‘Joe. You remembered.’
Inside is an image she knows well, a sketched drawing of the Eiffel Tower accompanied by a group of girls in yellow uniforms. One of the girls has red hair.
The edition is wrapped neatly in cellophane, and a sticker with the Shakespeare and Company logo tells her it is a first edition.
‘I can’t believe you remembered,’ she says quietly as she holds the copy ofMadelineby Ludwig Bemelmans between her hands. As she sniffs, wiping at her face, she spots an envelope she hadn’t noticed before amongst the paper wrappings.
With trembling hands she slices it open, pulling out a postcard depicting the facade of the Shakespeare and Company bookshop, some words jotted on the back.
Dear Tilly,
If you are reading this then you made it to Paris.Félicitations!Is it everything you imagined when you read this book as a child? I hope it is, and more.
You once told me that you liked Madeline so much because she was feisty and brave, but that you and her weren’t alike. I hope you are starting to realize that isn’t true.
I love you, my library mouse, my brave Madeline, my darling Matilda.
Now go enjoy Paris. It’s all waiting for you.
Joe x
She barely manages to read the final words through her tears.
The talk has already begun by the time Tilly pushes open the door to Shakespeare and Company on Friday evening, her hair flying wildly about her face and her floral dress clinging to her skin after a rush across Paris on theMétroand a dash along the banks of the Seine.
She follows the sound of voices up to the event space, where chairs have been set up in rows in front of the author and an interviewer.
‘Sorry,’ she mouths silently, but they both just smile and continue their conversation.
Tilly spots Cécile sat in the front row taking photos; she turns and gives a little wave.
‘This seat is free,’ whispers a woman in the back as she moves her bag off the spare seat to make room for Tilly.
‘Thank you.’
She changed her mind several times over the course of the day about whether or not to come. One minute she felt glad of an excuse to go back to the bookshop and the next she wasn’t sure she could face an evening surrounded by strangers. She was very close to staying in with a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and a slab of Brie when she thought of the letter from Joe and gave herself a talking-to.
It’s only when her breathing has settled that she zones in to what the author is saying. She is a woman who seems to be in her late thirties, dressed in an elegant blue suit that matches the cover of her book.
‘… and the thing is, I didn’t know anyone else who was in my position at the time. It made me feel really isolated, like I was swirling through space totally alone. But over time I’ve come to realize that, of course, I wasn’t alone. There were lots of us out there. Which is where the inspiration for the book cover came from. I came to think of other people like me as stars in space, seemingly alone and far apart, but if you look closely you can see our glow. I find it reassuring to think that I’m not just a lone star but part of a whole constellation.’
The woman beside Tilly nods thoughtfully. She has a copy of the author’s book held tightly between her hands.
The interviewer, a middle-aged man with a serious yet friendly expression, chips in. ‘It feels a shame, doesn’t it, that it’s an experience that can feel so hidden? And yet it’s something we will all experience at one point in our life.’
The author nods vigorously, her dangling star earrings catching the light.
‘Yes, exactly. And it hasn’t always been this way. Back in the Victorian era, for example, things were very different. Now,there are a lot of things I don’t like about how the Victorians approached grief …’
Tilly’s breath catches.
‘… for example, I hate that they had such strict rules about periods of mourning, dictated by the person’s perceived closeness to you. It’s not up to anyone else to say how significant someone was in your life or to set a timeline for your grief. You’re not going to be over the death of a loved one after, say, three months, just because that’s what society tells you.’
Up until now Tilly has been half listening and half scanning the space, taking in the other members of the audience and the walls of books. But now her attention fixes on Amirah Lopez.
‘But while the rules around grief might have been flawed, I found myself envying the public nature of mourning in the past. When my mum died I wanted to tie a black ribbon to our house. It felt ludicrous that no one on our street knew that behind our door, a family had just been shattered. I wanted to wear some marker of my loss on my body. A veil or a black cloak or just an enormous badge that read, “I’m grieving.” Before it happened, I would have imagined that I would want to deal with loss quietly and privately but when death knocked at our door, I wanted people to know. Maybe so they could act a little kinder and be more understanding when I stood in the supermarket unable to choose between brands of biscuits, but also because I wanted the pain I felt to be visible. Because it was all I had left of my mum. I didn’t want to hide it, because hiding my grief felt like hiding the most important thing of all – my love for her.’
A soft touch on Tilly’s arm makes her pull her attention away from the stage. Her neighbour is handing her a tissue. ‘Here,’ she says softly.
