On the Book Train to Paris

Prologue

‘Can you believe we’ve finally made it, Elsa?’ says Nancy, drawing me into a huddle, my best friend’s fingers streaked with dry paint, as usual. Nancy wraps her arms around Tom on the other side, and I squeeze Bill’s hand tightly, the reality of what we are all about to embark on suddenly here.

‘Your mum would be so proud of you, darling,’ Tom says to Nancy, leaning down to kiss his wife’s head, as her grey-blue eyes brim with tears.

‘She absolutely would,’ I say, pulling Nancy closer.

‘We should all be proud,’ says Bill, and he looks up, his warm, twinkling brown eyes turning around the gallery.

The scent of the fresh white paint still lingers, Nancy’s vibrant paintings light up the walls, and Bill’s elegant ceramics sit on plinths and tables throughout the front and back spaces.

‘London feels like a distant memory now,’ I say, thrilled with how Nancy’s parents’ bookshop has converted into a gallery, delighted with the space Tom and I have created for our artistic spouses to showcase their work, optimistic that the gamble of the four of us leaving our past lives behind to move to Edinburgh will pay off.

‘I much prefer it here, Mama,’ says Fran. We all turn to watch her as she lifts her head from her book, Ballet Shoes, and twirls her way round the gallery, adorable in her tutu for opening night.

‘Even more reason to make a success of the place,’ laughs Nancy, ruffling her daughter’s hair, her eyes filling again.

‘Then I guess we should open the door, let the masses in!’ says Tom.

‘Let me take a picture, Papa! Please, please!’ Fran runs to get her dad’s camera from the bookshelf.

‘OK, sweetheart, hold on. First, a toast,’ says Tom, reaching for a tray of champagne flutes and passing them round.

‘To us,’ says Nancy, lifting her glass and smiling her best infectious smile, her eyes lit up.

‘To us,’ we chorus, clinking glasses as the camera flashes, toasting the beginning of our for ever.