Aria's Travelling Book Shop

by Rebecca Raisin

  ‘You might have noticed they’re not really in use these days,’ Rosie says.

  ‘That’s even better, I don’t want to work, I just want the view.’

  Rosie smiles. ‘Rapunzel, hey? Hiding away in her own castle.’

  ‘Something like that.’ I picture future me: Aria Summers, lighthouse recluse, teens running to the door and knocking before they shriek and leg it away like I’m the modern-day Boo Radley. Le sigh.

  ‘Coffee and then we’ll begin the second leg?’ Rosie asks, taking a quick look at her notebook. ‘We’re tracking right on time.’ Her grin is triumphant.

  We find a little French patisserie, where fragrant jasmine climbs the walls and perfumes the breeze. We find some cane chairs that all face the street and sit side by side like soldiers. I find it strange the way the French don’t sit around a table but rather facing outwards. I’ve been admonished before on a previous trip to Paris when I turned my chair to face TJ. That is not the done thing, I soon found out. The memory makes me smile and some devilish part of me is tempted to try it now to see what would happen, but I rein it in.

  A few minutes later the waiter takes our order of two café au lait and tartelette fraises while Max settles with herbal tea and fresh air. How the man is still alive with what he subsists on is beyond me.

  We do the usual nomad café etiquette and all take out our phones and connect to the free Wi-Fi to see what we’ve missed since our last break stop. Nothing my end, it seems. The world has continued to spin with nary any need from me. I try not to take it to heart.

  I stretch my arms above my head, relishing being out of the van when Rosie pipes up. ‘Tori wants to know where we’re staying in Rouen.’

  I groan. ‘Are you kidding?’

  ‘Nope, she says if the offer still stands, she wouldn’t mind joining us.’

  I cross my arms. ‘What offer?’

  Max gives me the ghost of a smile. ‘We did give a blanket statement to everyone about joining our French sojourn.’

  ‘Yeah, that might be so, but I didn’t mean her!’ I sputter out.

  He shrugs. Max is one of those people who gets on with everyone, everyone wants to be his friend. If he were any more laid back, he’d be dead. ‘She’s OK in her own way, isn’t she?’

  Tori hasn’t once set Max up to fail, played practical jokes that backfired or any of the number of things she’s tried on me and Rosie. He doesn’t know about the polygamy rumours she started about him and Rosie – no one wanted to be the one to tell him. Max is a pacifist but when it comes to Rosie all bets are off.

  ‘She’s a bit of a closet viper,’ Rosie says.

  His face darkens. ‘She seems so harmless.’

  ‘Spoken by a man who doesn’t understand feminine wiles,’ I say, envious that Max can float through every day never once picking up on such a thing. We’re almost predisposed to it just being in his bloody limelight. Women flock to Max, and he doesn’t seem to notice or care one jot.

  ‘I don’t think I want to know, if that’s the case,’ he says, his leonine eyes ablaze at the thought someone might be underhanded with Rosie.

  ‘Are you going to tell her where we are?’ I ask. But I know Rosie, and her moral compass which always points true North. It’s not her way to leave anyone out, she knows from personal experience how much it hurts – even if Tori does deserve it.

  She lifts a palm.

  ‘It’s fine,’ I reassure her. ‘If Tori starts, I’ll put a stop to it, simple as that.’ The strawberry tart explodes with flavour and I debate ordering a second serve. How do the French get their fruit to taste so sweet? I make a mental note to hunt out a fresh food market and buy a bucket load of seasonal fruit.

  ‘What’s the worst she can do?’ Rosie says, scrunching her nose.

  ‘We’re all going to be busy once the festivals and fairs start anyway, right?’ Max says.

  ‘I hope so,’ I reply, munching away and trying to put Tori far from my mind. I’ve never travelled abroad before and tried to pop-up at the same time, so I’m a touch apprehensive that things might not run as smoothly as they did back home. We’ve got each other though, and if the bottom falls out of our plan, we’ll make a new one, right? It’s not as if we’re in Antarctica.

  ‘Right. Speaking of,’ Rosie says, glancing at her watch. ‘We’d better head to Rouen. We want to find the campsite before it gets dark.’

  I drink the last of my coffee. ‘I can’t bloody wait!’ I’ve always wanted to travel around France, stopping at as many little provinces as possible, finding gems off the beaten track. I love Paris – who wouldn’t, with it being steeped in literary history – but there’s something magical about going the long way around the country, choosing places that aren’t as big and as bustling as the city of light.

  What treasures will we find?

  As we leave the café Rosie sidles up to me and whispers, ‘Was the letter OK?’ She’s one of the only people who knows the story behind it all. I don’t usually tell anyone about TJ, it’s an awkward thing to throw into conversation and it usually freezes up those new interactions before they’ve started. It’s easy to pretend to be a carefree nomad whose great loves are all fictional. Rather than admitting I’m a broken-hearted girl running from her past.

  I debate whether to go into it now and decide I’ll give Rosie a brief rundown so she doesn’t worry. ‘His mum, Mary, misplaced a diary of TJ’s and it’s only just been found. She sent it along with a short letter. All it says really is that life has been hard for her too.’ In truth, I haven’t been able to think of anything but the diary and what it might contain but I need to read in solitude when I won’t be interrupted.

  ‘Oh, Aria, I don’t know what to say. Are you going to write back to her?’

  I contemplate it. ‘It’s hard to know whether that will just stir it all up again, you know? Both of us are still bruised from it …’ I should write to her. She deserves that at least. But whether it would help or hinder, I’m not sure yet.

  Rosie’s eyebrows pull together. ‘But at one time you loved your mother-in-law.’

  I fold my arms against the breeze that blows from the sea. ‘And she loved me. But things changed, Rosie. And I don’t know if it can go back. There’s a lot of resentment there.’

  With a nod she says, ‘Read the diary first, see if that makes things any clearer.’

  I consider it as I look back towards the deep blue of the ocean, just visible from the café. ‘Yeah, for sure. You’d think I’d devour it in one sitting, that’s what I’d normally do, but I want to make it last. It’s like a gift from him and I need to savour it.’

  ‘I totally get that. It really is the most beautiful surprise and she did send it eventually …’

  ‘Yeah, you’re right. I don’t think she’d ever be truly malicious. She’s not that kind of person. She’s heartbroken, and that I understand. I just wish I could call her and explain, but it’s not that simple.’

  ‘I’m always here if you need to talk, you know that, right?’

  ‘Thanks, Rosie. Once we’ve settled in, I’d love to.’ I give her a squeeze. Rosie is all about fixing family rifts after learning the hard way there’s not always all the time in the world to do so.

  Revived from the caffeine and cake, we huddle checking the map before getting back into our respective vans and heading for Rouen. We drive in a convoy of three with Max leading the way, and Rosie following behind me.

  A few hours later the spires of Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Rouen pierce the skyline and my mouth falls open in awe. A little while after, we drive through the medieval town and I’m astonished at its beauty. The old buildings look almost Shakespearian, Tudor style with colourful wooden cladding. It’s a postcard come to life but there’s no time to ogle as I do my best to follow Max, hoping that Rosie is OK behind me. We park up at the campsite and Max gestures that’s he’s going to the office to check us in. While he’s doing that Rosie and I take a moment to stretch our legs and check out the par
k.

  ‘Right.’ Max returns and points to the far end of the park. ‘We’re back there, right by the river.’

  ‘Nice.’ We’re only staying in Rouen a couple of weeks but already I know it’s a place I’ll want to return to and spend time meandering hidden laneways and tiny alleys. ‘It’s a vibrant energetic town from what I gathered driving through.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s a pretty place,’ Max says. ‘The manager, Antoinette, has given me directions to the fete which is only a hop, skip and a jump from the campsite, so that’ll make it easier on the day.’

  Our first French fete and it’s a big one, well known for hosting exotic vendors from all over the country! We managed to secure an allotment because of Max’s connections. His mom, Nola, is Van Lifer royalty, she basically created the movement way back when and knows how to survive on practically every continent. We sorted out a range of places to pop-up and applied for permissions and paid whatever fees so we’d be one step ahead when we arrived.

  ‘We’ve got a week to explore before the fete,’ says Rosie. ‘Though I’ll have to start preparing as soon as I can. I need to make another batch of jam and also some literary tea blends.’

  Once we’ve moved our vans and are connected to the power, I shower and change into comfier clothes. I check my online shop and am happy to note a big order for Maeve Binchy books. It takes me less than thirty seconds to find them buried behind an ottoman that’s seen better days. I wrap them in butcher paper and pen a quote by the icon herself, that we are nothing if we’re not loved … I’ll get them in the post tomorrow.

  Once I’m sorted I go to Rosie’s van to discuss the plan for the next day (OK, and also because she will feed me a dinner big enough to send me right into a food coma).

  I knock on Rosie’s door and enter to find them sitting side by side at the dining table. Max looks ginormous in the space, as if he’s being squashed inside a doll’s house. ‘So, lovebirds … tomorrow, what do you want to do?’

  ‘I need some supplies for the fete,’ Rosie says. ‘But aside from that I was just going to follow you two. I’m absolutely beat today. I’m hoping the fog will clear and when I wake up I’ll be energized.’

  ‘A good night’s sleep will be just the ticket, Rosie.’ We’ve had a big week, all those goodbyes, all those glasses of wine. ‘I thought I’d wander into town after breakfast tomorrow. I’m sure there’s a bookshop calling my name and there’s a big chance that I might find Narnia and never return.’

  She laughs. ‘In that case I’d better supervise. I’d love to find some French patisserie cookbooks. What about you, Max, what did you want to do?’

  He runs a hand through his leonine locks. ‘I’d planned to head off alone to arrange a little surprise …’

  ‘A surprise?’ Rosie’s face turns puce, actually puce, and that quickly too. ‘Not for me …?’ Max’s surprises are usually of the high-octane nature and safety-first Rosie is still coming to terms with life in the fast lane.

  Max cuts her off with just a look.

  She cradles her head. ‘Why am I picturing my imminent death, a fireball, a knife skirmish, being shot out of canon into a deep body of water … urgh, I need to sit before I fall. Oh, god I am sitting. Flip.’

  He tries his best to contain his smile but his lips quiver in rebellion. ‘Right. You wouldn’t be Rosie if you didn’t think of the gory, terrifying, bloodcurdling way in which you’d leave this mortal coil whenever any new experience crops up.’

  She looks aghast. ‘That’s simply not true.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ he probes.

  I laugh. It is very true!

  ‘What did you say before you tried abseiling, rally driving, zip lining? And don’t forget driving the quad bikes through the forest a few weeks ago,’ Max reminds her.

  She guffaws. ‘It’s not unreasonable to imagine the quad bikes could very easily roll over, spill fuel which catches alight ripping through the dense forest in mere seconds causing wildfires and … I still can’t understand why the manager of that death trap of a place took offence?’

  ‘No?’ Max grins and raises a brow. ‘When you started throwing out statistics about the amount of people injured on quad bikes and his customers halving in thirty seconds flat, you don’t think that might have rubbed him up the wrong way?’

  ‘That? You think that’s why he got so uppity? I was doing him a favour, he should have been thanking me!’

  ‘Yeah, right. I guess it’s just your way to fantasize your own grisly death.’

  ‘OK fine, I do always picture my imminent death, but that’s only so I can prepare ahead: what to do in the likely event of an emergency. I wouldn’t call it a fantasy, god, Max. You make me sound like I’m eagerly awaiting such a thing when in actual fact it’s the exact opposite!’

  With a laugh he says, ‘Well either way, I’m proud of you, Rosie, and you’re going to love this surprise. It includes you too, Aria.’

  ‘Great! I wouldn’t call myself an adrenalin junkie but I’ll give anything a go at least once …’

  ‘Almost anything,’ Rosie says. ‘Love is off limits, right?’

  ‘That old chestnut?’

  ‘Slipped out,’ she says, her voice sheepish. ‘So that’s sorted, let’s have a dinner feast and an early night …’

  Music to my ears.

  Chapter 6

  Rouen

  Refreshed after an early night, I go to find Rosie, hugging the prepacked Maeve Binchy books tight to my chest, not wanting to part with them. #BooksellerProblems. Maeve has always been one of my favourite writers; hers are the sort of novels that you gravitate towards on bad days when you want to curl up with some old friends who’ve also hit bumps in the road and are just the same as you.

  Rosie’s deep in conversation with the campsite manager, Antoinette, and a youngish man with a stern face. She motions to me to join her.

  ‘Hey,’ I say, noticing that Rosie is standing stiffly, her eyes glazing over – the usual signs she’s uncomfortable and is very close to doing a runner. I put a hand to her arm to ground her.

  Introductions are made and Rosie haltingly explains the fete vendor fee is a lot higher than we’d thought. Why has this man tracked us all the way to the campsite instead of emailing? It screams of some kind of intimidation tactic. ‘Oh, why is that?’ I ask, confused. ‘We had the email weeks ago about the fee. We agreed and we’ve paid already.’

  The man, Jean-Pierre, shrugs and Antoinette speaks rapid-fire French to him. He shrugs again and she sighs. Whatever is going on, Antoinette seems to be in our corner but it’s not going our way. ‘Jean-Pierre says there are more vendors now so the price will increase.’

  I’m sure we’re getting the tourist tax that we hear so many tales about and I’m not having it. ‘If there are more vendors surely the price should go down, not up. Otherwise he’s taking advantage. And is he going to personally visit every other vendor to demand more money or just us?’

  He folds his arms and mutters belligerently at Antoinette. Jean-Pierre’s gaze turns steely and mine follows suit. Poor Rosie darts her eyes this way and that looking for an escape route.

  ‘Let’s just go,’ Rosie says. ‘We’ll find another fete.’

  ‘Oh no we will not. We organized this weeks ago and I’ve spread it all over social media that we’ll all be there, so be there we will.’ I turn to Antoinette. ‘Thank you for helping us translate, we appreciate it very much but I can take it from here.’

  Confusion dashes across Antoinette’s face and the man cocks his cocky head as if urging me to argue. I pull myself up to full height like they do in the books and say, ‘T’es une poule mouillée!’

  They stand gawping at me, their mouths hanging open.

  ‘What did you say?’ Rosie whispers and takes out her phone typing hastily.

  I ignore Rosie and focus on the belligerent man before me. ‘We’ll be at the fete, and we’re not paying one euro more than the agreed price!’

  Antoinette nods and tries t
o hide a smile. I storm away, hoping this is not a sign of things to come, being ripped off simply because we’re new and they think we don’t know any better.

  ‘Wait!’ Rosie struggles to keep up with me. ‘According to my translation app you just told him: You’re a wet chicken!’ She bites down on her lip before laughter gets the better of her.

  I stop and put my hands on my hips, chest heaving with adrenalin, but I manage to continue throwing daggers back his way in case he’s still watching us. He is. ‘The only other phrase I know is ‘Your mother is a prostitute’ and I don’t think that would have gone down too well.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Well, who wants to hear their mother is—’

  ‘No, no.’ She holds a hand up to stop me. ‘How do you know those phrases?’

  ‘From a romcom set in France that I’ve read so often I’ve memorized it, and look how handy it’s turned out to be.’

  She rolls her eyes. ‘I should’ve known it would be from a book. I can’t believe you called him a wet chicken out of the blue like that. I nearly died, his face … I thought his head was going to explode.’

  ‘Apparently it means that the person is a coward or something. I love French insults, they’re the very best.’ Our Rosie isn’t one for confrontation, but I am if the cause is just. ‘We can’t let him walk all over us. If we let one, then we let them all and it becomes a pattern. Plus I really dislike smarmy men like that. Makes my skin crawl.’

  Her wide eyes are serious. ‘I’m sure they’re not all like him. He tried his hand, he lost.’

  I pretend to flex my muscles and say, ‘And we have a backup plan if he tries to stop us at the fete.’

  ‘Weapons! What … a spatula? A whisk? No, a frying pan to the head!’

  My eyebrows pull together. ‘What? No! We have Max!’