She places the letter back carefully within the pages of the book. For a second, she pictures Joe sat on the balcony, the sun brightening his face and catching on his blond hair. He’d be inshorts and T-shirt, as usual, his feet likely bare on the balcony tiles.
‘So, what’s first then, Nightingale?’ he would say in his husky American accent.
‘I think I have an idea …’
19
Shakespeare and Company sits in the shadow of Notre-Dame, opposite the Seine and next to a leafy and tranquil park. Having successfully negotiated theMétro(once she’d figured out how to open the train doors), Tilly emerges at Saint-Michel Notre-Dame, craning her neck to take in the sight of the iconic cathedral before walking along the riverside, passing open-air bookstands selling second-hand books and posters depicting old French advertisements and Toulouse-Lautrec paintings.
The shop is on a cobbled street that runs parallel with the Quai de Montebello where traffic races alongside the river. But here it is quieter, a breeze whipping in from the Seine and bringing with it a scattering of cherry blossom. The bottle-green awning matches the peeling paint of the shopfront and the tables set out in the spring sunshine, browsers crowding around them.
Tilly steps through the doorway of Shakespeare and Company and into a place that feels less like a shop and more like some extravagant character’s personal library. The shelves are packed, separate rooms filled with books, each one leading on to another through a series of winding corridors and stairways. It is busy with tourists and browsers but not unpleasantly so, the air filled with an excited buzz of appreciation. Tilly finds herself at the bottom of a red staircase, the paint worn from countless footsteps. Her breath quickens as she recognizes words she knows belong to a fourteenth-century poet, but which also feel like a message from Joe.
I wish I could show you when you are lonely or in darkness the astonishing light of your own being.
She takes her time browsing. She has nowhere else to be, after all – something that still feels surreal. In the bookshop time seems to slow, the sounds from the street outside muffled by the walls of books.
Eventually, she approaches the desk. A young woman wearing neat grey trousers, a grey jumper, bright red lipstick and sporting a neat blonde bob greets her with a smile. ‘Bonjour!Hello!’ she says in a French accent. ‘Can I help you?’
Her smile is so warm that it gives Tilly the confidence to reach into her satchel and pull out the letter slipped between the pages of her book.
‘I don’t know. I hope so. It probably sounds quite strange but my late husband arranged this special gift for me before he died. A year of books, one for every month, each with a letter. This was his latest letter …’
Tilly takes a breath and passes it across the counter. Joe handled this piece of paper and wrote on it in his achingly familiar handwriting, so it feels as though the bookseller is handling a part of him. But the woman holds it gently, scanning the text quickly, her eyes shining as she reaches the final words and passes the letter back to Tilly.
‘Ah! So you are Matilda Nightingale! I can’t believe it’s you! We’ve been waiting for you to come in. Wait, let me go get my colleagues, they’ll be enchanted to meet you.’
After a few moments a crowd of booksellers assembles around the counter, a mix of English and French. Each of them greets Tilly with such enthusiasm that she begins to feel like some sort of celebrity.
‘It was me who took the phone call from your husband,’ says the woman with the red lipstick. ‘Such a romantic gift. Although we’re all so sorry for your loss,’ she adds with genuine warmth.
‘Thank you,’ says Tilly, surprised to find that her voice doesn’t break.
‘My name is Cécile. Now, let me find your gift for you …’
She reappears a few minutes later, holding a Shakespeare and Company tote bag in her outstretched hand. ‘We weren’t quite sure when you would turn up so it’s been waiting in our back room all this time. I’m so glad I was working today!’
‘Thank you so much,’ Tilly replies, taking the bag and spotting a flat and suspiciously book-shaped parcel wrapped up in beautiful marbled paper.
‘I’d recommend going to our café next door for a cup of tea before you leave,’ Cécile says.
‘Thank you, I think I will,’ Tilly replies, turning to go. But before she reaches the doorway Cécile’s voice reaches her again.
‘Attendez!Wait! I hope you don’t mind me mentioning this, but we have a book event on Friday evening that I think you might appreciate. You would be very welcome if you will still be in Paris then. Our events are always very friendly. Lots of people come alone. I’ll be working that night so I’ll be there.’
She hands Tilly a flyer which shows the details of the event and an image of a book: a simple blue cover decorated with stars, and the words ‘Light and Darkby Amirah Lopez’ dancing along the top.
It’s the evenings Tilly has been most nervous about filling. Visiting a bookshop or museum on your own is one thing, but eating dinner or sitting alone in a bar … She knows it’s a prospect that a lot of people would take in their stride but Tilly is used to tables for two. She is used to having Joe beside her.
‘That sounds great, thanks,’ she says to the friendly bookseller, glad it’s only goodbye for now, not for good.
She tucks the book parcel under her arm. A bonus book from Joe. She can’t wait to tear open the paper and find out what he chose for her.
20
Tilly followsCécile’sadvice 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.
