Aria's Travelling Book Shop

by Rebecca Raisin

  And here I am in the same little van, in a foreign country, living my best version of life without TJ. He’d be proud of me, I think, for continuing the journey. Following the open road and never putting roots down. He loved his job as a teacher, and was especially passionate about helping disabled kids reach their full potential. He got so much joy out of seeing developmentally delayed students set a goal and go for it. He used to come home and tell me about his students and how proud he was that they never gave up. That’s why his family had been so shocked that he wouldn’t even try treatment, TJ wasn’t the giving up sort. But he knew the facts and he was never going to look at ‘the thing’ with rose-coloured glasses. It had been an impossible time and looking back I’m almost breathless wondering how I managed to get through it knowing I was going to lose to him but trying so desperately to be enough for him in those final weeks.

  ***

  A couple of days later we’re soaking up the French sunshine at the Bordeaux Wine, Food and Literature festival. Vans line one side of the park and little pop-up tents face us on the other side. My mouth waters at the scent of so many types of food. On my first lap around the grounds I try buttery garlic snails much to Rosie’s disgust. They are delicious, but I do have to close my mind to the mental picture of the little slug.

  ‘Oh, god no,’ Rosie says, turning away hand over her mouth. ‘I just can’t. You’re a disgrace, Aria.’

  ‘Sorry!’ I say, not sorry at all. If you could smell the divine garlicky butter in the air you’d cave in and try them too. I wink at the girl and say, ‘Merci!’

  We amble on buying locally made butter, and a range of cheeses. ‘I can’t eat most of these anymore,’ Rosie says, flicking to a page in her notebook that reads: Foods to avoid. And underneath in her elegant handwriting are far too many foods for a former Michelin-starred chef to stop partaking in.

  ‘Pregnancy is such a minefield! It’s a wonder any children are born. You can’t have this; you can’t do that. It’s like the mother guilt starts at conception,’ Rosie huffs.

  ‘Don’t let the patriarchy get you down. Just be sensible, you know how to do that inordinately well.’

  She blows out a breath. ‘Yeah, you’re right. When it comes to safety, who knows better than me?’

  ‘No one … so relax into it and soak it up, Rosie. This is a really special time. Your body is growing a tiny human!’

  ‘And the tiny human wants food! I need a baguette so I can basically eat my body weight in that salty French butter!’

  ‘An impromptu picnic, why not? Anything else take your fancy?’

  ‘We may as well check out the charcuterie pop-up, though I’m sure that’s not allowed either. Maybe olives will curtail the cravings. Although I’m sure they’re not actually cravings they’re just an excuse to eat …’

  ‘Roll with it,’ I say. My mouth waters picturing all the cured meats on offer. ‘Let’s have a look. Maybe they have some rotisserie chicken, that’s allowed, I’m sure, as long as it’s fresh.’

  Back at my van, I spread our feast out on the table and hunt high and low for a knife sharp enough to cut the crusty bread. ‘Just tear it,’ Rosie says then she insists I have her share of wine that a French viticulturist from across the park gifted us. If this is how the French live every day, I want in.

  But I pretend to be sensible and say, ‘I’ve got to get through the madness of a festival. I can’t be seen with red wine for lipstick.’

  ‘Why not? It hasn’t stopped you before.’

  I fill the glass and tip it to her in a salute. ‘True and I suppose I’m only appreciating the spoils of Bordeaux.’

  She nods solemnly. ‘They’d be offended if you didn’t. Who comes to Bordeaux and doesn’t drink Bordeaux?’

  ‘You just like saying Bordeaux.’

  ‘Bordeaux.’

  We eat in companionable silence, delighting in every homemade morsel. On the long list of things I love about France, their enthusiasm for what they eat is at the top. Not only do they love eating, but their food is produced locally, methods discussed dissected and passed down the line traditionally. Nothing is ever just a tomato, or just a wedge of cheese. They want you to know about growing conditions, family recipes, and I love that delight in the everyday food they consume. Food is revered here, meals times savoured. There’s no dashing about with a sandwich in hand. Meals are taken at the table, with friends and family and enjoyed over a lengthy amount of time – and wine is always on offer, otherwise what’s the point?

  I unwrap the wedge of blue cheese we bought and only wish Rosie could sample it. It’s her favourite but a no-go for pregnancy.

  ‘You’ve got a customer,’ Rosie says. ‘I’d better make myself scarce.’

  Rosie hasn’t opened up her teashop since we left Blois. The smells of some types of food send her over the edge and she’s decided to take a few more days off and see if her stomach settles. She’s feeling more energetic, so hopefully it won’t be long until she can eat a proper meal and not have to worry about what might make her ill. It’s so strange to see Rosie eating dry toast and crackers, because she loves cooking and pouring her heart and soul into every dish.

  ‘Stay,’ I say. ‘They can fit in here too.’

  She doesn’t say a word but I know what she’s thinking.

  ‘Well, if we breathe in.’

  So it’s a tight squeeze? I can’t say no to any books, and I usually buy them as I go. It’s been a little trickier to replenish my stock in France, but not impossible. Tomorrow I’m off to another car boot sale where a lot of English books are on offer for virtually nothing. They should tide me over for the French Riviera leg and not hurt the coffers too badly. Plus who doesn’t love car boot sales? I’ll probably come back with a box full of things I don’t need and a head shake from Rosie.

  ‘Bonjour,’ I say to the newcomer, a girl in her mid-twenties, who gives off a bookworm vibe by the way she eyes up novels as if choosing what not to take to narrow it down.

  ‘Bonjour,’ the tall girl says. ‘You have an impressive collection.’

  ‘Merci! I can’t say no when I go on book-buying sprees, even with the lack of space.’

  ‘It must be hard to sell them too.’

  I smile. ‘Yes, always.’

  She takes her time and searches every rickety shelf, making a pile of books to take that is so high I begin to worry how she’ll carry them all. Rosie puts the kettle on to boil but stops suddenly, hand going to her mouth. ‘Excuse me,’ she says and dashes outside back to the safety of Poppy. I wonder if the scent of blue cheese is too much for her delicate belly.

  ‘What’s wrong with her?’ the girl asks in that direct French fashion.

  I debate with what to say, but it’s not as if it’s a secret now. ‘She’s pregnant – morning sickness comes and goes at all hours of the day.’

  The girl nods. ‘It must be hard for her travelling like this.’

  ‘It is at the moment, but it’ll pass. Once you get the travel bug the thought of living inside four walls is a depressing one. I don’t think she’ll ever go back to that life, despite what she feels like now.’

  She arches a brow. ‘You make this lifestyle seem very romantic. But I’m sure there’s times where you still feel lost, non?’

  ‘Literally and figuratively!’ I laugh. ‘But that’s just life, right?’

  With a flick of her long mane of dark hair she says, ‘Right. And you get to spend your days admiring views like this and reading. Maybe I’m choosing the wrong path?’ She smiles. I’m not sure what the pull is but I seem to earn strangers’ confidences in the Little Bookshop of Happy Ever After. Maybe it’s the warm cosy vibe of the van, the comfort of being surrounded by books. Whatever it is, people often tend to confide in me, probably knowing I’ll be moving on soon and their secrets are safe with me.

  I contemplate the newcomer and wonder what she means about the wrong path. Love? Isn’t it what drives us all? But I stick to what I know for now. ‘As long as y
ou read you can escape anywhere though. You can travel around the world; all from the comfort of your own home.’

  ‘My boyfriend says I spend too long reading.’

  Aha, and there it is. I bite my tongue to stop the words escaping but crafty little things slip out anyway, ‘You might need a new boyfriend. That would be a deal breaker for me …’ Spends too long reading, is there such a beast!?

  Laughter escapes her. ‘You know, I’ve been thinking just the same.’

  ‘Does he not read?’ Could it be possible?

  She shakes her head. ‘No, he does not! He spends hours at the gym staring at himself in the mirror. We’re so different.’

  ‘But opposites attract?’ But I’m not convinced. A man who says his girlfriend spends too long reading sends alarm bells ringing but maybe that’s the bookworm in me. I can’t be impartial to such a thing.

  ‘Maybe we’re too opposite. How do you know when you’re settling for someone or if you’re trying to compromise?’

  I motion for her to sit down at the little book table. She folds her lithe frame into the small spot and slicks her long black hair over a shoulder while I finish making tea and hand her a mug.

  ‘When I’m confused about my love life …’ What love life, Aria? ‘… I put myself in the shoes of a heroine and think: what would they do? Is this just an obstacle I have to climb to reach greener pastures or is this a deal breaker? Does that make sense?’

  She grins. ‘That makes a lot of sense actually.’

  ‘So if you think like that, what does your heart tell you?’

  Through the rising steam of her tea, she contemplates. ‘I think he’s not the one for me and I’m settling for second best hoping he’ll change, and he probably feels the same way, but we’re stuck in a rut and don’t want to hurt each other by speaking the truth.’

  ‘Love is so hard, but when the right guy comes along you’ll know it.’

  ‘And until then I’ve got my books.’

  ‘A holiday in Romancelandia.’ I smile.

  She lifts a shoulder. ‘What better place to be if I’m waiting for Mr Right for a while since Mr Right Now isn’t working out so well. What about you, do you have a hero who goes on these grand adventures with you?’

  I fix my eyes on hers. ‘I did have once, but he … passed away. So now it’s just me.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. When did he die?’

  I blow out a breath. ‘Almost three years ago.’ Look at me being open and honest with people. It feels strangely refreshing not to pretend my life is one big road-tripping party on wheels. ‘And I promised him I’d never love anyone again.’

  ‘So you bury yourself in books?’ She tilts her head as if trying to read me, my story.

  ‘It’s starting to feel that way, like I’m drowning in my own sorrows. At the time I thought I’d never be capable of loving anyone else, but now I’m not so sure, but a promise is a promise.’

  A frown mars her smooth forehead. ‘Did he agree with you?’

  ‘No, he told me I’d fall in love again, he could “see” it. But he was heavily medicated at the time.’ Why am I confiding so much to this stranger? Because the entire world is in love! Because it feels right! Maybe the magic of the Little Bookshop of Happy Ever After is working on me too?

  ‘Medicated or no, he wouldn’t say such a thing if he didn’t mean it,’ she says gently, her French accent more pronounced as we delve into sadder topics.

  I cluck my tongue. ‘But what if no one ever lives up to him? I mean, how can they?’

  With a shake of her head she says, ‘But what if they do, but in a different way? No one will replace him, they’ll just take up another piece of your heart.’

  I consider it.

  We sip our tea in silence, both lost to the thought of what might be …

  Aria Summers finds that being self-exiled to the land of singledom is not all it’s cracked up to be. Her loneliness is ever present being surrounded by loved-up couples aplenty who are all moving on swiftly with their lives. Marriages are being proposed, babies are being made and Aria suddenly feels a little left behind … but she made a promise to her husband and who rescinds a promise to a dead man? She vows to stay true but what if Cupid has other ideas …?

  ***

  ‘I’m going into town to hunt out all the glorious bibliothèques and bookshops, do you want to join me?’ I ask Rosie who holds a cold compress to the back of her neck in an effort to cool down. French libraries are next level, a home for books that more resemble a grand chateau with their rich wooden shelves and antique furniture. So different to the stark libraries back home.

  ‘I’d love to, Aria but I don’t feel up to it. I’m sorry!’ It’s hard seeing Rosie so sick. I want to help her more but don’t have the first clue how. Dr Google says lots of rest and relaxation is key, so I figure with us noisy nomads out of her hair she can at least nap in peace.

  ‘Don’t be sorry. I’ll spend the entire day getting lost in dusty stacks of books so it’s probably better you stay here and rest up. Message me if you need anything, I’ll find Wi-Fi in town.’

  ‘I will. Enjoy.’

  I head into Bordeaux in my van, taking in the old town which is so different to Rouen and Blois but equally beautiful. These towns all have their own historical charm and I fall in love with them as I go. Bordeaux has a plethora of bookshops and libraries and I’m determined to visit as many as I can. The French love their literature, they revere writers and artists so much that they’re worshipped, even those long dead.

  I find a place to park and head to Librairie Mollat on rue Vital-Charles. According to my guidebook it’s the oldest independent bookshop in France and is also one of the biggest. Inside is a brightly lit, book lover’s wonderland and I relish the fact I have plenty of time on my hands to explore.

  There’s something about French books; they whisper about secret worlds in a language I don’t understand but want to try and decipher. My search continues and I find a photographic book about Château de la Brède, a gothic castle where famous French philosopher Montesquieu wrote his books. ‘Ah …’ a man in a linen trouser suit appears. ‘You found it.’

  ‘Sorry?’ I say and take a look behind me to make sure he’s not talking to someone else.

  ‘Have you visited the chateau yet?’ He speaks as if we’re old friends, and it’s quite disarming.

  ‘No, not yet.’

  ‘You must.’ He speaks perfect English with only a slight French inflection. ‘It’s only twenty-five kilometres from here.’

  ‘Then I must.’ And I wonder if it is on Rosie’s list of haunted chateaux to avoid. From the photographs inside the book, it definitely dives off that vibe!

  He smiles. ‘You sell books?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘I can sense a like-minded soul.’

  I give him a wide smile. ‘I’d have picked it on you too.’

  ‘Oui. We know these things.’ He taps his nose as if it’s a secret we share. ‘I hope you enjoy your time in Bordeaux.’

  ‘Merci.’ I smile as he walks away, charmed by such an interaction. Back to the shelves, I hunt out the English section and see if a book jumps out that I can gift to Jonathan. As soon as I see the famous title I grin. Vagabond by Collette. A story about Renée, artist and dancer who lives the wandering life and must choose between that and the man she has feelings for. It strikes me how similar it is to our lives, yet he’s the creative and I’m the wanderer. Perhaps I’ll buy two copies …

  After I leave, with a spring in my step that only book buying can do, I head back to my van and make my way to the chateau.

  I almost drive into a tree as the beauty of the place completely distracts me. There’s a moat, a real-life moat! I park up and head inside and take the tour, stopping longest in what was the library room. It has a stunning curved ceiling made of chestnut wood and the room has that particular perfume of old books, a sort of yesteryear scent that makes me want to curl in front of a fir
e and do what I do best. Read.

  After a long day I drive back to camp, and I find myself so mired in loneliness it quite steals the breath from my lungs. It strikes me I had no one to share my day with. No one to gasp over books beside, no one to traipse through the chateau with, and no one to sit with me now over a pot of tea and biscuits and plan tomorrow. I miss that.

  In my van I curl up with the ghost of my husband and read.

  The Lake District is what I imagine heaven must be like, and I’ll know soon enough. I try to hide my pain from Aria but she senses it. My body hurts, and my heart is broken for what I’m losing: life with this beautiful book nymph. So I switch my thinking around. Our time together may be over soon but the best things can’t last forever, that’s what makes them so special. I know I’ve loved her with every breath and I’ll love her with the very last one too.

  Chapter 20

  Bordeaux

  We pack up and ready ourselves for the drive to the South of France the following day. Rosie’s schedule has us leaving at precisely 9 a.m. tomorrow, so I spend the afternoon pottering about in the Little Bookshop van, stashing away loose books for the drive ahead, Taking note of what I need to reorder and what I can discount to move on.

  I join a game of soccer on the sprawling green lawn before getting annoyed that the Italian guys are so much quicker than me. ‘I’ll give you the ball for a kiss,’ Guido says, smiling as he toes the ball towards me.

  ‘Sure,’ I say, waiting for him to wander over. When he does I pretend to lean in and when he closes his eyes ready for the smooch, I quickly kick the ball away and run after it laughing.

  ‘You tricked me!’ He grins.

  ‘You hot-blooded Italians, all you ever think about is kissing!’

  Laurent pipes up, ‘It’s called French kissing for a reason, it’s not called Italian kissing, is it?’

  I shake my head; these sorts of cultural debates can go on for hours. I leave the boys to it and find a more sedate way to pass the afternoon. Bingo with Dede and his gang from Indonesia is just the ticket. They’re on a break from the cruise ship they work on and are revelling in van life, squished together in one van. They pull out tents at night and sleep like the dead, the noise of the campgrounds not a bother to the young guys. They have the biggest smiles and are always laughing and joking. Once I lose a few rounds of bingo I say my goodbyes and promise to come and find them before we leave for good. Who knows, maybe I’ll run into them on a cruise one day? I hope so, I’m going to miss their beaming faces.