Chapter 16 Carly
CARLY
Daisy, Joe and I started the morning close to the hotel with a coffee followed by a browse of the London Review Bookshop, a light and welcoming shop with a handsome, dark green facade.
Not satisfied with just one bookshop, we then headed down to Covent Garden to Cecil Court, where we wove in and out of the second-hand bookshops and antiquarian booksellers.
After the luxury of the train and the hotel, it felt good to be out in the city chilling with two people my own age, enjoying our love of books together.
Joe shared his dream of being a bookseller or librarian instead of doing tours at the library, and Daisy gabbled on about bookshop design and how she believes books are the thing that make any space a home.
I told them I envied them their passions.
I could have spent days browsing the bookshops, and it crossed my mind that if I worked for Marleen, I’d have all of London’s bookshops to enjoy, but Flynn had told us we had to be at St Pancras by noon to check in for our train to Paris, so more browsing had to wait.
In the end, check-in for the Eurostar took half the time Flynn had planned so we had a while to rest in the lounge or head upstairs to the pubs and bars of the main concourse.
‘Let me take you for that drink,’ says Nicolas, when he finds me looking for Elsa and Mum in the Eurostar lounge.
‘Ah, sure,’ I say, caught a little off-guard but conscious that he did offer last night. I’d planned to take him up on the suggestion, but I’d gone on the walking tour and then crashed out on my hotel bed instead.
‘I know a great place,’ he says, leading me to the escalator that heads up to the main concourse. Standing on the step above him I’m almost at his eye level, light marbles of green, blue and brown, brought out by the forest-green cashmere slung over his shoulders.
‘Champagne and oysters?’ I ask, when he takes me to Searcy’s, a handsome rectangular bar set under the station’s huge Gothic canopy. The dark wood and brass detailing put me in mind of the Scotsman.
‘Why not?’ he says, his eyes shining. I haven’t the heart to tell him that I’m not really an oyster kind of girl.
‘OK, sure,’ I shrug, and a host in a white shirt and brown apron shows us to two blue velvet stools at the corner of the bar.
‘You look very beautiful today,’ he says, after we’ve ordered.
‘Thank you.’ I blush, feeling a little too seen, regretting the choice of low-cut sleeveless blouse.
‘And your scent, so floral, what is that?’ he asks, leaning in.
Before I can answer he closes his eyes and says, ‘Dior. J’adore.’
‘How did you know that?’ I laugh, a little weirded out, really not used to the attention he’s showering on me.
‘I worked in a Paris department store when I was a student, at the perfume counter,’ he answers, and I recall him mentioning how he and Flynn had known each other since university days.
‘Where did you study?’ I ask, receiving a glass of champagne and a small plate of oysters.
‘At the Sorbonne.’
‘Not in London?’ I ask, remembering Flynn said he’d studied here.
‘I met Flynn during his exchange year in Paris. We were both studying English Literature, and Flynn, French also.’
‘Like my mother,’ I say, surprised to learn that Flynn is an English graduate, lacking the usual romance of all the literary students I’ve known.
‘Really?’ he asks, tilting his head back to down an oyster.
I explain about her route to becoming a writer: English Literature degree, short publishing career, then a master’s in creative writing.
‘You weren’t interested in doing the same?’
I shake my head. ‘Too lonely for me,’ I say, thinking of all the hours Mum spent alone in her study, only to emerge lost in a world of her imagination. ‘I guess I like being with people.’
‘That’s why I chose journalism, it felt like the best of both worlds.’
‘You were smart,’ I say.
We chat for a while about my past work in kids’ literacy, our favourite books, and the merits of film adaptations, and I find myself enjoying his company.
‘My mum’s struggling at the moment,’ I say, when he’s been telling me about the book he’s been trying to write since he was a student.
‘How so?’
‘Writer’s block, lacking confidence in the quality of her writing, a slump in sales. It’s tough. She’s totally lost her romantic mojo.’
‘It’s not uncommon,’ he says, his head tilted to one side, a warmth in his eyes that draws me in. ‘Particularly with the pace of the industry.’
‘You and Flynn have been friends since university?’ I ask, when he isn’t forthcoming with anything else.
At this he rests his chin between his thumb and index finger and his eyes move from me to his drink. ‘Friends?’ He considers this for a moment. ‘Perhaps “colleagues” is more accurate.’
‘But Flynn doesn’t work in journalism.’
He is just about to respond when a rumpus at the opposite corner of the bar draws our attention.
‘It looks as if Flynn has his hands full,’ laughs Nicolas when we clock Christopher Rose flailing around on a stool, Flynn physically preventing him from falling. He was much the same last night in the library: loud and pompous and clearly drunk.
‘Maybe we should offer to help,’ I suggest, spotting Ginny joining them, her on one side, Flynn on the other.
‘I imagine we’d only be in the way,’ says Nicolas, necking another oyster and wiping his mouth on his napkin. ‘Come, let’s board the train. Paris awaits!’
As I wait for Nicolas to pay, Mum and Elsa arrive off the escalator, both linking arms with me immediately and ushering me towards the Eurostar.
‘Let’s find a table and sit together,’ says Elsa excitedly as we scan the carriages for Premier class.
‘Here we are,’ I say, pressing the door button and gesturing for Elsa and Mum to go ahead.
The train is simple and clean with big comfy seats and plenty of leg room, but other than that, and compared to the Scotsman, it’s functional at best. It’s not long before we’re pulling out of the station, through the suburbs of London and whizzing through the lush Kent countryside.
‘Where did you disappear to?’ Mum asks when a three-course lunch has been served.
I explain about Nicolas and the oyster bar.
‘I think you have an admirer there,’ says Mum, a twinkle in her eye.
I shake my head and shrug, the daylight shifting to artificial light as the train enters the Eurotunnel.
‘What is it with me and men? Why do I have so many barriers up?’ I ask, almost more to myself than to Elsa and Mum.
‘Your independence gets in the way,’ replies Elsa. This is uncharacteristically to the point, since she usually takes a tactful route with me, unlike Mum.
‘Does it?’
‘Or perhaps it’s because you fear loss,’ she suggests, buttering her warm bread to have with the small bowl of French onion soup.
‘But why? It doesn’t make sense. I know Paul cheated on me, but the scar can’t run that deep.
’ I sit for a moment, watching my reflection in the window against the concrete and cabling of the tunnel.
‘And I have lots of long-term friendships, I don’t fear losing those.
What’s so different between friendships and relationships? ’
‘Intimacy,’ says Elsa, without missing a beat.
Mum and I look at her.
‘A strong relationship requires four things,’ she continues. ‘Friendship, trust, respect and intimacy, both physical and emotional. Without intimacy, what have you left?’
‘Companionship?’ Mum asks, as if it were a school test.
‘Which is all well and good when you’re my age,’ Elsa laughs, her soft skin crinkling round her eyes. ‘But it’s not much use when you’re twenty-nine. You don’t allow men to become intimate with you in case you lose them.’
‘Because of Paul?’ I ask, not convinced Elsa’s theory quite rings true.
‘It’s my fault,’ says Mum, a piece of bread poised above her soup.
‘How?’ I ask, puzzled by what part my mother could possibly have played in my love life.
‘Losing my grandmother and mother when I did, I’ve always feared loss.
Over time I’ve distanced myself from everyone, physically and emotionally, including you, and your dad.
I imagine it’s part of the reason I’m a writer, creating worlds I’m completely in control of.
If I didn’t have the connection, I couldn’t have the loss. ’
‘Are you saying I don’t get close to people because of something that happened two and three generations ago?’ I ask uncertainly.
‘Partly,’ she answers, pausing to give me time to allow the idea to soak in. ‘I’ve carried a lot of fear into parenting, which is probably the reason why you don’t have a sibling – I was fearful for a long time that I wouldn’t be around long enough to look after you.’
‘I’m sorry you felt that way,’ I say, thankful for her willingness to share, and wishing she’d done so long ago.
‘I’m certain you’ve absorbed some of that fear from me, and that, coupled with the hurt Paul caused, is enough for you to resist becoming too emotionally involved in relationships.’
‘Huh,’ I say, a bit taken aback by this revelation, and not entirely sure what to do with it.
‘Long-term intimacy isn’t so challenging when we let go of the stories we tell ourselves, and see the world for what it is,’ says Elsa, giving my hand a pat. ‘Open up your heart a little, Carly-girl, and see who you might let in.’
I leave Mum and Elsa in their seats with the promise of returning with an extra drink. In the bar, a queue snakes the length of the carriage, so I prop myself against the long grey counter.
I’m thinking about what Mum and Elsa both said about generational loss and fear, and how that’s impacted on me, when the man in front of me, tall, lean and in his fifties, who’s been watching me from the corner of his eye side on, turns and says, ‘You look familiar, do I know you?’
‘I don’t think so,’ I smile politely, though I’m thinking, I’ve heard this line before.
‘Huh,’ he says, not releasing his stare. His eyes, behind his wire-framed glasses, are dark and hard as conkers.
‘Are you part of the book train?’ I ask, hoping that might be it, that he recognises me from the Scotsman.
He shakes his head. ‘I’m travelling from London to Paris, that’s all.’
‘For work?’
He nods, still watching me. ‘What is it you do?’
I think for a moment, not wanting to say ‘temp’, not feeling able to say ‘bookseller’. ‘Book stuff,’ I answer vaguely. ‘I haven’t really found my groove yet in life.’
‘Join the club,’ he scoffs.
I cast my eyes down, hoping he’ll give up and turn around, that the queue will move forward.
‘I hope you find what you’re looking for,’ he says, in a way that suggests he’s doubtful, that even if I do it might not change anything.
‘Thanks. Think I might give up on this,’ I say, indicating the queue, which shows no signs of moving, and I sneak away, back to Elsa and Mum.
The train arrives at the Gare du Nord and we file down the aisle towards the exit, my stomach doing tiny somersaults in anticipation of what might lie ahead.
Despite the hustle of the busy platform, and a soft, yeasty aroma filling my senses, my head is awash with questions about my relationship with intimacy, and I wonder if Paris might hold some answers.
In front of me, by the door, Frank is holding his case and cane, accompanied by Marleen.
As the door slides open, Chris Rose pushes past me and trips, falling against Marleen who then stumbles against Frank.
Before I can do anything, Frank and his cane tumble to the platform floor and land in a painful heap.
‘Oh my God,’ I utter, stepping over Chris Rose, Marleen secure by the door, and jumping on to the platform.
‘What happened?’ asks Flynn, appearing by my side, concern etched on his face.
‘I’m fine, just a silly old buzzard,’ blusters Frank, hauling himself into a sitting position and trying to pull himself up none too confidently.
Flynn and I crouch behind him to ensure he doesn’t topple again, my bare arm brushing against the fine wool of his jacket causing my hairs to stand on end.
‘It wasn’t your fault,’ I say, a helpful station worker appearing with a wheelchair.
‘No, it wasn’t,’ says Flynn, looking down the platform, where Chris Rose is rushing through the barriers, and out towards the centre of Paris.