Page 43 of The Bookshop of Forbidden Books

She looked up, half hoping he was about to roll up his sleeves and grab a paintbrush.

“The next time we get together, let’s not talk about the bookshop, or your renovations. Or anything that directly concerns either of us.”

Anna thought it was a ridiculous idea, but she was too preoccupied to argue. “Fine,” she agreed distractedly. “We’ll talk about whatever you want.”

“No, no. We have to agree on what to talk about. Movies, politics and religion. How’s that sound?”

“Politics and religion, why not – but what do movies have to do with anything?”

“Nothing,” said Mitch.

And with that, he was gone.

* * *

Madame Bergol visited Mitch in the late afternoon, wearing a floaty peach-coloured dress that had probably looked pretty in the boutique window but was far less flattering on her. She found Mitch lost in thought, and she had to cough three times to get his attention.

“How can I help you?” he asked, closing his notebook.

“Do you happen to have any nice, ripe tomatoes?”

“I didn’t know you had a sense of humour,” Mitch retorted, straight-faced.

“I wasn’t trying to be funny. And you really ought to display your opening hours in the window, because they make no sense. Every time I take the trouble to come all the way here for a book, you’re closed. If you’ve taken up gardening, be careful; it can become an obsession. My husband spent more time with his vegetables than he ever did with me.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“Doesn’t matter anymore; he’s dead. Had a heart attack while picking broccoli.”

“And they say vegetables are good for your health.” Mitch cleared his throat, appalled at himself; the words had just slipped out. “I mean, erm—”

Madame Bergol looked around as someone behind her laughed at the joke. Mitch was gazing at the woman who had just come in, and Madame Bergol was quick to remind him, politely but firmly, that she’d arrived first.

“I thought about your suggestion,” Anna announced, “And it’s not going to work.”

“Oh? Why not?” Mitch asked.

“Religion and politics are exactly why I stopped speaking to my family, so there’s no way to talk about either without it getting personal. And you said nothing that concerns us directly, remember?”

“Oh… well, painting then, and movies… no, forget painting. Movies and…”

“Are you planning to serve me?” seethed Madame Bergol. “Or keep talking nonsense with that idiotic moony look on your face?”

“I’ll leave you to think about it,” Anna said, as if she hadn’t heard Madame Bergol at all. “Meet me at the restaurant, but not before nine. I’ve still got two walls left to paint and I’m on my own.”

Madame Bergol waited for the door to close behind Anna before turning to Mitch, eyebrows raised.

“You’re a goner, I see,” she drawled. “Pity she drew the line at religion; there would have been plenty to talk about. You’ll probably do pretty well with movies, as long as you don’t go on and on about some pretentious film just to seem clever. She’s not the type to be fooled by that. Whatever subject you end up choosing, just don’t be dull. The rest doesn’t matter.”

“Anything else?” Mitch asked.

“You like her, she likes you, so don’t waste time complicating things.”

“What things?”

“Your life is about to change, and you’re acting like you don’t even know it. It’s both endearing and incredibly annoying,” Madame Bergol said, exasperated. She glanced around the shop. “I came here looking for something to cheer me up, but watching you flail about is far more entertaining than any book. I’ll be back tomorrow same time, so you can tell me about your dinner. Try not to be closed for once.”

And Madame Bergol departed in her peachy dress, leaving Mitch thoroughly bewildered.