Her forehead furrows. ‘But …’
‘No buts. I’m done.’
As a romance novel aficionado, I know it’s always safer falling for the boy in the book.
‘I’ll walk you to the tube at least. Or I could ask Jonathan to?’
I give her a nudge with my hip. ‘Kajri wanted to leave half an hour ago, so I’ll catch the tube with her.’ In truth I want to be alone – my ears are ringing, my head pounding and I have this overwhelming feeling I’ve made a mistake.
Before Rosie can talk me out of it, I turn on my heel and get swallowed by the crowd. I need to be by myself. And I vow in future to swap every second glass of wine with water …
Chapter 3
Greenwich, London
The next morning, I awake slowly, delicately, mouth dry as a mathematics textbook or something equally lacklustre. As I stretch, my taut muscles ache and I briefly wonder why, until the previous night comes crashing back, like a movie reel playing at agonizingly slow speed.
Oh good lord of the rings, please tell me I did not gyrate to a chair on a stage! I squint as if that will make the memory easier to deal with, but it doesn’t help. I can see myself in all my ‘Pony’ glory, singing and dancing (and gyrating!) as if I were being paid for it. Well, Tori can’t say I didn’t give it my all – but then another heart-stopping memory forms.
No, no, no, nooo! I talk myself down. There’s no chance I could have kissed anyone.
But the memory is stubborn and plays out achingly slowly. Me literally falling into Jonathan’s arms. Kissing him passionately, over and again. The feel of his soft lips against mine. The heady sensation of desire, something I haven’t felt in such a long time. For very good reason, I berate myself. Mercifully the memory ends with me snaking my way out of the pub with Kajri’s arm linked through mine.
There’s a knock at the door and Rosie’s face appears, a question in her eyes.
‘You’re awake!’ she says, looking bright as a button despite the late night, and enters the van bearing a plate with two slices of delicious-looking lemon-scented cake.
‘I might be awake but I’m in the midst of “the remembering” and it’s not good, not good at all. And I’m hoping when I confide in you, you’re going to tell me it was all a dream …’ I put a hand to my banging head and claw back panic.
‘Let me make a pot of tea,’ says Rosie, avoiding my eye. She places the plate on the coffee table, which is not so much a real piece of furniture but a small square of clear Perspex perched atop a stack of hardbacks.
I edge from the bed and throw on a robe as dust motes dance. There’s not much room in my little van, and it’s not neat as a pin like Rosie’s. But I love the comfort it brings me; every nook and cranny is stuffed with books, candles, keepsakes. Even my bed is full of books, leaving me only a small sliver to sleep on, which Rosie assures me is a death trap and swears she’ll wander in one day to find I’ll have suffocated.
Aria Summers tragically killed by her girl squad, Nora Ephron and Kristan Higgins …
Despite my full body throb, I manage to settle on a chair with tea in hand. ‘Tell me I didn’t kiss Jonathan?’
She blows steam from the top of her tea. ‘So what if you did, Aria?’
I groan. ‘And you just let me?’
‘Why wouldn’t I?’
I cock my head. ‘You know why, Rosie.’
She gives me a hard stare which I return. Eventually she sighs and says, ‘There’s times where you’ve just got to listen to your heart, Aria, and this is one of them.’
‘It clearly wasn’t my heart doing the decision-making, it was the copious amounts of white wine. Urgh. I bloody well forgot I was married!’
‘Widowed.’
‘Same thing.’ It’s getting harder to spin that line though as the idea of love blossoms inside me more because I’m surrounded by loved-up couples at every turn. I had that – I want to scream – and I miss it.
Her scoff rings out. ‘You can keep lying to yourself, but I won’t go along with it.’
I frown. ‘I’m doing no such thing.’
‘No?’
‘No, Oprah. I’m not.’
‘So what did you kiss him for then? I’ve seen you tipsy before and you’ve never shown the slightest interest in any other man, despite several trying to make a play for you.’
Cue the dramatic eye roll which hurts my brain. ‘What? As if. You make it sound like I’ve got men falling at my feet.’
‘You do! But you never see it, Aria, because you don’t want to see it. Men circle you, their tongues practically hanging out like lost puppies, tails wagging, hoping to get a moment of your attention.’
My laugh escapes at the preposterousness of such a thing.
‘Don’t laugh like that, it’s true. And things are different with Jonathan. Out of a sea of men, he is the only one who stands out for you.’
‘A sea of men!’ I snigger at her exaggerations. Sure there’s plenty of men about but they’re Van Lifers, more like protective big brothers than anything. ‘It’s not that anyway, Rosie. He could be bloody Prince Charming and it wouldn’t matter an iota. I’ve had the greatest love affair of all time, that’s enough for me. It’s not very fair to TJ for me to be acting like a floozy, is it?’
Her brows knit. ‘A floozy is pushing it. Would TJ want you to act like a martyr? I think not. It’s hard for me to see you so down, Aria, writing The End after TJ left.’
I sigh and sip my tea my while my head pounds with self-recriminations. ‘It’s not The End, is it, Rosie? I’m still alive, I’m still here. I’m getting on with my life as best I can. And I enjoy it just the way it is. I really do.’ These protestations come naturally, I’ve been saying them so long, but part of me wonders if I still believe it myself.
‘You left without saying goodbye to Jonathan.’
I slide my gaze away. ‘So?’
‘You’re not fooling me.’
‘I’m not trying to.’
She lets out a frustrated groan. ‘You’re going to let a great guy slip through your fingers, Aria and you might be able to lie to everyone else including yourself, but you can’t lie to me. I can see the loneliness in your eyes when you think no one is looking. Last night I saw your face drop when you scanned all the couples in the room and then light up when you were with Jonathan.’ She pats my arm and says gingerly, ‘It’s OK to want to be loved. TJ would want that for you.’
What would TJ think if he could see me now? Waking up hair a bird’s nest, eyes red from lack of sleep, having kissed a guy I barely know? It smacks of a life lived teetering on the edge and once again I doubt my place in the world. Just what am I doing?
‘Whatever it was last night was just a momentary slip. There are millions of women out there with fulfilling, happy single lives. Why am I any different? I don’t need a guy to complete me like the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle. I’m fine just as I am.’ Lies, lies, lies.
There is something endlessly fascinating about Jonathan but my guilt-plagued heart can’t give in to such temptations.
‘I’m not saying you need Jonathan, I’m saying you want Jonathan, there’s a big difference. And it doesn’t even have to be romance, it can simply start with friendship.’
‘I’ll take your comments under consideration,’ I say making a moue. This badgering about boys was a lot more fun when it was me pestering Rosie and not the other way around.
She puts her hands on her hips and does a sigh so theatrical it’s worthy of an award. ‘When you go into job-interview mode, I know I’ve lost you.’
I stand and fold the throw rug.
‘And pretending to tidy. The conversation really is closed,’ she says and laughs.
I laugh too, knowing she’s picked up on it. I never clean the Little Bookshop aside from vacuuming. Even the dust bunnies are my friends. That’s the appeal of the tiny space. It’s full to bursting with romance novels, the air perfumed with the lemony scent of preloved books and rose candles. Ruby an
d teal velvet cushions give it a Gatsby feel and plush throw rugs litter the space for customers who find a tome and settle in for the day.
Books line shelves and lie in disorderly alphabetical piles from the floor up making it a warm cosy little haven, lit by fairy lights and the odd candle when Rosie doesn’t blow them out with wild protestations about fire hazards and cinder boxes.
‘What’s the plan then?’ I cannily reroute, breezy as anything.
‘If you’re insisting on your own spinsterhood, then I guess we pack up and get ready to head off for France tomorrow? We’ve got that fete and a few festivals lined up already.’
I raise a brow. ‘Let me see your bullet-point plan, Rosie and don’t pretend you haven’t scheduled our every move.’
A blush creeps up her cheeks and she takes a notebook from her bag. ‘OK, OK, I have made a very simple plan, we don’t have to follow it precisely’ – she lifts a shoulder – ‘but it’s rock solid and I think we should.’ The book falls open and I see pages and pages of notes.
‘Bloody hell, Rosie. France is not another planet, you know that, right?’
There’s no accounting for some. Rosie’s a planner and always will be.
‘I know, but we only speak basic French and I wanted to make sure every possible contingency was catered for.’ She flicks the pages with a worried sigh. ‘I think I’ve covered it all.’
I take the notebook from her hands; it’s heavy with ink and angst.
‘Rosie …’ I struggle with what to say. ‘This must have taken you weeks.’
She tries to laugh it off. ‘Yeah about six all up. I guess I’m a little more nervous about leaving the UK than I once thought.’
Anxious Rosie’s researched every possible thing that could go wrong and then found potential solutions. I skim through the notes before landing on one that makes me smile. ‘Haunted places to avoid in France …?’
Surveying her nails as if they’re fascinating, she says offhandedly, ‘Better to be prepared for everything. It’s an old city and I think it’s best if we go in with eyes wide open.’
I struggle to contain my mirth because I know she’s serious but it’s almost impossible as I feel my lips quiver with it all. Rosie’s such a hoot and has no idea how funny she is, probably because she truly believes in such things.
Composed, I say, ‘You think we’re going to be killed by ghosts?’ Rosie’s got this weird obsession with envisaging her demise, often in a gruesome way. Escaped convicts with white-blonde hair fetishes (coincidentally the colour of her hair), spontaneous combustion, vampires, Ebola, packs of wild animals … you name it, she’s imagined it.
‘It’s possible.’ Her face is a picture of solemnity and I can’t tell whether she’s winding me up or not. Rosie’s foibles are many and varied which is what makes her so great, but it also makes her hard to gauge at times.
‘Right, well, I’m glad you’ve made note of so many places to avoid. Who wants to see glamourous old chateaux anyway?’
‘You’re being sarcastic?’
‘I am.’
‘You’re evil.’
‘I am.’
‘OK, now that’s cleared up, are you ready to make a move, tomorrow morning about ten?’
‘There’s nothing keeping me here, if that’s what you’re asking.’ Best to run away like you always do, Aria …
‘Mm-hm.’
‘Well, I guess all I can say is toodle-loo England, and bonjour France.’
‘Oui, oui.’ She gives me a peck on the cheek. ‘Get cracking and we’ll meet for a late lunch, yeah? One last meal of proper fish and chips before we leave the motherland?’
‘Is there anything better to soak up the effects of the night before?’
Her eyes sparkle. ‘Well, only if you’re Max. He’s already insisted I have kombu kelp juice, whatever the hell that is.’
‘Tell him seaweed is a living breathing thing too.’
‘Will do.’ She grins. ‘I’m going to wash Poppy and check all my kitchen accoutrements are packed away ahead of the long drive. Meet you out front at two-thirty and we’ll walk down to the pub?’
I nod. ‘Perfect.’
I wave her goodbye and flop back into my chair to contemplate it all. France, Jonathan, TJ. The epic journey ahead. I’ve managed to live over a thousand days without my husband. One thousand days. It seems like forever and yet just like yesterday too. With him in mind, a new man turning my head seems so foreign.
The spark with Jonathan has been ignited no matter how much I deny it, but a drunken kiss isn’t exactly a relationship, is it? I can still protect my heart and forget all about it.
Whenever I’m conflicted, I picture myself the heroine in a love story to make sense of it all. That’s the problem with being obsessed with romance novels, you see everything play out as one, including your very own life.
Hopeless romantic Aria vowed never to love again after losing her husband, TJ, but fate seems to have other ideas and keeps throwing mysterious Jonathan in her path. Is this a test of her commitment to her husband, or is it a sign she should open her heart and her mind to the possibility of falling in love once more? Nomadic by nature, Aria can’t see the point when home is always at the end of a new patch of road …
Chapter 4
London to Calais
After a much better night’s sleep sans alcohol I’m packed and ready to go. I take my pot of tea and sit on the tiny deck outside the Little Bookshop, marvelling at sunshiny clear skies while I wait for Rosie to appear. The swollen fat grey clouds of the previous day are long gone, and instead all I see is an expanse of bright blue above. Birds chirp and butterflies frolic as if trying to woo me to stay.
Spring has been as dull as dishwater up until now. London, the wily beast, puts on a great show when we’re about to leave these familiar shores.
Before long Rosie joins me for our usual morning ritual – I hand over a cup of tea which she swaps for a chocolate chip muffin. She chats away nineteen to the dozen while I come slowly awake, mainlining tea in order to be able to communicate. Our Rosie is one of those annoying early bird catches the worm types.
‘What’s with all this glorious sunshine?’
‘It should be criminal,’ I agree, taking a bite of gooey chocolatey goodness waiting for the sugar to jumpstart my body into another day.
Pretty flowers add pops of colour to the expanse of garden. ‘It’s a false spring. It’ll go back to grey as soon as we hit the border, you know.’
I laugh. ‘I know. The homeland trying to lull us into a false sense of security.’
‘Bloody outrageous.’ She takes a bite of her muffin.
‘I’m not fooled for a minute! Where’s Max?’
‘Securing the perimeter,’ she says, her voice deadpan.
I grin at her explanation. ‘Jogging?’
‘Yeah, I guess. I’ll never understand his need to exert so much energy first thing in the morning.’ She looks guiltily at the rich calorie-laden sweet treat in her hand and then shrugs and continues munching away at it.
‘Gotta keep up that physique somehow.’ Max is buffed and bronzed, a real mountain of a man. It’s a mystery to us how he maintains said physique subsisting on a sugar-free, processed-carb-free, vegan diet. Rosie of course is the exact opposite; she bakes old-fashioned comfort food (carbs loaded with sugar and spice and all things nice) and doesn’t run unless some mythical terror is chasing her.
Rosie and Max are my favourite ‘opposites attract’ romance trope come to life. While Max is a carefree, save-the-planet pacifist, Rosie is a highly efficient over-planner who doesn’t read social cues too well. They’re the perfect balance for one another and proof romance novels are truly a guide to life and not just a fun way to pass the time.
‘While we’re talking about healthy choices and diet and exercise, could I tempt you with some scones and lashings of jam and cream?’
‘My arm could be twisted.’ I swipe the crumbs from the chocolate muffin I’ve just demo
lished out of sight. Rosie says I’ve got hollow legs and she’d hate me for it if she didn’t love me so much. She’s curvaceous and I’m straight up and down – I know which I’d rather be, but Rosie doesn’t believe me.
‘Stay right there.’
Within minutes she’s back with a plate bearing freshly baked scones, still warm to the touch. ‘Golly what time were you up?’
‘Four,’ she says sheepishly. ‘Couldn’t sleep. Big day.’
Poor Rosie. Any change does not come easily to her and I know she struggles with it more than she lets on. Pre-dawn, she’d have been scrubbing the inside of her van, Poppy, and then baking up a storm until it was light enough to wash the outside of Poppy. When she’s in turmoil, she cleans. She cleans and cleans and then cleans again. And then bakes. And the whole cycle of cleaning starts again while the rest of us sleep like the dead.
‘All set though?’ A small part of me worries that Rosie will pull the plug and decide leaving is too great a risk for her. She’s changed so much over the last year, but part of her will always carry that fear that the unknown is not safe.
She rubs the back of her neck. ‘It’s going to be an adventure and while I’m nervous I know I’ll have you and Max, so what’s there to be worried about?’ Her words wobble but I smile encouragingly at Rosie trying so hard to be brave. ‘Once we’re finished here,’ she says, ‘I’ll check Poppy over once more and then we’re good to go.’
I lean into her. ‘That’s the spirit.’
As we chat a couple of remaining nomads come to say one last goodbye. ‘Stay for morning tea?’ Rosie says to them before dashing back to her van for more plates.
Leo, who runs Rollerskating on the Road, gives me a big hug. He’s off to run his retro skating tours in Cornwall to catch the hordes of tourists who flock there over spring and summer.
‘I’m going to miss you,’ I say, giving his hair a tousle. He’s one of my favourite people on the festival circuit for his ever-present megawatt smile. A twenty-something with the world at his feet and his whole life ahead of him. What’s not to be happy about when you’ve got wheels strapped on and the day is but young?
Aria's Travelling Book Shop Page 3