Chapter 31
FRAN
A message from Flynn takes Carly back to the hotel and I decide to stroll, to clear my head of last night.
At some point I turn on to the Champs-élysées where the morning traffic is in full flow and workers are busy pulling out awnings and positioning tables and chairs on the broad pavement that leads towards the Arc de Triomphe.
Before long, I’m standing at the end of the Champs-élysées staring up at the huge arch, magnificent in the soft glow of the morning sun. I tumble down the stone stairs into the domed subway below, passing the exhibition entrance and up and out under the arch itself.
‘Wow,’ I whistle, the low rising sun framed perfectly by the soft limestone arch.
Closing my eyes, my thoughts and emotions seem to dissolve, the light illuminates my interior world, and in that brief moment I feel one with everything.
It is then that I understand something of what Marleen was referring to as peace, that this is simple awareness. This peace, this happiness, is me.
Wanting to sit, I take my jacket from around my waist and fold it into a cushion, positioning it facing east, and then, without conscious thought, I dig out my phone and FaceTime Robin.
‘Hello,’ he groans groggily, and only then do I realise it’s an hour earlier at home.
‘Fran?’ he asks, clearly still half asleep. I’m reminded of how dozy he is in the morning, like a bear coming out of hibernation, and how endearing it’s always been.
As he brings himself round, I recall our first morning of honeymoon, of how we’d woken, side by side, Robin tussled and cosy, me snuggling into his side.
We’d lain there for hours, just the two of us, talking about our wedding the day before.
We’d invited only our closest family and friends, a beautiful spring wedding in the garden across the road, me with a daffodil bouquet, Robin with a grape hyacinth buttonhole, both made with love by Elsa.
My mother had passed away six months earlier, my father moved out soon after, and the house had been cold all winter. Spring and our wedding had felt like a passage into something new: a warmer, happier time. Robin was key to the transition, a constant, stable presence in a life depleted of both.
As the sun rises I see now that I was still processing the loss of Mum, clinging to Robin in her absence. But now, finding my own sense of peace, I feel my grip on Robin loosen and my love flow more freely for it.
‘Sorry for waking you,’ I say, wishing he could be here with me to feel the sunrise on his skin.
‘Are you OK?’ he asks, his voice still groggy.
‘I’m OK,’ I answer, not mentioning how foolish I feel for turning Alistair into something he’s not. I hope Robin hears the comfort I feel just listening to him rouse, that he would know, as I do now, that the idea I could ever have imagined a future with anyone else seems preposterous and grey.
‘What’s going on?’ he asks.
‘I’m looking at the sun through the Arc de Triomphe.’ I switch my camera to show him, hoping that the sharing of this moment says something more: that I’m concerned about him, not my work or our finances, only him.
‘I’m sorry I lashed out,’ he says, sitting up and rubbing his big brown eyes.
‘I understand,’ I reply. The videocall is a safe place for us both to talk rationally without the physical heat of emotion getting in the way. ‘Don’t be mad – Carly told me about the loan.’
He closes his eyes for a moment, rubs his temples.
‘I’m sorry you’ve been carrying that burden alone,’ I say.
‘You’re not angry?’ he asks.
‘No.’ I shake my head, watching him fondly. ‘I’m glad I know. Now we can share it together. I was worried you wanted out of our marriage.’
He smiles a sad smile. ‘I’m so sorry, love.’
We say nothing for a moment, both of us watching the other.
‘Is it the reason you’ve been so withdrawn?’ I ask.
‘Partly,’ he answers.
‘That and burn out?’
‘I think so,’ he says, reaching for a glass of water, leaning his head back on the headboard.
‘You’ve been trying to provide for such a long time, to protect my inheritance, and Carly’s,’ I say, trying not to allow the guilt to eat into me.
‘We both have.’
‘You’ve had the burden for longer,’ I say, acknowledging how before Carly and I came along he helped his brother out financially too. ‘Burn out is our bodies’ way of telling us to slow down.’
He contemplates this, and nods. ‘Something needs to change. I can’t run the bookshop for ever, not as it is. And you can’t write if we’re under this much pressure.’
‘Everything changes,’ I say, repeating Marleen’s words from last night. ‘Our circumstances need to change, not you, and not me.’
‘But how?’ he asks. ‘I can’t see a way out – the bookshop is dead in the water. What else do I have?’
‘That’s what we need to figure out, and we will,’ I say, hoping Carly might be the key but not quite sure how, not ready to tell Robin her dream just yet.
‘Talking to each other is a good start, remembering we both want the same things: a little more income, a little more freedom, and each other. It’s not so difficult.
’ I stand to move towards the tomb of the unknown soldier.
There on the ground, a simple granite rectangle in brass outline, with the words Ici Repose un Soldat Francais Mort Pour la Patrie.
‘What are you looking at?’ he asks when I’m quiet for a time.
I turn the phone to show him the grave, an everlasting flame flickering with the sun behind it.
‘From darkness comes light,’ he says, and in that moment I know he will find his own peace, his own happiness.
‘Always,’ I reply with a smile.
If I’m honest, I’d hoped that Christopher Rose would turn up at the last minute and I’d be off the hook, but with only a few minutes remaining and with the library bar full of family, new friends and eager readers, it seems I’m going to have to take his place after all.
‘Welcome,’ Flynn begins, remarkably showing nothing of the stress he’s been under these last twelve hours.
‘Due to unforeseen circumstances, there’s been a last-minute change to the programme, and we find ourselves in the privileged position of being able to welcome to the stage one of the grandes dames of romance writing, Frances Henderson.
‘Frances’s career spans three decades during which she has written twenty-five novels, many of which have topped the bestseller charts.
Translated into over twenty languages and having sold in excess of two and a half million books worldwide, she really is at the forefront of contemporary romance fiction.
‘It is my absolute privilege to introduce to you, Frances Henderson.’
It feels as if I’m a boxer being buoyed into the ring: the over-enthusiastic announcer; the crowd cheering; the referee, in the form of Ginny, waiting to raise my arm.
‘Thank you,’ I say modestly, unable to hide a smile, taking a seat next to Ginny on the small stage as the audience’s applause abates.
‘Frances, welcome,’ Ginny begins, sounding perfectly serene, her notes sitting neatly on her lap.
I scan the audience for faces I know and find Carly sitting side-by-side with Nicolas, and Elsa, sitting with Frank and Marleen, looking keenly on.
‘Tell me, given all the romance titles you’ve written, why is it that none of them have been set here in Paris? ’
I laugh at Ginny’s question, and so do the audience, immediately breaking the ice.
‘Who’s to say Paris won’t be the setting for the next one,’ I answer, to which an ‘ooh’ spreads quietly round the room.
‘Sounds as if it might be a popular idea,’ she laughs, and I make a mental note that it has readers’ approval.
We spend the next forty-five minutes talking about various aspects of my writing process and whether my stage of life impacts my work.
‘And tell me, as a final question, where do you see your own work heading in the next few years?’
‘Well,’ I begin, aware of the conversations we’ve had around the subject privately. ‘As I mature it seems only sensible that my work should too, that I might pull away from more youthful romance to focus on love stories for people around my own age and older.
‘Romance is the biggest-selling genre in the world at the moment, and I have no desire to step away from it, but a side-step into book club fiction may fit well. Love is, after all, what makes the world go round.’
‘I couldn’t have said it better myself,’ says Ginny. ‘And perhaps an excellent place to open questions to the floor.’
I look out to the audience, hoping that someone will raise their hand.
‘Yes, the lady in white,’ says Ginny, pointing to one of the ladies who attended the workshop on the train.
‘I’ve been a fan of your work ever since your first book and I’m excited about your next. Can you tell us something about it?’
‘That’s a good question . . .’ I stall, hoping my racing heart can’t be heard on the microphone clipped to my chest.
Just then, as I’m trying to figure out how to fully answer the question, I notice Alistair enter the room. He gives a little wave, and a fond smile, and I can’t help thinking of Robin and his warm, handsome smile that’s lit up my world for so long.
I remember the breadth of his smile the moment Carly was born, after we’d rushed to the hospital in our beaten-up old car, only just making it in time.
Exhausted and elated, we’d driven home, me in the back with Carly, Robin driving at twenty miles per hour all the way back through the city.
Robin had been so proud of her, he kept her in the shop almost every hour of the day, while trying to grow the business, telling anyone who would listen how perfect she was.
Inspired by the memory, the idea I’ve been mulling over these last few days rapidly takes a fuller shape.
‘It features a book,’ I begin, feeling my way, ‘that turns up in a bookshop, with lots of tokens from a trip – a postcard, a ticket, a bookmark – that take the main character on a journey of self-discovery, from a flailing marriage to a long-lost love, and the discovery of what a real romantic hero truly looks like.’
‘It sounds marvellous,’ smiles Ginny. ‘I think I speak for all of us here when I say we’ll look forward to reading it.’
A look around the room at lots of approving nods tells me Ginny might be right, and I hope inwardly that it will find a publisher.
‘If I may?’ comes a voice from the audience.
‘Of course,’ says Ginny, and Nicolas stands up.
‘You talk about your new book, and I wonder: why such a long gap since your last one? Were you blocked? Did you lose confidence in your writing? Or perhaps romance doesn’t interest you any more?’ I notice his voice, previously so charming, has taken on a steelier tone.
It takes me, and the audience, a while to absorb this question, and when I do it’s as if the room has slowed, that I’m the boxer in the ring again but this time I’ve just received a knock-out blow.
I struggle for a moment, spot Carly shrinking away from Nicolas, as I try to make sense of what’s happened.
‘Quite the opposite,’ I say shakily, the mention of my block and loss of confidence like a punch to my gut, but also aware of a new sense of balance within me.
‘Romance gets people reading in a world where many struggle to read more than a brief post on social media. Romance offers enjoyment, escapism, some love and peace in a world consumed by individualism and self-promotion. In my opinion, romance makes the world a little sweeter.’
‘That may be so, but what of the gap, and the quality? Surely as a writer you are concerned by the dumbing down of writing, and you would wish to see the craft survive.’
‘Writers aren’t machines. The act of living informs our work.
I simply needed some time to be, rather than to do.
And the craft of writing isn’t going anywhere,’ I answer, a renewed sense of purpose rising victoriously within me.
‘Yes, there may be more “lighter” work on the market, but equally there is more literary work too – and book club fiction, which combines the two, is thriving. If anything, the income generated by romance aids publishing houses to afford more literary work which historically doesn’t sell as well.
And if you’re struggling for any reason to find the beautifully crafted work you desire, then that’s what good booksellers are for.
’ Carly, next to him, sits a little taller.
‘And I will always support and champion independent neighbourhood bookshops.’
I breathe a long sigh of satisfaction, glad to have held my own.
‘Thank you, Fran,’ says Flynn, returning to the microphone as the room fills with applause and Nicolas retreats.
‘Allow me to echo your sentiments: romance has always been a great pleasure of mine, from Aristophanes to David Nicholls, and has been part of my life since my teenage years. Neighbourhood bookshops have and always will be places of deep discovery and community, something we need to champion alongside local libraries, and, as you said, love really is what makes the world go round.’
Flynn’s words feel like the perfect end to the event, so it comes as a surprise when Ginny takes to the microphone again.
‘If I may add to that,’ she begins, and Flynn gestures for her to take the floor. ‘I’d like to acknowledge that Frances, and other authors of similar talent and skill, are the reason why people like me persist with this business, which is often to the detriment of our personal lives.
‘Up until this trip, I had been toying with the idea of letting go of my career to focus on other pursuits, but Frances has reminded me how important it is to keep putting positive, peaceful, loving material by women into a world that is too often fractured by ego.
‘I am proud to be here today and make a promise to Frances that I hope to acquire her next three novels with a generous package that signals our intention and conviction to promote and produce the very best love stories on the market.’
The room erupts with applause and I feel swept up in a dream. It’s only when I see Carly, standing as if in ovation, just as Nicolas stalks out of the room, that I realise the dream is real.