Chapter 7
SEVEN
LUCY
For a moment, as Lucy awoke, she wasn’t sure where she was.
She blinked at the beautiful, light bedroom that looked as if it’d escaped from a spread in Glitz magazine on French farmhouse style.
She was lying in a bed with a brass frame, and on the opposite side of the room she saw a white-painted wardrobe and a chest of drawers covered with stencilled flowers.
A bright floral rug lay on the wooden floor and purple wildflowers sprang out of an old milk jug.
It wasn’t the Victorian townhouse she shared with her ex, Andrew, all clean lines and polished surfaces; it wasn’t the sleek hotel in Paris she’d been booked into for the fashion show either.
Normandy. I’m in Normandy, Lucy reminded herself as she fully awoke. I got a letter and I came to the bookshop. I’m going to sell it, but I need to uncover Mémé’s secret first.
But remembering where she was reminded her why she had come here so hurriedly. Yesterday’s pain came rushing back. She pushed away the bedsheets as the image returned to her of Andrew and Saskia in bed – their bed, the one that she had shared with Andrew.
Lucy lay there, breathing deeply, her hands over her chest as it rose and fell. She wouldn’t waste any more of her tears on him. And yet his betrayal hurt so much. He’d destroyed everything.
They’d met in their last year at university, and they’d supported each other as Andrew had found his feet as an architect, while she’d channelled her love of reading and writing into working on magazines.
Their life together in London was fast-paced; a new restaurant opening here, a grand opening of a hotel Andrew had designed there.
They received invitations to glittering champagne receptions and fancy dinner parties.
But at home they were themselves, content and intimate.
In the evenings, they put their professional lives behind them.
Andrew would sit on the sofa watching the rugby, and Lucy would drape her legs across his lap while she read, her designer heels swapped for comfy slippers.
He didn’t mind her tottering to-be-read pile by the bed.
A couple of years ago, she’d wanted to start a book club and had hired a back room at a nearby café.
Everyone she’d invited had told her they were going to attend.
But on the night, no one arrived. She’d sat all alone, surrounded by biscuits and empty cups, nursing a well-thumbed copy of Wolf Hall on her lap.
When she got home she tried to pretend that she wasn’t upset, but Andrew knew.
He told her he’d be her book club that evening, and opened a bottle of wine.
They sat in the lounge together talking about the Tudors and power, their thoughts ranging wide.
Lucy had felt closer to him than ever. How could she not have loved a man like that?
Bitterly, she realised that, if she hadn’t forgotten her passport yesterday morning on her way to the fashion show in Paris, she would have married Andrew. She would’ve had a gold wedding band on her finger, with no idea what was going on behind her back.
That day was a big one for Andrew Brooke then she noticed that there was an Air France plane headed to Caen. It wasn’t far from Caen to Cordeval.
She’d thought of the letter that had arrived a couple of weeks earlier.
A notary in France had written to tell her that she’d inherited Mémé’s bookshop and enclosed the shop’s large, brass key.
At the time, Lucy had been so caught up with the constant demands of the looming wedding that she’d put them in the bottom of her handbag.
Lucy had thought of Mémé’s smile, and her grandad’s laugh, which had always greeted her childhood visits to the village.
She thought of the shelves in the bookshop, stacked with treasures, and the book-nooks where she’d curled up with stories.
She remembered sitting on the beanbags, transported by Mémé’s storytelling, beneath the toy birds and planes that Papi had strung from the ceiling.
The shop had ignited her love of reading before she’d even started school, and had led her to pick up a pen and write herself.
She’d thought of the salt on the sea air and the pastries she’d buy from the bakery each morning. All her memories of Cordeval were a warm hug, and she needed that more than anything.
She wasn’t the sort of person to suddenly break off plans, but it would’ve been unbearable to meet her colleagues from other magazines, who knew about the wedding and would inevitably have asked her about it.
And if she’d sat next to that catwalk in Paris, she wouldn’t have seen the models or the clothes they were wearing.
She wouldn’t have been awestruck by the boldness of the designs and colours on display.
She would have seen only indistinct figures moving through tears that she couldn’t let herself shed.
And now she not only had a bookshop to escape into, but the story of the book club they’d held during the occupation, a story full of secrets that Mémé wanted her to discover.
Lucy was still wearing her engagement ring, a platinum band with a square diamond.
She’d grown so used to it that, with everything that had happened the day before, it hadn’t crossed her mind to take it off.
She gritted her teeth as she pulled the ring off her finger, then held it up to the light that was coming into the room around the dark pink chintz curtains.
It was as if, somewhere in the diamond’s heart, she could see herself with Andrew, dancing in his arms.
She wasn’t sure what to do with the ring. Give it back? Throw it into the sea? Instead, she pushed it down into the bottom of her suitcase where she wouldn’t have to see it.
She’d left her phone charging while she’d slept. It was sitting on the bedside table showing the time: 9.41. How had she managed to oversleep?
The phone reception had dropped out, which wasn’t surprising, but Jojo’s Wifi had connected, albeit without many bars. There was at least enough signal to make some phone calls.
She plumped up the pillows and leaned back against them, checking her phone to see if anyone had tried to get in touch.
When she swiped her phone’s screen, her heart sank: it was full of unread messages.
While waiting in the queue to board her plane yesterday, she’d sent her dad a quick text, and a message to the chat group she’d set up with her bridesmaids, her fingers moving stiffly to tap out just a short few sentences to tell them the wedding was off. But not why.
And when she’d landed, there were three missed calls and a voicemail that she knew would be from Andrew, but there was only one message. It said simply, It was a mistake. I love you, call when you land. X.
Lucy’s reply, sent from the back of the taxi as she headed to Cordeval, had been short and to the point as she’d bitten back the flames of her anger: I don’t want to speak to you. I certainly don’t want to marry you.
She still needed to tell her dad, and explain to her boss.
First of all, she decided to ring her dad.
A ball of rage and sadness swelled inside her as she waited for him to answer.
He’d been so proud of her, and had paid for her dress and put down a deposit for the reception.
He’d been so looking forward to the wedding – she was his only child, after all.
She really didn’t want to have to tell him such awful news.
‘Dad, it’s me,’ Lucy said when he picked up. She could hear noise in the background that sounded like a station and she pictured her father at home in London, amid the bustle and life that she had left behind.
‘Hello Lulu, what’s up?’ Philip said brightly. ‘You’ve caught me on my way to meet Di; she’s forcing me to accompany her to the blasted ballet this evening!’
‘I’ve got bad news,’ she admitted. ‘It’s the wedding… I’ve got to call it off. It’s Andrew, he’s…’ She gulped back the tears that were threatening to fall. ‘He’s been having an affair. I only found out yesterday. I’m in Cordeval. I’ve got some time off, and there’s the bookshop to sort out…’
‘He’s what?’ Philip asked, surprised. ‘Darling, what’s happened? You’re— you shouldn’t be on your own. Come home!’
‘It’s okay, Dad, really,’ Lucy said. ‘I’ve met Mémé’s friend Beatrice and her grandson. They run the hotel where I’m staying. They’re such lovely people – just the kind I need to be around at the moment. You’ll never guess – when I arrived, they were holding a party to celebrate Mémé’s birthday!’
‘Come home,’ he reiterated. ‘I’m going to phone Andrew and find out what the hell he thinks he’s up to.’