Chapter 20
Tilly follows Cécile’s advice and heads to the Shakespeare and Company café, positioning herself at one of the outdoor tables and ordering an English breakfast tea and a Gruyère toastie.
With the sound of horns honking on the street opposite and the excited exclamations of people approaching the bookshop ringing in her ears, she pulls the parcel out from the tote bag.
Carefully, she peels back the marble paper.
As the book inside is revealed she lifts a hand to her mouth, breathing in sharply.
‘Joe. You remembered.’
Inside is an image she knows well, a sketched drawing of the Eiffel Tower accompanied by a group of girls in yellow uniforms. One of the girls has red hair.
The edition is wrapped neatly in cellophane, and a sticker with the Shakespeare and Company logo tells her it is a first edition.
‘I can’t believe you remembered,’ she says quietly as she holds the copy of Madeline by Ludwig Bemelmans between her hands. As she sniffs, wiping at her face, she spots an envelope she hadn’t noticed before amongst the paper wrappings.
With trembling hands she slices it open, pulling out a postcard depicting the facade of the Shakespeare and Company bookshop, some words jotted on the back.
Dear Tilly,
If you are reading this then you made it to Paris. Félicitations! Is it everything you imagined when you read this book as a child? I hope it is, and more.
You once told me that you liked Madeline so much because she was feisty and brave, but that you and her weren’t alike. I hope you are starting to realize that isn’t true.
I love you, my library mouse, my brave Madeline, my darling Matilda.
Now go enjoy Paris. It’s all waiting for you.
Joe x
She barely manages to read the final words through her tears.
The talk has already begun by the time Tilly pushes open the door to Shakespeare and Company on Friday evening, her hair flying wildly about her face and her floral dress clinging to her skin after a rush across Paris on the Métro and a dash along the banks of the Seine.
She follows the sound of voices up to the event space, where chairs have been set up in rows in front of the author and an interviewer.
‘Sorry,’ she mouths silently, but they both just smile and continue their conversation.
Tilly spots Cécile sat in the front row taking photos; she turns and gives a little wave.
‘This seat is free,’ whispers a woman in the back as she moves her bag off the spare seat to make room for Tilly.
‘Thank you.’
She changed her mind several times over the course of the day about whether or not to come.
One minute she felt glad of an excuse to go back to the bookshop and the next she wasn’t sure she could face an evening surrounded by strangers.
She was very close to staying in with a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and a slab of Brie when she thought of the letter from Joe and gave herself a talking-to.
It’s only when her breathing has settled that she zones in to what the author is saying. She is a woman who seems to be in her late thirties, dressed in an elegant blue suit that matches the cover of her book.
‘… and the thing is, I didn’t know anyone else who was in my position at the time.
It made me feel really isolated, like I was swirling through space totally alone.
But over time I’ve come to realize that, of course, I wasn’t alone.
There were lots of us out there. Which is where the inspiration for the book cover came from.
I came to think of other people like me as stars in space, seemingly alone and far apart, but if you look closely you can see our glow.
I find it reassuring to think that I’m not just a lone star but part of a whole constellation. ’
The woman beside Tilly nods thoughtfully. She has a copy of the author’s book held tightly between her hands.
The interviewer, a middle-aged man with a serious yet friendly expression, chips in. ‘It feels a shame, doesn’t it, that it’s an experience that can feel so hidden? And yet it’s something we will all experience at one point in our life.’
The author nods vigorously, her dangling star earrings catching the light.
‘Yes, exactly. And it hasn’t always been this way. Back in the Victorian era, for example, things were very different. Now, there are a lot of things I don’t like about how the Victorians approached grief …’
Tilly’s breath catches.
‘… for example, I hate that they had such strict rules about periods of mourning, dictated by the person’s perceived closeness to you.
It’s not up to anyone else to say how significant someone was in your life or to set a timeline for your grief.
You’re not going to be over the death of a loved one after, say, three months, just because that’s what society tells you. ’
Up until now Tilly has been half listening and half scanning the space, taking in the other members of the audience and the walls of books. But now her attention fixes on Amirah Lopez.
‘But while the rules around grief might have been flawed, I found myself envying the public nature of mourning in the past. When my mum died I wanted to tie a black ribbon to our house. It felt ludicrous that no one on our street knew that behind our door, a family had just been shattered. I wanted to wear some marker of my loss on my body. A veil or a black cloak or just an enormous badge that read, “I’m grieving.” Before it happened, I would have imagined that I would want to deal with loss quietly and privately but when death knocked at our door, I wanted people to know.
Maybe so they could act a little kinder and be more understanding when I stood in the supermarket unable to choose between brands of biscuits, but also because I wanted the pain I felt to be visible.
Because it was all I had left of my mum.
I didn’t want to hide it, because hiding my grief felt like hiding the most important thing of all – my love for her. ’
A soft touch on Tilly’s arm makes her pull her attention away from the stage. Her neighbour is handing her a tissue. ‘Here,’ she says softly.
‘Thank you,’ Tilly says as she blows her nose.
‘I’d like to read a short passage from my book, if that’s all right,’ Amirah Lopez says from the stage.
Tilly listens in silence to a story of loss that is different to her own and yet holds so many similarities.
Amirah describes some of her darkest moments but also how she came to find light again – for her, through small pleasures like freshly ground coffee, walks with friends, and taking up her mother’s favourite hobby: stargazing.
‘The telescope had always stood in the corner of our living room. A curious, shining silver contraption, and yet it held no real interest for me in the past, because it was so much a part of my mother that using it would have been like trying on one of her cardigans or slipping my feet into her shoes – something that would feel wrong when the person is alive but becomes painfully appealing when they are gone. One night, not long after she died, I decided to give it a go. I drew my face up to the eyepiece, expecting to see only a blur and have to fiddle about with the settings. But I looked through and saw a glorious vision of light and dark. My mother was gone and yet with the telescope held gently between my fingers I had a part of her in my hands, and saw her heart spread out before me in the stars.’
Her voice wobbles on the final words and then she quietly closes the book and sets it down on her lap.
For a moment there is complete silence, before the small room bursts into rapturous applause.