

Leah and Nathan tucked themselves into seats in the third row – close enough to show concern, far enough not to impinge on anyone’s grief. Part of Leah wanted to reach out and touch Alfie, but for now he looked lost – deep in thought or sadness or grief – and somehow, she felt it would be an intrusion. But as she watched, she saw Grace reach a hand and touch Alfie’s fingers lightly and moments later, they were holding hands as naturally as if they’d known each other for years.

So many times over the years, Leah had rolled her eyes when talking about Grace. How her friend seemed to get involved in everything. How she seemed to know everyone’s business.

Yet looking forward now at her friend, shoulder-to-shoulder with Alfie, she found herself thinking,thank God. Thank God for Grace. Because unlike others – herself included, she supposed – who hung back feeling awkward, not knowing what to do, Grace was there, in the thick of things, holding Alfie up.

Grace had never had the chance to be a mother – she didn’t know what it felt like to have a son or daughter. But she sensed something motherly in the fierce protectiveness she felt over this young, slightly fragile man who had lost so much more than he should have for someone of his age.

She looked over her shoulder and saw Leah and Nathan, noticed Monica in the far corner, clutching the order of service.Felt the slight touch of George at her side, smelling of soap and dependability.

It was odd, how close she felt to them all. They’d only spent five evenings together, really. Exchanged a handful of emails. But something about the things they’d spoken of, talking about characters in books written by long-dead authors, had bound them together in a way that she couldn’t explain. Maybe it had just opened them all up without them realising. Over the months, she’d spoken a little about Stephen, Alfie about his mum. Even George had poured his heart out. Would that have happened over Canasta or karaoke? Probably not. She’d opened up more in those five evenings than she had in the three years beforehand, she realised. Because when, really, did you get to talk about love?

Books had been Grace’s friends in childhood. When her father and mother had screamed at each other, she’d curled up in her room and escaped into a book. When they’d made up, noisily and in ways she couldn’t understand, she’d turn a page and escape into fiction. Her teenage preoccupations had pushed books to the periphery of her life – but even then, she’d always read a chapter or two before bed. And when Stephen left, it had been books, at first, that had got her through.

Now it was books that had brought her a whole new group of friends, and opened all of them up to each other. Books that had opened her eyes to the possibility of something new with George. Books that had helped her to understand that Alfie – young as he was – needed an old bird like her to step in and help. It might be books that could help him move on and grieve. And even if not, the book group was there for him. All of them. They’d all help him.

‘Are you OK?’ George whispered now.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes. I’m OK.’

The ceremony was small, but beautiful. The flowers perfect. Alfie’s words about his mum touching and from the heart. There had been twelve of them in all – Alfie, Camille, two of his mum’s neighbours, Margaret, the nurse who’d visited each day. Alfie’s friends Jean-Paul and Richard from college and the four of them: the rest of the book group.

Grace hadn’t cried since the miscarriage, not really. Not that deep, visceral crying that comes when you empty yourself of everything and feel both bereft and cleansed. But she cried at the ceremony. It was strange, shedding tears for a woman she’d never met. But she felt Alfie’s need for her, his love for her, and she’d found herself quietly grieving for the mum of a man who was still a boy, really. She wished she’d taken the time to come and meet her. To say, perhaps,Don’t worry. If you have to go. I’ll look after him. We all will.

40

Grace applied a layer of lipstick, looked in the mirror then wiped it off. Too much. Still, she looked pretty good for an old bird, she thought, admiring her newly straightened bob. She’d chosen a neat, fitted, black top and cream-coloured, cotton trousers, teamed with wedge shoes for the date. Smart, but not too much. Elegant, but not too eager.

Her bedroom was a jumble sale of discarded outfits. Jeans, a dress, a few different skirts. Tops that she’d put on and twirled in before ripping off. Nothing had seemed quite right. But when she’d pulled on the top and looked in the mirror, she’d seen herself as she’d want George to see her. Just Grace. Not an attempt to be someone she wasn’t.

Her room, she thought, looked a little like it had when she was sixteen and first got into clothes and makeup. A muddle of indecisions. She thought about bundling everything up and shoving it into a wardrobe, but decided against it. It could all wait.

Instead, she exited into the hall and opened the front door. A wave of heat hit her; it was evening, but the day had been scorching. She’d spent much of it under her sunshade in theback garden, feet in a paddling pool she’d bought for the purpose, reading a copy ofI Capture the Castleand trying not to think too much about the evening ahead.

It wasn’t that she was nervous, exactly. She was always out and about, never ran out of conversation. She wasn’t worried she wouldn’t know what to say. She was just worried at how she might feel; whether she was opening a door that should have remained closed.

But it wasn’t like before, she told herself. She didn’t need someone to complete her, to make her whole, the way she’d felt she did when younger. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t make a little room for the right person. It was OK to let someone in.

She’d wanted to meet him there, at the restaurant. But he’d told her to stop being so stubborn. ‘There’s no point both of us driving there,’ he’d said. ‘The parking’s horrendous, for starters. Plus, this way, you can have a glass of wine and not worry about it.’

It was a winning argument. Especially on a hot day like today. She’d go for a spritzer – something light, she thought.

Her heart skipped as she heard the familiar rumble of George’s car coming to collect her.

She locked the door and walked down the front path, securing the gate behind her and meeting George on the pavement outside. He pulled up and doffed an imaginary cap. ‘Taxi for Miss Grace?’ he asked, jauntily.

She smiled and climbed into the passenger seat, feeling suddenly much younger than her fifty-something years. ‘Thank you, Parker,’ she said, picking up the baton. ‘Drive on, please.’

He grinned and signalled before pulling out into the empty road. ‘Right you are, ma’am.’

They fell into a silence as he made a left and turned towards central Bordeaux. But it was a comfortable silence. One Grace, to her surprise, didn’t feel the need to fill.

She looked out of the window as the buildings became taller and more frequent. George signalled right and they turned towards the centre.

She wasn’t sure where they were going. George had asked her to suggest a restaurant, but she’d surprised herself by leaving it up to him. Now she was on the way to an unknown destination, where she might or might not like the food, the ambiance, the décor. And it didn’t matter. Because that wasn’t why she was there.

George reversed into a space in one swift, fluid movement and, once he’d pulled the handbrake into position, they both got out.

‘Italian OK?’ he said, pointing at the stone building opposite a courtyard dotted with trees. It glowed with a soft light from the inside, and bore the wordsLa Ventoon its black sunshade.

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