Aria’s Travelling Book Shop

About the Author

REBECCA RAISIN is a true bibliophile. This love of books morphed into the desire to write them. Rebecca aims to write characters you can see yourself being friends with. People with big hearts who care about relationships and, most importantly, believe in true, once-in-a-lifetime love.

PRAISE FOR REBECCA RAISIN

‘Absolutely fantastic book, had me hooked from the first page’

‘I absolutely loved everything to do with this book’

‘Rebecca Raisin has a way of writing that is so evocative, it brings each and every scene to life’

‘Romantic, emotional, hilarious in places but most of all beautiful’

‘Full of anticipation, a real page turner. Loved it!’

‘A good holiday read’

‘Be whisked away on a beautiful adventure and pick up a copy today!’

Also by Rebecca Raisin

Christmas at the Gingerbread Café

Chocolate Dreams at the Gingerbread Café

The Bookshop on the Corner

Christmas Wedding at the Gingerbread Café

Secrets at Maple Syrup Farm

The Little Bookshop on the Seine

The Little Antique Shop Under the Eiffel Tower

The Little Perfume shop off the Champs-Élysées

Celebrations and Confetti at Cedarwood Lodge

Brides and Bouquets at Cedarwood Lodge

Midnight and Mistletoe at Cedarwood Lodge

Christmas at Cedarwood Lodge

Rosie’s Travelling Tea Shop

Aria’s Travelling Book Shop

REBECCA RAISIN

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2020

Copyright © Rebecca Raisin

Emoji(s) © Shutterstock.com

Rebecca Raisin asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © April 2020 ISBN: 9780008282172

Version: 2020-03-12

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Praise for Rebecca Raisin

Also by Rebecca Raisin

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Acknowledgements

Extract

Dear Reader …

Keep Reading …

About the Publisher

This one is for you, Jax. You are my sunshine.

Prologue

The globe is spinning in front of us, countries blurring before our eyes. All Rosie has to do is stop it with her fingertip, but I know she won’t. She won’t make such a big decision based on something as flimsy as fate.

‘Come on, Rosie, what are you waiting for?’ I can’t help but tease.

She averts her china-blue eyes. ‘It’s just … this feels too risky. What if I stop it on Antarctica or something?’

I grin. ‘Surely Antarctica needs a pop-up book shop as much as the next place? And wouldn’t they adore your house-made tea blends, enough to warm the very cockles of their hearts!’ I say, laughing. The whole joy of living in our campervans is we have the freedom to go anywhere. But Antarctica might just be a little too far …

Before I can say anything else, Rosie dashes to the back of the van. ‘Wait!’ she says with a backwards grin, and I know she’s had this next stage planned out all along. I’ll bet my last pound she’s got a notebook with a full schedule about where we go next in our little campervan-cum-shops. In truth, I trust Rosie to lead us down the right path. She’s the sensible one, while I am far too whimsical to make proper life decisions. I’d have trusted the globe for sure, and probably after too much wine.

‘Ta-da!’ she exclaims, jumping from behind the pink curtain that separates bedroom from living room.

I shake my head and laugh. Atop Rosie’s immaculate white-blonde hair is a fluffy blue beret. I’m sure she’ll also have a matching scarf and a phrasebook hidden away. ‘We’re going to France?’

‘Oui, oui!’ she takes a second beret from behind her back and throws it to me. ‘Call me crazy, but I have a feeling good things will happen there. It’s such a romantic country. I can imagine love blossoming there.’

I roll my eyes. ‘That’s your reason for choosing France? You think I’m going to fall for some broody Frenchman?’

She shrugs. ‘I’ve done a bit of research—’

‘This should be good.’ When Rosie says she’s done a bit of research it means I’m not getting out of whatever crazy notion she’s got without a fight.

‘—and those broody Frenchman you speak of love literature!’

I wait for further explanation, like our businesses will flourish, but none comes.

‘That’s it? Because some French men like reading, you think it’s a great place for us to spend a year as Van Lifers? Your whole decision is based on that?’ This is out of character, even for Rosie.

Colour rushes up her cheeks. ‘When you say it like that it sounds preposterous! But they don’t just like reading, it’s in their blood, same as you! They live and breathe words and they celebrate their creatives. And also there are fromageries, and who doesn’t like fromageries?’

I arch a brow. ‘I do like fromageries. And patisseries.’

‘Especially patisseries. OK, so we’re doing this? Leaving the festival circuit and all we know behind and trying our luck in France …?’

‘What have we got to lose?’ I say. ‘If it doesn’t work out, we’ll come home …’

But there’s no way I’ll be falling in love unless it’s with a three-course French meal. That I can open my heart to.

Chapter 1

Southwark, London

In the filmy shadows of a cosy pub in London, my tipsy nomadic friends and I squish together, oblivious to the noise, the body heat, anyone besides ourselves. As we form a tight circle our laughter mixes with tears. Max starts singing ‘California Dreamin’’ and we all follow suit, warbling one of our favourite songs from the past year, one we sang as we huddled around a campfire while someone strummed a guitar and we sat under the soft light of the moon. Now we link arms and sway, undaunted about how cheesy we must appear.

This constellation of wild and wonderful nomads have plans to scatter across the world like so many marbles, and despite our best intentions, the likelihood of meeting up again is slim. From past experience I know a few will grow tired of van life, sell up and go back to the nine-to-five. Others will fall for a person or place and make a home on foreign soil. Some will keep going, to the edges of the earth, seeking that elusive thing they can’t quite name. Goodbyes are always hard, but this one has a deeper finality to it. Everything we’ve held dear travelling the same festival circuit is falling away.

Maybe it feels that way because I’m taking my van, the Little Bookshop of Happy Ever After, to France for an epic adventure, alongside my best friend Rosie with her tea shop van, and Rosie’s boyfriend Max with his lean, green café. A few other nomads have expressed an interest in joining us too, but only time will tell.

We’re a fickle bunch.

Well, everyone besides Rosie, that is. Rosie’s already trying to knuckle down a timetable, lock in dates and places, write a bullet-point list that covers every contingency, but it’s just her way, even though she knows it’s virtually impossible to schedule van life. Still, it’s a habit of hers that’s hard to break. I adore Rosie’s eccentricities but she’s slowly learning the art of letting go of the things that hold her back.

Besides, you can’t really plan when you’re a nomad. Vans break down, festivals are cancelled due to inclement weather or celebrity no-shows, money runs out, there are so many variables to daily living.

Now our gathering grows maudlin, as we break apart and refill drinks. Promises that won’t be kept swirl in the air above like the glittery trail of a sparkler extinguished before the word is written. I smile sadly, wishing things didn’t have to end but knowing that they do.

That’s the journey.

I find a quiet perch and sip my wine, mentally counting how many I’ve had (too many) before figuring gloomy goodbyes warrant a tedious hangover as much as anything.

Rosie, with cheeks pinked from drink, glides over to me before plonking herself down with a long sigh. ‘I didn’t think it would be this difficult,’ she says, leaning her head on my shoulder, white-blonde hair falling down like ribbons.

I tilt my head to rest atop hers. ‘I know.’ I blow out a breath. ‘I swear it’s getting harder each year.’ Feeling safe in our little nomadic bubble, our group had shared their pasts and confided in one another. Laughed so hard our bellies ached and bickered about petty things that seemed important at the time. Almost as quick as the click of fingers, it’s over and we’ll go our separate ways.

Rosie is quiet as she toys with her beaded bracelet, winding it round and round. These goodbyes are harder for her – this is her first year as a nomad. ‘I suppose when we’re old and grey and looking back we’ll have all these incredible memories of people who stepped into our lives, changing them in some indelible way, before stepping out again.’

‘I love that.’ I picture an elderly Rosie and Max on some weather-beaten porch, fragrant homemade tea in hand, still in love. And then I picture my future silver-haired self. Driving never-ending roads, alone. But I’d still have my books, wouldn’t I? Rollicking romances to fill my days and inspire dreams, fictional friends to see me through …

But as I gaze around the room at loved-up couples, loved-up non-fiction couples, I feel a pang of loneliness despite being surrounded by people who care about me.

Deep in thought, I’m jarred back to the present by an elbow to the ribs from Rosie. ‘What?’ I ask.

Her eyes are fixed on a man standing by the bar; even from this distance I recognize those broad shoulders of his, and the way he stands, hands deep in pockets. He seems contemplative as he waits patiently, as if he’s half elsewhere, lost in thought.

‘It’s Jonathan!’ she says far too loudly. I clamp a hand over her mouth, ignoring the fact I’m probably smearing her lipstick. I feel her laugh reverberate through my palm.

‘Will you shush! We don’t want to get his attention.’ My heart pounds as I try to make sense of him being here of all places. Now of all times.

She battles free, her lipstick only slightly smudged. ‘Why wouldn’t we want to get his attention? Aren’t we going to say hello, at least?’ Her eyebrows pull together. Rosie only sees black and white, there’s no grey area for her.

While I struggle with how to explain, I turn back in his direction and sneak a peek at the guy who has stolen into my thoughts far too often since we met. His dark hair is longer and curls around the nape of his neck. He’s lovely even in side profile. There’s something sensuous about his mouth, and before I get lost to it, I shake the traitorous thoughts away. Seeing him again after all this time has given me a jolt, that’s all. I wiggle sideways trying to hide behind Rosie, who frustratingly wiggles further away.

Jonathan and I met at a music festival last year, and he’d been endlessly fascinated about the way we lived our lives on the road. It’d been effortless chatting away with him, almost as if we were long-lost friends, reunited. He’d listened when I talked, as if he weighed every word that fell from my mouth. It’d been the first time since my husband died that I’d felt a teeny tiny little spark in my heart, but I soon pushed it away. And rightfully so. I made a promise and I’m sticking to it.

Seeing Jonathan here though, spotlight shining on him as if a direction to act, has quite knocked my legs from under me. Thank god I’m sitting down.

‘Well?’ Rosie prods.

‘Well what? We’re not going to say a single word, Rosie! We’re going to hide in this corner and hope he leaves.’ I sip my drink and pretend to be completely disinterested.

‘Why?’ Confusion muddies the icy blue of her eyes. ‘Admit he made your pulse race, that he caused your bodice to rip, made your bosoms—’

Who even uses the word bosoms these days?! I shake my head at her teasing my love of romance novels and the clichéd way non-believers describe them. ‘Made my bosoms … what?’

‘Erm … bounce?’ she says, searching for the right word and coming up short.

‘Can you hear yourself? He made my bosoms bounce? Where do you get this stuff, Rosie, honestly?’ I laugh, in spite of it all.

She breaks into a fit of giggles and then her face lights up as if clarity dawns. ‘He makes your bosoms heave! That’s the phrase, isn’t it?’

‘If my bosoms were heaving, Rosie, I’d be off to get medical help, for goodness’ sake!’ I hide behind my hands, sure she’s attracted the attention of the entire bar, and not just lusty-looking Jonathan. Our Rosie doesn’t quite have the same filter the rest of us have, so I should be used to it by now. But, by golly. I peek between my fingers and sure enough all of London is staring at us yet somehow Jonathan is still facing the other way. Small mercies and all that.

‘You’re lucky he didn’t hear you, Rosie!’

She elbows me. ‘Oh, for crying out loud, Aria. You can say hello to the man at least! I’m not proposing you marry the guy.’

I shake my head, no. I can’t trust myself. There’s something wildly appealing about Jonathan and I haven’t felt that spark with anyone other than TJ which is such an alien feeling and one I know that I should run from.

Suddenly he turns and our eyes meet; for a moment time stops. I hold his gaze for too long – what am I doing! ‘I’ve got to go … to the loo!’ I say to Rosie as I jump up and flee. She follows close behind.

‘Wait, he’s coming over,’ she says breathlessly behind me. ‘You’re going to be the death of me!’ Rosie is not a runner.

Of course there’s an impossibly long queue, so we tag on to the end of it when all I really want to do is to race into a cubicle and hide behind the door for all eternity.

‘You did say before that you liked the guy, so why not say hello?’ She stares at me as if I’ve lost my damned mind.

‘I said no such thing!’

‘You did so!’

‘Did not!’

‘Did.’

‘Not.’

She harrumphs. ‘You don’t even need the loo, do you?’

I shake my head, contrite.

‘Come on,’ she sighs. ‘Let’s at least use our manners and say hello to him if he walks over, OK? He might not have even recognized us.’

I make a show of huffing and puffing. ‘Keep your voice down to a dull roar this time, Rosie, OK?’

She stops me. ‘I’ve never seen you so scattered like this.’

‘Scattered?’

‘I swear I can hear your heart pounding from here.’

Am I nervous? And if so, why? It’s true Jonathan and I spent the better part of twenty-four hours together and time raced by – we could have continued talking for weeks and not run out of conversation. But when I think back, it was all about books and being a nomad, nothing personal. So it’s not as though I really know the guy, is it? And haven’t I had millions of connections with people as a Van Lifer? It’s just part of everyday life – so why am I acting this way?

Time to gather my senses. ‘Right. Let’s just pretend we didn’t see him and act surprised if he wanders over, OK?’

She laughs. ‘Good plan.’

We head back to the corner and I can’t help but sneak a glance at the bar. He’s not there. Despite my reservations, my heart sinks. I scan the rest of the pub but he’s nowhere to be found. I’ve scared him off by running away.

‘He’s vanished, just like that,’ Rosie says, her voice tinged with sadness.

Have I lost my only chance …?

Chapter 2

Southwark, London

Rosie does a quick reconnaissance but comes back, her mouth a tight line. ‘Maybe we imagined him.’ She flops beside me and deflates.

‘We have had a lot of wine,’ I say, trying to fool myself I don’t care. Around us Van Lifers are quietly huddled together, the earlier joie de vivre gone after so many lengthy goodbyes.

Tori – the owner of a pop-up Pimm’s van – zigzags her way to us, and I groan under my breath. When Tori approaches, it’s a sign she’s up to something and it’s usually no good. Right now I don’t have the energy for her.

I can’t find it in me to like Tori. She circulates rumours about people and then denies doing it. According to her, I’m a fraudster on the run (which she believes is why I won’t talk about my past) and Rosie and Max have an open polygamous relationship (hence Tori encourages women to approach Max!) when they have nothing of the sort. Why she does it is beyond me but if she can stir the pot, she will, by god. It’s all so unnecessary and immature. We’re a mixed bunch of apples so there’s always bound to be a few rotten ones, but Tori is poisonous right down to the core.

I narrow my eyes, steeling myself for whatever ploy is afoot. With one hand on her hip, diva-style, Tori blurts, ‘This party is turning into a sob-fest; time to lighten the mood! We don’t want our last hurrah to end like this.’ As she talks she stabs the air with a cordless microphone to make her point. ‘So, who’s going to sing karaoke, inspire the masses?’

Beside me, Rosie stiffens. The limelight is not her thing – despite the amount of liquid courage she’s consumed.

‘Why don’t you get up there?’ I ask, knowing it’s futile. Tori’s concocted some crazy plan and we won’t hear the end of it unless she gets her way. I’ve managed to avoid her most of the route but I guess tonight my luck has run out.

‘I totally would,’ she exclaims again in her characteristic screech which is like nails down a chalkboard, ‘but … I’ve got a touch of a cold.’ Her eyes dart all over the place. ‘I’m too nasally with it or I would be the first one up there.’

Rosie scoffs. ‘Yeah, right.’

I cast my gaze around one last time and still can’t see Jonathan so I say, ‘Fine, give me the microphone,’ and shake my head ruefully. In truth I’d rather remember our last night together as a happy occasion, and not everyone crying into their wine glasses. And I’m used to hiding behind laughter and pretending life is grand. It’s what I do best. ‘What should I sing?’ I ask Rosie.

Tori shoos me away. ‘I’ll choose something appropriate, don’t you worry, but make sure it’s a real performance – dance, sing and really rally the troops.’

Could it be as innocent as all that? ‘Fine.’ It might be the wine, but I feel completely at ease. It’s just singing and swaying to a little music, right? Something we’ve done almost every night around the campfire anyway. I hop up on stage, and wait for the music to start, grateful I chose to wear skinny jeans rather than the short skirt and black tights I’d been toying with, so those below don’t get a flash of anything they shouldn’t.

Tori gives me a thumbs-up and bellows, ‘Make it count!’

As soon as the familiar tune starts I want to wring her scrawny little neck. I should’ve known she had some ulterior motive that involved making me look ridiculous. I can’t exact my revenge from up here so I settle with shooting a poisonous look her way.

She smirks. ‘We had to get their attention, somehow!’

Jittery, I sway to the opening bars of ‘Pony’ by Ginuwine while desperately wondering how I can dance to it without looking like I’ve come straight from the strip club. A chair appears and I burst out laughing. ‘Is that my prop?’ I ask and the stranger nods, grinning.

What the hell, I figure I’ll look sillier holding myself tight, so I let go and channel my best inner Channing Tatum and use that chair in the most lascivious of ways. The nomads go wild, they wolf-whistle and clap, their screams drawing a bigger crowd. My heart pounds, and the music thumps. I’m not sure if it’s the way I’m dancing or the eyes on me, but my body feels electrified and I find I’m actually enjoying it.

Some of the girls jump on stage with me, and before long I’m totally lost to it, enjoying every single syllable I belt out. I smile even more when I see Tori’s thunderous expression because her plan backfired.

More people spring up to join in; it seems ‘Pony’ speaks to them on some wild primal level and I’m shoved forward. I stumble and the chair tips over, before I right myself just at the edge of the stage. The show must go on, but the gyrating behind me reaches fever pitch and there’s no stage left and suddenly …

I’m flying, arms out ready to soar …

Until reality hits and holy mother of cliff hangers, I’m not flying, I’m falling! As the ground comes screaming into view, I let out a yelp and brace for a hard landing. I scrunch my eyes closed and hear the softest of oomphs as I land, not on the parquetry, but into the pillowy bed of someone’s outstretched arms. I peel an eye open – the man holding me is none other than Jonathan!

‘Is this heaven?’ Maybe I hit my head on the way down and this is a prelude to the pearly gates?

He laughs, exposing his shiny white teeth, like he’s the hero in my very own romance novel. Of course. ‘It’s so lovely to see you again, Aria.’ His voice is like velvet.

I can feel the strength in his arms as he cradles me. Exhilaration sends a shock down my spine, a sensation I haven’t felt in such a long time, it stuns me quiet. He stares so deeply into my eyes the noisy room falls silent and all I can see is him. My very own hero sent to save me from an untimely fall, just like in the books.