‘Yes, a loan. He’s terrified about the business failing, possibly having to sell the house. He’s definitely not thinking about the end of your marriage.’
‘Are you sure?’ she asks, her shoulders a little looser. ‘Did he say as much?’
‘Inasmuch as he told me the business was in dire straits. He said the lodger’s income had been helping to pay it off until I moved back in, and that I wasn’t to tell you as, in his words,She’s enough on her plate.’
‘He must have been referring to my block,’ she mutters, her eyes full of concern. ‘And didn’t want me under any more pressure.’
‘Sounds like Dad,’ I say. ‘I feel horrible that my returning home has left the business worse off. I’ve told him I’ll work any old job and help out in the bookshop, but he doesn’t listen.’
‘Neither one of us wants you to fund our life, Carly,’ she says, reaching out her hand to mine. ‘All we want is for you to find what makes you happy.’
I sit for a moment, toying with the idea of telling her about my idea, nervous about how she’ll receive it.
‘Carly?’
I take a breath, decide to go for it. ‘What if I told you that what would make me happy is running the bookshop, turning it into something really special again, a real destination bookshop in the heart of the city?’
She scans my face, trying to read whether I’m being serious or not.
‘I mean it, Mum. I knew the moment I walked into Shakespeare and Company that I wanted to create something just as inviting and comforting at home. I know I can do it; my laptop’s crammed with plans and ideas. I just need to figure out how to convince Dad, and find the money to make it happen.’
‘Are you serious?’ She smiles, clasping her coffee cup.
‘One hundred percent.’
She thinks for a moment, her gaze following a passing toddler on a balance bike. ‘Dad definitely needs a rest, I can see that, and I don’t know what we’d do if we had to close the shop. The idea of renting it out to someone else feels wrong, and we couldn’t sell it without selling the rest of the building too, which, for your sake, I’ve never wanted to do.’
‘I’d love nothing more than to turn it around, write its next chapter.’ I pause, a thought making me slump. ‘You don’t think Dad will be disappointed to discover the bookshop is my passion? He’s always wanted me to do something beyond Edinburgh.’
‘No!’ she scoffs lightly. ‘Pay no attention. You know your father, he has a tendency to project his own desires on to others. You’re a homebird, we both know that.’ She squeezes my hand. ‘I imagine he’ll be worried at first, that’s normal, but ultimately nothing would make him prouder than knowing he’d be passing the family business down to you, the next generation.’
‘And you think we’ll be able to convince him to let me try, if I can figure out the money?’
‘It might take a while,’ she says, ‘but I’m certain, between the three of us, we’ll find a way.’
31.
FRAN
A message from Flynn takes Carly back to the hotel and I decide to stroll, to clear my head of last night. At some point I turn on to the Champs-Élysées where the morning traffic is in full flow and workers are busy pulling out awnings and positioning tables and chairs on the broad pavement that leads towards the Arc de Triomphe.
Before long, I’m standing at the end of the Champs-Élysées staring up at the huge arch, magnificent in the soft glow of the morning sun. I tumble down the stone stairs into the domed subway below, passing the exhibition entrance and up and out under the arch itself.
‘Wow,’ I whistle, the low rising sun framed perfectly by the soft limestone arch. Closing my eyes, my thoughts and emotions seem to dissolve, the light illuminates my interior world, and in that brief moment I feel one with everything. It is then that I understand something of what Marleen was referring to as peace, that this is simple awareness. This peace, this happiness, is me.
Wanting to sit, I take my jacket from around my waist and fold it into a cushion, positioning it facing east, and then, without conscious thought, I dig out my phone and FaceTime Robin.
‘Hello,’ he groans groggily, and only then do I realise it’s an hour earlier at home.
‘Fran?’ he asks, clearly still half asleep. I’m reminded of how dozy he is in the morning, like a bear coming out of hibernation, and how endearing it’s always been.
As he brings himself round, I recall our first morning of honeymoon, of how we’d woken, side by side, Robin tussled and cosy, me snuggling into his side. We’d lain there for hours, just the two of us, talking about our wedding the day before. We’d invited only our closest family and friends, a beautiful spring wedding in the garden across the road, me with a daffodil bouquet, Robin with a grape hyacinth buttonhole, both made with love by Elsa.
My mother had passed away six months earlier, my father moved out soon after, and the house had been cold all winter. Spring and our wedding had felt like a passage into something new: a warmer, happier time. Robin was key to the transition, a constant, stable presence in a life depleted of both.
As the sun rises I see now that I was still processing the loss of Mum, clinging to Robin in her absence. But now, finding my own sense of peace, I feel my grip on Robin loosen and my love flow more freely for it.
‘Sorry for waking you,’ I say, wishing he could be here with me to feel the sunrise on his skin.
