Chapter 5
FRAN
‘Mum,’ Carly says, appearing in the studio, her tone suggesting she has called me several times already.
‘Sorry, love. I must have been miles away,’ I reply, rinsing my brush in an old jam jar.
She looks at the canvas in front of us, her brow furrowed, then at me. ‘You OK?’
‘Yes,’ I fib, never having shared marital issues with Carly before and not wanting to now. ‘Why do you ask?’
We both look at the sketch – a floating couple under the moon with an ancient church in the background, and a smoking village in the fore.
‘No reason,’ she says.
I wonder if Carly sees something in it that I do not.
‘Do you need me?’ I ask.
‘Oh yeah,’ she says, snapping out of her stare, her eyes brightening. ‘There’s a guy in the shop you really need to meet. Come down.’
‘Let me clean myself up. I’ll be there in a minute,’ I say, wondering who’s caused this burst of excitement.
Washing my hands, I look into the mirror at the little sink where Carly spent hours while I was writing, cleaning shells and making hand-bubbles as a girl, and practising applying make-up as a teenager.
I let the warm water rinse the paint off my hands and notice my crow’s feet.
As I dry my hands and tidy my ponytail, my mind returns to Robin’s unhappiness.
Deciding not to dwell, I hurry downstairs and enter the bookshop via the back, trying to ignore the piles of books on the floor by focusing on the photographs on the wall instead.
The first shows my great-grandparents, pre-war, standing outside the building; the sign above the door reads Henderson’s Bookbinders and Stationers Est. 1832.
In truth, they were much more than that: binding, restoring and selling books alongside stationery supplies.
The second photograph is of my grandparents, also standing outside the shop with my mother and uncle as children, having taken over the business after the war.
They let go of the bookbinding part of the business to concentrate on selling antique and second-hand books and stationery, with great success.
The third photo, taken by me, is of my mother and father, and Elsa and Bill, after we’d all moved from London to Edinburgh when my grandmother died.
The photo shows the four of them huddled together, on the opening night of the gallery, having converted the bookshop into a contemporary space, selling paintings and ceramics, alongside the sale of new and second-hand art books and art supplies.
And the last is of Robin, me and Carly at eight years old, years after my mother’s death, when Robin had transformed the gallery back into a flourishing bookshop.
I stop to look at Robin’s face, so lit up with delight at what the bookshop had become, and full of ambition and excitement as to what it might still be.
Such a contrast to how things are now. I dread to think what the generations of Hendersons gone by would make of it.
My father, who moved out when my mother died, is generous enough not to comment.
‘Mum, this is Flynn Gardener,’ says Carly when I find them at the front of the shop, the young man perusing the outdated fiction titles. ‘Flynn, Frances Henderson.’
‘A pleasure to meet you,’ says Flynn. He’s very handsome. I can see why Carly was animated. ‘My mother loved your books. The house was full of them when I was young.’
‘Thank you,’ I laugh, batting away my instinct to fixate on his use of the past tense. ‘It’s always good to be reminded that readers enjoy my work.’
‘Flynn has a great opportunity for you, for us,’ says Carly.
‘Oh yes?’ I ask, conscious of my hesitancy, uncertain of how capable I’ll be of doing whatever he’s about to suggest.
‘I’m organising a book festival on a train from Edinburgh to Paris – I’ve one last bookseller and author spot to fill. When Carly mentioned that her mother was the illustrious Frances Henderson, it felt like a no-brainer to ask if you’d like to take part.’
‘A book train! What a wonderful idea,’ I say sincerely, imagining enjoying the experience as a reader, but at the same time I’m wary; the prospect of contributing to a book festival while struggling with writer’s block gives me palpitations.
‘It would be such a coup for us to have you alongside the others, and in particular Christopher Rose – a bestselling crime author and a bestselling romance author heading the bill.’
‘Ye-es,’ I muse quietly, wondering what a romance author with a failing marriage could possibly contribute to the experience, but flattered that Flynn should think I’m equal to Christopher Rose, Chris Rose having been an industry darling for over thirty years, whose sales figures defy all trends, and whose work has been made into countless films.
‘You’ve published what, twenty, twenty-five books over the course of your career, topped the bestseller list, and sold in countless different countries, am I correct?’ asks Flynn. He talks with such warmth and enthusiasm, it feels as if we’ve known each other for years.
‘You’re right – you know your books. You must have a lot of experience,’ I say, beginning to feel as if I’ve grown an inch.
‘There are few other people in the country more qualified to talk about romantic fiction. Your presence really would elevate the experience.’
‘I don’t know,’ I say.
‘The hope would be for you to do the same as Chris, the standard book festival format – a workshop and a meet and greet – although he’ll be doing the big finale in Paris, a Q&A on his life’s work, rather than a workshop.
I’m certain our guests would be queuing the length of the train to attend your sessions. ’
‘When is this happening?’ I ask, my curiosity piqued, beginning to think that some time away might be just what the doctor ordered.
‘Next Friday,’ says Flynn, quickly following up with, ‘There’s a lot of excitement on our social channels – you really would be the cherry on top of the cake.’
‘Next Friday,’ I echo, surprised. From the corner of my eye, I see Carly frown.
‘And, of course, there’s a generous fee, which I’m more than happy to send you details of.
But more importantly, it would be a great opportunity to generate interest in your latest book whilst enjoying the train and all that London and Paris have to offer, hopefully alongside your daughter as bookseller. ’
‘Can you give us twenty-four hours to think about it?’ Carly asks, the enthusiasm that was written all over her face having faded.
‘Of course, I realise it’s a lot to take in, but I promise, if you go for it, you won’t regret it for a moment.’
‘What was that about?’ I ask, once Flynn has gone and Carly and I are alone in the shop.
‘How do you mean?’
‘I thought you were keen on the idea, maybe even keen on him, but then you all but threw him out.’
Carly returns to her sorting of the books, more vigorously than usual.
‘I was, but then when he was talking, he sounded a bit too keen and opportunistic, don’t you think? All that chat about huge queues of readers and you being the cherry on top of it all when he clearly hasn’t even thought about you until he walked into the shop.’
‘He’s a marketing man, it comes with the territory. It could be fun, Carly. Like he said, it might help raise my profile again. Maybe I’ll come up with a new idea or two. And it could be good for you too. God knows we both need the income.’
‘I’m not saying no. I’m just saying let’s give it some thought. I know all publicity is meant to be good publicity, but that’s not always the case. Damaging your reputation at this stage in your career wouldn’t be great.’
‘Carly, you’re overthinking this.’
‘I just don’t want anyone taking advantage of you, that’s all,’ she says, her rankle abating slightly.
‘Who’s taking advantage? He gets an author, I get a new perspective. You were sold on the idea when he first suggested it.’
‘Right,’ she says, but I can tell her guard’s up, something Carly has always been prone to, particularly with men. ‘I’d just like to know a bit more – the company he works for, the other authors, other than Christopher Rose.’
Carly pulls her phone out from the pocket of her jeans, types and reads, taps the screen countless more times and eventually puts it back where it came from.
‘Satisfied?’ I ask, assuming she’s been cyber-stalking him.
‘I couldn’t find much,’ she shrugs, then says grudgingly, ‘He’s Head of Events at a big company split between London and here. Their socials are full of publicity for the book train, the authors are stellar. It looks legit.’
‘So, there you go, just as he said,’ I say, carrying a tower of cookbooks to the back to begin inserting them alphabetically. Carly purses her lips.
‘I guess it would be great to meet some new people, maybe make some contacts that might lead to work. And I suppose we were talking this morning about you having more fun and getting ideas from the places you like to visit. You do love Paris. You always get that faraway look in your eye when anyone mentions it.’
‘What faraway look?’ I laugh performatively, not realising until now that Carly had noticed. Trying to act natural, I return to the front and reach for a plastic bag on the floor.
‘Ever since I was little . . .’ she begins, and though I can hear her continuing, all my senses are suddenly drawn to a book I’ve just lifted out of the bag.
The rich red leather with dark inlay transports me back, over thirty years, to twenty-four hours in Paris.
I’d been to Shakespeare and Company and bought a copy of The Hunchback of Notre-Dame, which I’d planned to read in cafés around the city.
But almost as soon as I left the bookshop, I struck up a conversation with a young man on the steps of Notre-Dame, and all plans to read were lost.
In truth, the book looks like a thousand others of its age but there’s something about it, so worn and soft, that causes my heart to pump a little faster. I turn the spine towards me. My heart skips a beat when I see the familiar gold print of The Hunchback of Notre-Dame.
‘It can’t be,’ I breathe, tentatively opening the cover to the title page. And there, my hands shaking, between the translation credit and the publisher’s logo, are the words:
Alistair,
Que sera, sera!
Bisous,
Fran
It’s as if the Leith river has broken its banks and swept me up and away in a torrent of memories that leads me straight to Sacré Coeur, kissing Alistair, under the moon, and feeling as if all my dreams had come true.
I think of the times I’ve wondered about the man I let go all those years ago, and questioned how my life might have been had I chosen to exchange contact details with him.
How on earth has this same copy found its way here?
I’m lost in the shock of it all when I hear Carly say, ‘Hi Dad.’
Her words cause me to snap the book closed and place it on the table with the others, a wave of guilt surging through me.
‘Was someone in the shop a moment ago?’ Robin asks Carly, barely looking at me.
Carly tells him about Flynn, and the book train to Paris.
‘You should both go,’ he says, not stopping to think about it. ‘It’s a great opportunity for you to do a bit of passion finding, Carly, and Fran, it might give you the headspace you need to get over your block.’
Even though I agree with him, an irrational wave of anger rises inside me, hurt that he’s so keen to get rid of me, and that he doesn’t stop to consider that it might be better for Carly to go alone so that we can stay home and work out what’s wrong with our marriage.
I want to show him the book and say how guilty I feel, to have passionate memories of someone other than him. How all I long for is to be visible again, for us to love each other as deeply as we used to, before blame and resentment crept in.
‘You’re so right, Dad. What was I thinking!’ says Carly, always so easily persuaded by Robin, something I’ve always envied. ‘It’ll be a great opportunity to network and promote the bookshop, plus I can look out for Mum at the same time.’
‘I’m really not in need of a chaperone,’ I snap, instantly regretting my choice of word.
‘Come on, Mum. We have to do this,’ says Carly, ignoring my outburst, her eyes lit up in a way I haven’t seen for a long while. Robin hugs her side on, both of them waiting for my response. I want desperately for him to say, You go, Carly, let your mum and me stay here, but he doesn’t.
From the corner of my eye, The Hunchback of Notre-Dame invites me to revisit my past, to remind myself of how it felt to be seen. In that moment, all the other reasons to go flash in front of me too: time with Carly, income, contacts and inspiration, and the decision makes itself.
‘You’re right, let’s do it,’ I reply, and Robin high-fives Carly, barely managing a smile for me.