Chapter 7
7
‘And then we painted animals and Ma?tresse Caroline said mine was the best,’ Lili finished triumphantly. She was propped up against the soft, square pillows Adeline had bought for her single bed, having just listened to a couple of chapters of The Faraway Tree , a favourite book they must have read at least five times together. She was sleepy; her eyelids blinking closed for a few seconds at a time. But her eyes, when visible, were sparkling.
‘What animal did you paint?’
‘Duh. A cat of course!’ came the response.
Adeline brushed the soft curls that had fallen forward out of her daughter’s eyes and kissed her forehead. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘And I am so glad you’ve had a good day. I’m really proud of you.’
‘Mummy, can we make pop cakes, like Moonface does?’ her daughter asked then.
For a moment Adeline was disorientated, then she remembered the lovely honey cookies from the chapter they’d just read. Cookies that melted in the mouth of whomever was lucky enough to eat them. ‘Well, we can try,’ she said, ‘if you want.’
‘I told my teacher we might bring her some.’
Adeline laughed at the thought of it – trying to fashion biscuits described only in a book. The delight Lili might feel bringing such things to school. ‘Well, let’s see.’ It was a parental cop-out phrase, she knew, but sometimes the only words that would both soothe her child and keep her from making a promise she couldn’t necessarily fulfil. ‘Love you, baby.’
Her daughter didn’t respond, but turned over on her side, suddenly too overcome with tiredness to interact. Moments later, her breathing took on the familiar rhythm of sleep.
Adeline got up to leave, but stood for a moment in the doorway, feeling a sense of peace that comes with knowing your child is happy, safe and sleeping. The magical moment when all the stress of feeding, entertaining, worrying about them falls away and your heart swells with love – and a little relief that the rest of the evening is your own.
She pulled the door towards her, leaving a gap to allow a sliver of light into the dark bedroom, and made her way down the small staircase to the ground floor.
She would get a phone soon, she decided, and maybe a TV. Perhaps that didn’t fit with the idea she’d had of living a simpler life here; but she missed her home comforts – missed the easy distraction of instant entertainment. As it was, of course, she had access to plenty of books – and was already reading her sixth novel in two weeks.
And the poems. Of course. She wasn’t someone who read poems often – certainly not collections of them. But she loved coming across them in books, or reading a poignant verse online. She was curious as to why Monique had felt it important she read Emily Dickinson’s work. Adeline knew a little about the poet: she’d lived in nineteenth-century America; that her poems were considered the work of an early feminist voice. But beyond that, her mind was blank.
Moving to the kitchen at the back of the property, Adeline cleared the few plates from the table and stacked them by the sink. She opened the fridge and pulled out a half-consumed bottle of wine and poured herself a small glass. Then she rummaged in her bag for the volume, curious to see what insight it might offer – or at least try to work out what Monique felt she’d gain from reading it. ‘Damn,’ she said aloud, when she realised she’d forgotten to take it with her when she’d locked the shop earlier.
She could leave it. She’d be back in tomorrow morning. She pulled her well-thumbed copy of Chocolat from her bag – a favourite that had helped to ignite her curiosity about France – and settled down to read.
But her mind kept buzzing.
It was only a five-minute walk to the shop. Lili would be safe, tucked up in her room behind a locked front door. And she’d be able to dash there and back without her daughter ever knowing.
She slipped on her coat and walked out into the early evening. It was eight thirty, and the air was in a state of flux somewhere between day and night. The sky was murky, undefined; a sliver of moon glowed in the sky, and she could make out the whole of it, three quarters in shadow; a black ball of rock with its edge dipped in gold.
Her footsteps sounded loud on the stone pathway as, head down, she passed a few locals meandering home; a group of children out past their bedtime; a man walking his dog. At last, her heart thundering, she reached the bookshop and drew the large metal key from her bag.
She rattled it slightly in the lock to find purchase then turned it and pushed the door gently, making sure to stop it short before it nudged the bell; she didn’t want to disturb Monique in the flat above – she’d only be a moment. The few street lamps and the cool moonlight gave her enough to see by. She stepped inside and there it was, the orange volume, still tucked under the stool near the counter.
She felt the pull of Lili, back in her bed, and felt her stomach twist at having left her; what had she been thinking? She’d never have done this in London, no matter the number of deadlocks and bolts their home had had in its armoury. It was this place, its charm, friendliness. The fact that people all seemed to know one another; people didn’t always lock their cars or their doors for that matter.
But people were still people. She shouldn’t be lulled by the simplicity of life here. She had to get back.
She was halfway across the room when she sensed it; a shift in the air or atmosphere that made her freeze. Someone was there. Sure enough, as she looked to the wooden stairs that disappeared to the top floor and Monique’s flat, she could see movement in the shadows. A figure. A man.
She managed to repress a scream, instead letting out a small squeak of surprise. ‘What are… Who are you?’ she asked, still keeping her voice soft; still, for some reason, hoping she could retrieve her book and get home without disturbing anyone.
The man stepped forward into the cool, stark light. He was young, his skin smooth and pale, his hair curly and thick, falling forward a little over his forehead. Something about the way he was standing revealed an unexpected ease, a comfortableness at being seen. Not an intruder then. But who else would be there in the little bookshop after closing time?
‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you.’ He smiled, the action somehow taking over his entire face – eyes shining, lips stretching, dimples forming in his cheeks. And although her heart had still not slowed from the shock of him, she almost felt her mouth want to smile back. ‘I am sorry I made you… squeak.’
Was he laughing at her? ‘Who are you?’ she asked. ‘The shop’s closed.’
He laughed, a slightly suppressed sound; perhaps conscious that Monique would be upstairs. ‘Don’t worry, I am not a customer,’ he said, ‘but then I think you might be Adeline, non ?’
‘Yes.’ She looked at him, still suspicious. ‘And you are…?’
‘Michel.’ He said his name as if she should know it and she racked her brain for any memory of Monique mentioning him. He looked far too young to be her partner, and anyway she was sure Monique was single.
He laughed again at her incredulous face. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I thought my aunt would have spoken about me. I’m Monique’s nephew. Michel Chambon.’ He held out his hand as if expecting her to move forward and shake it.
‘OK,’ she said, still annoyed at his ‘squeak’ comment. He was lucky she hadn’t used some of her slightly dormant self-defence moves she’d learned in a course at uni… ‘Look, I have to get back. I just wanted to grab this book.’ She stepped forward and slipped the small volume out from under the stool, holding it towards him as if proving her point.
‘There is no rush,’ he smiled. ‘We have just eaten, but I’m sure Monique…’
‘No. I really have to go.’ She wanted to tell him her child was at home on her own, but it suddenly seemed horribly neglectful. She didn’t want him to know. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow perhaps?’ she said.
‘Yes. I will be here tomorrow,’ he smiled. ‘And I know that Monique would like us to meet. ’
She nodded, briefly, and raced across the shop, her heart suddenly full of terror at the thought of Lili in that dark house alone. What if she woke up? She’d be scared. And would she trust Adeline again when she next lay down in bed and closed her eyes?
‘Well. Bye,’ she said as she closed the door, noticing the curiosity in his eyes. She must have looked strange, she reflected, racing from the shop so quickly – as if collecting the poetry book had been some sort of emergency. But it didn’t matter. She had to get home.
She was crossing the courtyard, just a couple of hundred metres from her front door and head down, when it happened. She felt a sudden resistance as she collided with someone. There was a ripping sound, and the drumming of objects; a bag had spilt oranges and coffee and a bag of sugar onto the pavement. Looking up, she saw a familiar person. André, his usually open face furrowed to a frown.
‘Sorry,’ she said, turning as she continued to race past. ‘I can’t… I’m sorry.’
He glowered at her, reaching down to pick the box of coffee and the bag of sugar from where they’d tipped into the road.
‘Sorry!’ she said again, holding her hands up briefly and almost running backwards in an attempt to make eye contact. ‘It’s just…’ But André, crouching in the street to gather his things, didn’t look up.
When she reached her front door, her hand was shaking and she had to steady herself before inserting the key. Then she let herself into the silent house and raced up the stairs to the open bedroom door.
Inside, Lili was in a deep slumber, her arms flung above her head, her face smooth and serene. Adeline felt a rush of love that almost catapulted her across the room to take her daughter in her arms. But she managed to resist it, leaning back on the frame and feeling her heart rate settle.
She thought about André, his bag of oranges, and cringed inwardly. What sort of person rushes past someone, knocks their bag flying and disappears into the night? She’d been working so hard to make a good impression on everyone. It wasn’t a great look.
Michel probably thought she was rude or abrupt. She thought about his relaxed attitude, the lazy smile, his joke at her expense. She must have seemed frantic and unkempt.
She reminded herself that it didn’t matter. Nothing else did, really, when it came down to it. Just her and her daughter – her little family.
But her cheeks still burned whenever she thought of the events of the last half hour. ‘Idiot,’ she said under her breath.
Downstairs, she picked up her neglected glass of wine and made her way to the small armchair in the corner of the sitting room. It smelled old, musty – like an antique shop – but she curled into it and took a sip from her wine, trying to recover the equilibrium she’d felt earlier.
She opened the orange book on a random page and read the opening lines:
I’m nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody too?
She felt herself laugh at the witty lines written almost two hundred years earlier. Was Monique trying to offend her? But then she looked again – recognised the sense of not being someone, but yearning for contact. And she realised that the poem did, in some way, speak to her.