Yes, she would feel perfectly at peace in this moment if it wasn’t that she was worried about Ella. She could see that there was something not quite right. Ever since the party, Ella had avoided meeting her eyes. Her face, which had opened like a flower upon seeing her, now had that closed look. Fabia felt, not for the first time, that she couldn’t quite reach her. But then, since when had her daughter confided in her when she was in trouble? Ella had always been her own person.
So like her father, Fabia thought. Fabia herself might cry or slam doors or even shout, especially when she was younger. But Enzo always kept things close, locked away inside himself.
She could see that Billy was concerned, too. He’d told her that Ella wasn’t sleeping very well, how some nights she muttered to herself or woke up shouting.
Fabia wished now that she’d come sooner. She hadn’t wanted to interfere, thinking that Ella should be free to make her own decisions. Now she only wanted to wrap her arms around her precious daughter, hold her tight and never let her go.
And all of this only made David’s question even harder.
‘Think about it,’ he’d said. ‘There’s no rush. I can wait for your answer.’ But his face had told her something quite different. His Signals, those steady rays of blue and sunshine yellow, had trembled, ever so slightly. Dear, kind David. She wondered now how she could possibly have been so cruel.
‘Can I, really?’ she’d said. ‘Can I give you my answer when I get back?’ And then, when she’d seen the disappointment on his face, ‘Because I will come back, David. I will. It’s just –’
He’d pressed a finger to her lips then. ‘Shhh. Of course. Selfish of me to ask, right now, I know. You’ve got enough to worry about.’ He’d forced a smile.
But it hadn’t been selfish. Not at all. David had been nothing but patient and kind these last few years. So why was it that she was hesitating? She’d even surprised herself.
It was as if she’d watched the words fall from his lips and drop like pebbles onto the sand – thud, thud, thud – and with each word her throat had constricted just a little more, until she could hardly breathe. Perhaps it was that she’d never really thought of marrying again, had never imagined David asking her. There’d been a brief conversation around visa applications and red tape when he’d first landed the job in San Diego and asked her to move with him, but then David’s accountant had come up with some quick and ingenious workarounds, they’d set up the San Diego shop in David’s name and the issue had never raised itself again. Now she realised how insensitive she’d been to David’s own desires. It seemed that he wanted to be married, after all. He wanted to have a wife. And why shouldn’t he? So what was her problem? Fabia knew at least three of her friends who would jump at the chance of marrying a man like David.
So maybe David was right about her missing York. Ever since she’d finally booked the tickets, she’d found herself feeling flushed and excited at the thought of being here again. It wasn’t just about Ella and Grace – although this was a large part of it all. But even before her plane had landed, she’d found herself slipping so easily back into the feeling of this place.
Just a few nights ago, as her taxi had passed over the bridge into the city, she’d looked out at the brown river, flowing fast and insistent, sweeping everything along with it, and felt that old pull on her heart.
She’d stepped into the little courtyard, just as she had all those years ago, and stood in front of the shop, looking in at its brightly lit windows, feeling the wind whipping around the corners of the buildings, teasing her hair, tugging at her sleeves. She’d been surprised at how right it felt to be back here again.
And then there had been the party, with so many old friends, faces she’d almost forgotten, who’d seemed touchingly pleased to see her.
‘We miss you so much,’ Mrs Stubbs had said. ‘It’s not just that there’s nowhere for us to find really nice dresses anymore but, you know . . .’ She touched her finger to the side of her nose and winked. ‘There’s nowhere you can go to make yourself feel a bit special, where you get a cup of coffee and a good old natter and leave feeling . . . well, just a bit better about yourself.’ She smiled. ‘You were always so good at that, Fabia.’
Now Fabia frowned as the red satin rucked up around her needle. She was letting her thoughts run away with her.
She tried to make a list in her head of all the good things about her life in San Diego. David, of course. Wide blue skies. Warmth. The ocean, which she could see and smell from her wraparound deck every morning as she sipped delicious deli-bought coffee or cut into an enormous juicy peach.
But the truth was that America, after all, the America that she’d always dreamed of, didn’t quite feel the right fit. The blue skies that had warmed her all the way to her bones still hung on her some mornings like a too-new dress when the fabric is still stiff under your fingers.
Perhaps it was that she didn’t really feel needed there. She watched David leave for work every morning, whistling down the drive and climbing into the Corvette – his dream car, the one he’d always lusted after – and he looked as if he’d found his true place in the world. But it was different for her. She wasn’t even sure who she really was anymore.
Afternoons in the shop often stretched before her, long and empty. There were people like Rosita, of course, who liked to spend time looking through the rails or leaning against the counter with a cup of coffee. There were the LA stylists and the glamorous clients that Katrina had sent her way. But the real hubbub, the place where things happened and people lingered and gossiped, was the enormous mall just across the highway. There you could park your car, select an entire outfit off the peg, have a meal, watch a film. Shops like Fabia’s were special one-stop destinations, indulgences, charming eccentricities.
Whilst here, sitting behind her old counter, she immediately felt useful. Ella needed her more than she’d realised. She’d already surprised herself that she could find books for people in much the same way as she found dresses and shoes. By tuning in, listening to their innermost desires, reading their longings.
And then there was the adorable Grace. She watched her now, playing happily with her toy bunny rabbit, bouncing him up and down the bookshelves, every so often glancing in her direction and smiling. Grace made her feel needed. And those old customers from Ella’s party, they’d seemed to know what she was good at doing, better than she knew herself. She imagined this must be how David felt around his patients, this warm pink glow that spread through her. But then, he was actually saving people’s lives. It seemed silly to compare that with clothes and words, with tweaking a seam or adding a brooch or embroidering a hidden message in the lining of a sleeve.
Maybe she wasn’t made to settle down anywhere. She thought of the quetzal that Rosita had given her, its brave red breast and the green tin plumes of its tail spinning in the light from her candles. What was it that Rosita had said? That it could never be tamed or caged? She heard Enzo’s voice drifting to her down the years, saw the shape of his face dimly outlined against the dusk of the patio at Les Oiseaux: People like us, tesora, we’re life’s seekers. We don’t belong anywhere, except to one another. And then he’d taken her hands in his and kissed them gently, a kiss for each fingertip.
Enzo. She’d never imagined being married to anyone else but him. When you married, you married for life, so she’d thought back then. Sposato. Such a lovely word. It seemed to melt on your tongue. You are my sposato.
She felt, for the first time in a long time, a twinge of the old sadness, that filmy brown feeling that wrapped around her heart and made everything dull and blurry.
She sighed.
‘Grace,’ she said and her granddaughter looked up. Her little heart-shaped face, those wide blue-grey eyes, reminded her so much of Ella as a little girl that it made her breath catch in her chest. ‘Look! Look what Grandma’s made.’ She broke the thread and stood up, shaking out the folds of red silk. ‘Would you like to try it
on?’
Grace teetered over, her arms outstretched. ‘Red.’ She laughed. ‘I love red, Grandma.’
‘And so do I, darling.’ She draped the cloak around Grace’s shoulders, fastening the diamanté button at the front, tucking her hair inside the hood, securing the ribbons under her chin in a large bow. ‘Now, let’s look at you.’
She led her over to the back of the shop where the old changing room that she’d devised all those years ago with crimson paint and a velvet curtain was now stacked with boxes of books.
‘We don’t have much use for mirrors, Mum,’ Ella had laughed, catching Fabia surreptitiously drawing back the curtain and peeking inside. ‘Or fitting rooms. Our customers don’t exactly require them.’
Fabia pushed at one of the boxes with the toe of her shoe, clearing a space, brushing the dust from her fingers. She stood Grace in front of the mirror, her hands resting on her shoulders.
Grace stared. Her face dissolved into dimples. She turned and watched her mirror-self turn, the silk rippling in the light from the chandelier. She clapped her hands and pointed her foot in its red patent shoe.
‘Ohhh, what big eyes you have, Grandmother!’
Fabia made eyes at her in the mirror and watched her giggle.
‘And Grandmother, what big TEETH you have.’
She made a mock snarl, holding up her hands like large paws and pounced on Grace, tickling her all over.
Grace squealed delightedly.
The shop doorbell jangled. Grace wriggled out of Fabia’s arms and ran to the door. ‘You can’t catch me, big bad WOLF!’ she shouted.
The woman from the party, Ella’s new friend – Bryony, wasn’t it? – stood by the counter, her face flushed, her fingers working at the strap of her handbag. She crouched and smiled at Grace. ‘Well, Little Red Riding Hood, don’t you look a treat.’ Then she turned to Fabia. ‘I hope I’m not disturbing anything.’
‘Not at all.’ Fabia smiled. ‘But Ella’s gone out for a bit, so you’re stuck with me, I’m afraid. I was just pouring coffee. Can I get you one?’
Bryony took the cup gratefully and positioned herself in the leather armchair, watching Grace turning the pages of her picture book.
‘She never tires of it.’ Fabia rolled her eyes. ‘Funny, isn’t it, how they can get so attached to a particular story? She reads it over and over again.’
Bryony smiled. ‘I think we all have our favourites,’ she said. ‘I know I certainly do.’
‘Oh, and what would yours be?’ Fabia took a sip of her coffee, expertly cradling her cup in one hand and shifting Grace’s weight in her lap with the other. ‘No, wait a minute. Let me try to guess . . . Now, let’s see. No, why am I even trying? Ella is so much better at this. I give up. Go on, just tell me.’
‘Oh, goodness. My favourite? I don’t know, now that you’ve put me on the spot.’ Bryony smiled back. ‘I’ve always loved fairy tales. It’s hard to choose.’ She felt the heat rising up her throat and into her cheeks. ‘And, well, it sounds so silly when I say it out loud but I always rather liked Cinderella.’
‘Ah, yes. Poor Cinderella. Waiting to be rescued by her handsome prince.’ Fabia smiled. ‘It’s a shame, don’t you think, that we’re taught to do that? To wait for someone to come and rescue us, I mean.’
She watched Bryony swirl the remains of her coffee around her cup. She didn’t want to say too much. Sometimes, to plant the seed of something was enough.
‘I’d never really thought about it like that before,’ Bryony said. ‘But, yes. I suppose you’re right.’
A blue tingle crept up Fabia’s spine. She felt Bryony’s eyes searching her face. She drained her coffee cup and returned it with a chink to its saucer.
There was something taking shape in the back of her mind. The outline of something that she couldn’t quite get hold of. A sound, faint at first but getting closer.
‘Tell me,’ she said, slowly, leaning forward, laying a hand on Bryony’s arm. ‘Tell me if I’m being a bit too much but . . . Well, I get the sense that you’re –’
‘Yes,’ Bryony said quickly.
‘Yes, what?’
‘The colours, the – the vibrations. The strange humming thing that’s a bit like static. You see something – almost as if it’s out of the corner of your eye. But you don’t really see it. Because to most people it isn’t actually there. You feel things about people. Really feel them . . .’
Fabia smiled. That hadn’t actually been what she’d wanted to say. But here it was. And her heart went out to this lovely woman. She felt the air around them begin to shimmer.
‘Ah,’ she said. ‘The Signals. That’s what I’ve always called them, anyway. Not that Ella and I have ever talked about them much. I used to be much more afraid of these things, you see, when I was younger. I didn’t want Ella to be different.’
Bryony frowned. ‘I can see that. It doesn’t really do to talk about it. My mother, when she was alive, she called them the Feelings . . .’
Fabia nodded. ‘I like that. The Feelings . . . You must miss her very much.’
Bryony felt her eyes prickle. ‘Yes. I do.’
She stood up, fastened her coat and looped her bag over her shoulder. She was embarrassed. Fabia could see that. It was as if she was folding the air around her, closing herself down again.
‘Well, thank you for the coffee. It was lovely to see you again,’ Bryony was saying. ‘Bye bye, Grace.’ She laughed to see that Grace could barely tear her eyes from the pages of her book. ‘Say hello to Mummy for me. I’ll pop in again tomorrow.’
‘Just a minute.’ Fabia ducked behind the counter and drew out a package, carefully wrapped in white tissue paper and tied with a black ribbon. ‘I want to give you this,’ she said. ‘Forgive me for being so forward. It’s just that, well, I think this is meant for you. I want you to have it.’
‘Oh, goodness.’ Bryony took the package in her hands. ‘That’s so kind of you but really, you don’t need to –’
‘Open it.’ Fabia’s eyes twinkled. ‘Go on. I want to know what you think.’
The ribbon slipped off easily and the tissue paper layers opened like petals in Bryony’s hands to reveal three large emerald-green feathers, secured with a crystal-clustered pin.
‘It’s part of an old stage costume of mine,’ said Fabia. ‘From waaaay back. I wore it in my hair, just here.’ She pointed to the crown of her head. ‘Of course, my hair was long then, like yours. And this was a gift from someone. A woman in our dance troupe. Someone I greatly admired. And it always brought me luck. You know, when I wanted to feel that little bit of something extra, when I needed a bit of courage. I found it again this morning, rummaging through some of my old boxes up there. But it’s yours now.’
She saw that Bryony couldn’t meet her eye.
‘Thank you,’ she managed to get out. ‘Thank you so much. I’ll treasure it.’ She slipped it into her pocket.
‘My pleasure. And Bryony?’
‘Yes?’
‘You can always talk about these things here. With me, I mean. I just want you to know that.’
Bryony nodded. ‘Thank you.’
Fabia watched her struggle with her umbrella, stepping carefully in her boots across the shining cobbles. She had the sudden urge to run after her, hold her close.
Instead, she turned away from the window, scooping Grace up in her arms and covering her cheeks with kisses.
*
Bryony’s eyes blurred with tears.
She felt as if she would burst, as if she just wasn’t big enough to contain all the feelings jostling for space inside her – grief and longing and a new exhilarating happiness.
She wanted to cry.
She wanted to put back her head and taste raindrops on her tongue.
It was as if everything in the past few weeks had been leading her to this place, to this little shop and to this one moment, a moment she could never have imagined, with a woman who looked like something out of an F. S
cott Fitzgerald novel, who talked to her so easily and openly about Feelings and Signals and all the weird things that Bryony had always had to keep hidden.
And now Bryony could hear that sound again, getting closer and closer, a single note that rang out with each new step she took across the cobbles, the letters forming in her mind’s eye.
Now, Bryony, it sang, over and over. Now.
NOW.
17
To grow in courage: On a Tuesday after sunset when the moon is waxing, place borage and yarrow in a conjure-bag, hold it in your hands and charge it with your intention.
– Miss Mary’s Book of Dreams
The sign on Billy’s door read ‘Dr William Vickers,’ but Billy had crossed out the ‘William’ and scrawled ‘Bill’ above it.
Ella had once asked him why he didn’t publish his articles under his full name. ‘Because I hate it,’ he’d said. ‘I don’t recognise it as me. And Billy sounds a bit like I’m ten years old. Only you, my mum and a few other people still call me Billy. Everyone at work calls me Bill.’
‘Do you want me to start calling you Bill, too?’ Ella frowned.
He’d grinned. ‘No. That’d just be weird. And anyway, you know that I’m not really a grown-up. Not yet. I quite like being someone different at home than at work. It helps to keep things separate.’
Ella knocked, three times. She could feel her stomach fluttering. She felt like a teenager again. After the party, she’d resolved to try harder, make more of an effort. She and Billy deserved that much. And so here she was now, in a new outfit, her hair in a casual updo rather than her usual ponytail. She’d even put on make-up. Just a little eyeliner and blusher, a dab of lipstick. She didn’t want to look overdone.
‘Don’t hurry back.’ Mamma had laughed, looking perfectly at home behind the shop counter, jiggling Grace in her arms. ‘My granddaughter and I have plenty of catching up to do.’
Ella saw her run an approving eye over her new black cashmere sweater, the pair of black wool trousers that she’d chosen this morning instead of her scruffy old jeans and the tiny diamond earrings in the shape of stars that Mamma had given her for her birthday.
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