‘You know Paris well,’ I say, realising Flynn’s navigated his way to the gardens from Shakespeare and Company without once looking at his phone for directions.
‘I studied here for a year,’ he explains.
‘Nicolas mentioned. French and English, right?’ I ask, always impressed by students who venture away from home. ‘What made you make those choices?’
‘I grew up in a house full of books, so English was an easy decision, and my dad thought having a second language was important – “a gateway to the world” – it’s the one piece of advice he gave that’s actually been useful.’
‘My dad said something similar; he’s always felt I should find somewhere beyond Edinburgh.’
‘And did you?’
‘No,’ I answer, hoping that he won’t judge me for it.
‘Why would you? It’s such a beautiful place, with so much going on. It’s one of my favourite places in the world.’
‘You grew up there?’
‘We moved up from London when I was five. Dad had it in his head that life would be better in Scotland.’ He kicks at a stray leaf. ‘Strange that he should then leave Mum and me alone.’
I want to delve deeper, but a message on his phone distracts him and, when he indicates that he needs toreply, I sit on a bench and admire the Luxembourg Palace, lit up in the fading light.
I watch as Flynn paces around the hexagonal pond with its cherubic fountain, running a hand through his blond hair.
‘Sorry, work stuff,’ he says, tucking his phone into his inside pocket, and I get up to stroll with him some more.
‘Why did you tell Mum and me that you’d run a book festival before?’ I ask, cautiously, the question taking me by surprise.
Flynn does a double take, his brow narrowing. ‘I don’t think I did, did I?’
‘Mum said “you must have a lot of experience . . .”’
‘Which I do, just not with book festivals,’ he reassures me. ‘Like I said, I took it on when a colleague left unexpectedly. He kind of dropped us all in it. If I gave the wrong impression, then I’m sorry. I was pretty stressed when we met, and shocked that I’d stumbled on a solution. Maybe I didn’t communicate as well as I should have.’
I keep my eyes on the broad path ahead, digesting his words.
‘How did you know about Mum’s back catalogue and how qualified she was for the event?’
‘Like I said, my mum read a lot of her books, and there was merchandise all over the shop. It didn’t take much to figure out how many she’d written, both here and abroad.’
‘But all that chat about how readers would respond, and her being the cherry on top of the cake . . .’
‘None of it rocket science, and none of it dishonest, if that’s what’s worrying you.’
Our eyes meet, his scanning mine to see if he’s said enough, mine scanning his for any hint of duplicity.
‘I promise,’ he says with a smile, putting up his hands in surrender. ‘If I overegged the pudding, it was only with the best of intentions. I couldn’t believe my luck when I met you, and your mum.’
‘I’m sorry for doubting you,’ I say, kicking myself for being suspicious, relieved it was a simple misunderstanding.
We walk quietly for a while, the sun lowering, the warmth of the day being replaced by a fresh evening breeze.
‘Shakespeare and Company was pretty special,’ Flynn says, as we exit the park.
‘The stuff of dreams,’ I swoon. ‘It really brought home to me just how much I love books and bookshops, and how important good booksellers are, you know? Being able to recommend a book that a person can really connect to, or which transforms someone in some way, changes their way of thinking. It’s important.’
He turns to watch me as we walk, a look of admiration or amusement on his face, I can’t be sure which – a look that causes me to blush.
‘Cool that your family owns one then,’ he smiles.
