Aria’s Travelling Book Shop

He lifts a brow ever so slightly and somehow I sense it’s an invitation to kiss him, so I don’t overthink it – I just follow my heart. I press my lips against his and let every delicious sensation wash over me. It’s electrifying, as if I’ve been zapped back to life after a long slumber. We kiss as if we’re the last two people on earth. It’s everything I imagined it would be and I’m only disappointed by how woozy I am. Is it him, the fall, or the wine making me feel such a way? Really, I should be more … The thought floats away as our kiss deepens. He’s stealing the breath from my lungs in the most enchanting way but worry pushes at the edge of my subconscious which I duly ignore, instead revelling in the touch of his lips against mine. When our lips finally part, the room spins and I’m quite lost for words. I double blink, as the noise slowly returns and the spell is broken by people jostling past.

Woozy, I see Tori glaring at me, revenge written all over her face. I still haven’t forgotten she chose ‘Pony’ of all songs for me to ‘rally the troops’ with, thus practically making me catapult off the stage and into the arms of this delectable hottie – evil thing she is!

‘Jog on,’ I say to her. ‘Before I blurt out that secret you shared not so long ago.’ I arch a brow and try to look fierce.

Her eyes widen and she says, ‘You wouldn’t!’

‘I would!’

As far as secrets go it’s not very juicy; she’s in love with musician Axel but won’t do a damn thing about it – strange since she’s so keen to meddle in everyone else’s life.

With one last withering glare at me, she taps Jonathan’s shoulder and says, ‘Don’t listen to a word she says, Aria suffers from liarbetes …’ With a cat-who-got-the-cream smile, she saunters away and if I wasn’t bound by Jonathan’s strong arms, I probably would have given her a word walloping. What is her problem with me?

‘Did she say …?’

‘Sorry,’ I say as all reason falls away and I picture myself the heroine and Jonathan the gorgeous hero. He did just save me from all manner of broken bones and bruises. I realize he’s still cradling me in his arms – he must have the strength of ten thousand men!

‘Why are you sorry?’ He probably thinks I’m regretting the kiss.

I can’t remember why. ‘You can put me down if you want?’

‘Do you want me to?’

Yes. No. I don’t know.

His deep blue unfathomable eyes mesmerize me. I could get lost in them but that niggle is still trying to break through the haze. Rosie’s been onto me about opening my heart – as if it’s as simple as putting a key to a lock. And staring into Jonathan’s twinkling eyes, I wonder why I haven’t even tried? There’s a good reason, but it’s ephemeral, whisper-thin and just out of my grasp – I must be punch drunk, or love drunk or maybe just drunk drunk?

Rosie wanders over, her skirt swishing. When she sees us she lets out a gasp, a sharp odd sound. She gives me a look I can’t decipher, but I gather I’m acting strangely, still being held aloft in his arms like he’s just rescued me from a burning building or something, so I wiggle my way out, still feeling wobbly. This whole scenario has bad choices written all over it.

‘I fell,’ I say, my voice too loud. ‘Off the stage. Jonathan caught me or else … I’d have been seriously injured. Possibly dead, in a very bloody gory way.’ I picture CSI chalking the outline of my body and know a gruesome picture will distract Rosie. She’s always picturing her imminent death.

‘I’m glad you’re alive,’ she says. ‘I’m ah … going to find Max. Back soon.’ She flounces off but not before acting out a bunch of dramatic charades meant to imply what the hell is happening, I leave you for two minutes! or thereabouts.

Jonathan and I stand close and silence descends. I can’t form words; I can’t even think of any. My mind scrambles with the inane, but I don’t want to look completely socially inept. Well, more than I already do, that is. ‘It’s cold outside.’ Way to go, Aria! ‘What I mean to say is, we’re having a cold snap.’ Brilliant! ‘But it’s warm in here.’

He grins and it lights up his lovely face. ‘Spring in the UK, eh?’ He’s teasing me. Of course it’s spring, and of course it’s cold. We’re bloody well in England.

‘Quite.’

He saves another painful silence by saying, ‘Are you staying in London for a while?’

I shake my head. ‘No, not for long. France is next for us.’ Surprise lights up his eyes, but it’s not like France is the edge of the earth, is it? ‘This is our goodbye party. What about you? Do you live in London?’

What do I really know about the man? Could I have been so selfish I didn’t ask him a single question back then? As I recall we got very animated about books, and I know I can lose days when that happens, literally days, but we didn’t delve much past that.

‘No, I live in St Albans. I came to London for a meeting.’

‘A meeting for what?’

He doesn’t get to respond as the room darkens and that can only mean one thing. Max. He’s big enough to block out the light. ‘Jon, my man!’ He takes his hand and does that macho, fist pump thing, and I internally cringe thinking he’s going to break every bone in poor Jonathan’s hand. ‘What brings you to the Squeaky Pig?’

‘I had a meeting near London Bridge. Got the shock of my life when Aria literally fell into my arms. What timing, eh?’

‘You fell into his arms?’ Max doesn’t hide his surprise.

‘I was pushed.’

Max shrugs. ‘Let me get you a beer,’ he says to Jonathan and then does the big, manly backslapping thing.

Can he not just use his words to communicate? As much as I like Max, we bicker like warring siblings half the time. He’s an enigma and I’m still figuring him out but one thing I adore about him is his love for Rosie and the way he treats her like she’s a goddess come to life.

‘So, your meeting was for—’

Rosie interrupts as she walks back over. ‘It’s so lovely to see you again, Jonathan!’

I roll my eyes. ‘So I was just asking Jonathan—’

‘Here, my main man.’ Max hands Jonathan a beer. ‘Get that down you. Looks like you’ve had a long day.’ I’m never going to get an answer and suddenly I find the whole situation hilarious.

I give up and listen to my friends instead. They met Jonathan that same evening way back when, and it was a raging success. That night raced by and before we knew it, it was over. As the best things always are.

And here we are now. I do love the fact that Max acts as though it’s totally natural to run into Jonathan again whereas for me it’s feels like I’ve been struck by lightning.

Though, I suppose Max hasn’t been thinking about him off and on like I have. Jonathan and I made a connection back then and I haven’t forgotten him no matter how hard I’ve tried to.

Max pulls Jonathan away to introduce to him to someone and Rosie takes that as her cue to grill me.

‘Did I see you kissing him?’

I let out an awkward laugh. ‘He stared into my eyes like we were long-lost soul mates and I just reacted. Wow, that boy sure knows how to kiss. This is going to sound ridiculous but it gave me the strangest feeling, as if I’ve been in a daydream for years and suddenly with his lips against mine … I’m awake again.’ I touch a finger to my lips, remembering the sensation.

‘Wow, that’s great, Aria. That’s really great. Great.’

‘Why are you saying it like that?’

She blinks. ‘Like what?’

‘Great. Great, great, great.’

She hugs herself and says, ‘It’s just that you were so adamant you’d never fall in love again. I think this shows real courage.’ Her eyes go glassy. Poor Rosie has been secretly worried about me and my spinster status more than her jokes have let on.

‘Are you crying?’ I ask. Rosie doesn’t do tears. Especially not in front of people if she can help it.

‘A little. You guys just look so perfect together. Like a couple on the cover of one of your romances. Except he has his shirt on.’

‘That’s very sweet, but I’m not falling in love.’ I remember my husband TJ’s sweet face, his big laugh. I remember my promise and I curse white wine and its bad-choice-making qualities from here to kingdom come. That was the god damn niggle!

I forgot about my own bloody husband!

My gut roils with my betrayal but I try to remain cool. ‘It’s nice to know that my heart isn’t frozen over, but nothing can happen with Jonathan.’

Time to run. Time to change the subject swift as anything.

‘And stupid Tori said I had liarbetes while insinuating that I liked him, and as you know I most certainly do not have liarbetes …’

A frown appears. ‘She said you had liarbetes?’

‘Because her plan backfired. And then I got distracted and now I’m confused and I need to leave.’

Rosie tuts. ‘Come on, Aria. You’re the one always looking for signs and here’s a big, fat, flashing neon one. It’s Jonathan, in the flesh! Jonathan! A man who you admitted made your heart flutter and then he was gone and you didn’t swap numbers or contact details, and he just so happens to visit this bar and save you from untimely death falling from a stage … I mean you’ve got to admit this is even better than any of your romance novels because it’s real!’

She’s so animated my heart tugs, even if she is being far too loud. ‘So?’ I’d have never confided all that to her if I thought I’d see him again. And if anything, the chemistry we had before has ramped up a notch. If I didn’t have any baggage, I’d still be in his arms now.

‘So …?’ Her eyebrows pull together. ‘So what now? What happens in chapter two?’

I shake my head. ‘Now I depart back to the Little Bookshop of Happy Ever After, make a steaming pot of tea that will hopefully ease tomorrow’s enormous hangover and then I sleep like a log.’

Her mouth falls open. ‘You won’t even exchange numbers with a guy who previously spent almost twenty-four hours in your company listening to you talk about romcoms like they were the most fascinating thing on earth?’

‘You can stop with all the emphasis because romcoms are the most fascinating thing on earth.’

She tuts. ‘You know what I mean.’

I consider Jonathan as he stands off in the distance with Max. ‘Last year he really did seem enthralled about the many nuances of romance tropes and the paths to happy ever after.’ It’s not often you find a guy like that, is it?

We sip our wine thoughtfully as we study him and once again confusion bubbles up to meet me.

‘He’s lovely in a very bookish sort of way,’ Rosie says.

‘What does that mean?’

Gesturing around the room she says, ‘Well, he’s so different to all the other guys here, isn’t he?’

Jonathan stands out among my nomadic friends, dressed in what looks to be high-end clothes, not as shabby as the rest of us who live in tiny spaces and don’t own a lot of anything because there isn’t room. But it’s more than that – he gives of an air of being slightly aloof and lost in thought that makes him instantly fascinating.

‘He looks like an accountant,’ I say. ‘That’s what you mean, isn’t it?’ Hide behind humour, isn’t that the way?

We fall about laughing because he most certainly doesn’t look like an accountant. ‘I bet he’s a creative of some sort,’ I muse, agreeing with Rosie’s earlier description. ‘It’s the way he listens, as if committing things to memory. And those eyes, those deep reflective pools, hold a sort of sadness, an angst. He gives off the vibe that he’s a little lost among so many people, don’t you think?’ I recognize that trait because I am the same except I can put on an act that will fool even the most discerning.

‘Wow, Aria, is that all?’

I blush. ‘Well, I guess I prefer the types who fly under the radar rather than ones who spectacularly announce themselves.’

‘Yeah, yeah I can see that. But what does he do?’ she asks.

I think back.

‘I don’t think he mentioned it.’

‘He’s got a Kit Harington vibe, right?’ she says, surveying him.

‘So now we’ve got Jason and Kit? How lucky are we!’ I laugh. When we first met Max I was convinced he was Jason Mamoa, the big hulking star from Game of Thrones. I put the question to Rosie but she’d never heard of such a beast. I soon fixed that by making her binge watch GOT and even she admitted the resemblance was uncanny. Now I look to Jonathan and see if she’s right about the Kit thing. She is – it’s the broody eyes and the sensual pout.

I double blink myself back to reality. Leave, Aria, before you regret it.

With a deep sigh I say, ‘He’s too lovely for the likes of me. I’ll just end up hurting the poor guy when I decide this is all a mistake. Which it is.’ I kiss Rosie’s cheek. ‘I’m going to head off. I’m too wobbly to make any sense of anything.’

Her forehead furrows. ‘But …’

‘No buts. I’m done.’

As a romance novel aficionado, I know it’s always safer falling for the boy in the book.

‘I’ll walk you to the tube at least. Or I could ask Jonathan to?’

I give her a nudge with my hip. ‘Kajri wanted to leave half an hour ago, so I’ll catch the tube with her.’ In truth I want to be alone – my ears are ringing, my head pounding and I have this overwhelming feeling I’ve made a mistake.

Before Rosie can talk me out of it, I turn on my heel and get swallowed by the crowd. I need to be by myself. And I vow in future to swap every second glass of wine with water …

Chapter 3

Greenwich, London

The next morning, I awake slowly, delicately, mouth dry as a mathematics textbook or something equally lacklustre. As I stretch, my taut muscles ache and I briefly wonder why, until the previous night comes crashing back, like a movie reel playing at agonizingly slow speed.

Oh good lord of the rings, please tell me I did not gyrate to a chair on a stage! I squint as if that will make the memory easier to deal with, but it doesn’t help. I can see myself in all my ‘Pony’ glory, singing and dancing (and gyrating!) as if I were being paid for it. Well, Tori can’t say I didn’t give it my all – but then another heart-stopping memory forms.

No, no, no, nooo! I talk myself down. There’s no chance I could have kissed anyone.

But the memory is stubborn and plays out achingly slowly. Me literally falling into Jonathan’s arms. Kissing him passionately, over and again. The feel of his soft lips against mine. The heady sensation of desire, something I haven’t felt in such a long time. For very good reason, I berate myself. Mercifully the memory ends with me snaking my way out of the pub with Kajri’s arm linked through mine.

There’s a knock at the door and Rosie’s face appears, a question in her eyes.

‘You’re awake!’ she says, looking bright as a button despite the late night, and enters the van bearing a plate with two slices of delicious-looking lemon-scented cake.

‘I might be awake but I’m in the midst of “the remembering” and it’s not good, not good at all. And I’m hoping when I confide in you, you’re going to tell me it was all a dream …’ I put a hand to my banging head and claw back panic.

‘Let me make a pot of tea,’ says Rosie, avoiding my eye. She places the plate on the coffee table, which is not so much a real piece of furniture but a small square of clear Perspex perched atop a stack of hardbacks.

I edge from the bed and throw on a robe as dust motes dance. There’s not much room in my little van, and it’s not neat as a pin like Rosie’s. But I love the comfort it brings me; every nook and cranny is stuffed with books, candles, keepsakes. Even my bed is full of books, leaving me only a small sliver to sleep on, which Rosie assures me is a death trap and swears she’ll wander in one day to find I’ll have suffocated.

Aria Summers tragically killed by her girl squad, Nora Ephron and Kristan Higgins …

Despite my full body throb, I manage to settle on a chair with tea in hand. ‘Tell me I didn’t kiss Jonathan?’

She blows steam from the top of her tea. ‘So what if you did, Aria?’

I groan. ‘And you just let me?’

‘Why wouldn’t I?’

I cock my head. ‘You know why, Rosie.’

She gives me a hard stare which I return. Eventually she sighs and says, ‘There’s times where you’ve just got to listen to your heart, Aria, and this is one of them.’

‘It clearly wasn’t my heart doing the decision-making, it was the copious amounts of white wine. Urgh. I bloody well forgot I was married!’

‘Widowed.’

‘Same thing.’ It’s getting harder to spin that line though as the idea of love blossoms inside me more because I’m surrounded by loved-up couples at every turn. I had that – I want to scream – and I miss it.

Her scoff rings out. ‘You can keep lying to yourself, but I won’t go along with it.’

I frown. ‘I’m doing no such thing.’

‘No?’

‘No, Oprah. I’m not.’

‘So what did you kiss him for then? I’ve seen you tipsy before and you’ve never shown the slightest interest in any other man, despite several trying to make a play for you.’

Cue the dramatic eye roll which hurts my brain. ‘What? As if. You make it sound like I’ve got men falling at my feet.’

‘You do! But you never see it, Aria, because you don’t want to see it. Men circle you, their tongues practically hanging out like lost puppies, tails wagging, hoping to get a moment of your attention.’

My laugh escapes at the preposterousness of such a thing.

‘Don’t laugh like that, it’s true. And things are different with Jonathan. Out of a sea of men, he is the only one who stands out for you.’

‘A sea of men!’ I snigger at her exaggerations. Sure there’s plenty of men about but they’re Van Lifers, more like protective big brothers than anything. ‘It’s not that anyway, Rosie. He could be bloody Prince Charming and it wouldn’t matter an iota. I’ve had the greatest love affair of all time, that’s enough for me. It’s not very fair to TJ for me to be acting like a floozy, is it?’

Her brows knit. ‘A floozy is pushing it. Would TJ want you to act like a martyr? I think not. It’s hard for me to see you so down, Aria, writing The End after TJ left.’

I sigh and sip my tea my while my head pounds with self-recriminations. ‘It’s not The End, is it, Rosie? I’m still alive, I’m still here. I’m getting on with my life as best I can. And I enjoy it just the way it is. I really do.’ These protestations come naturally, I’ve been saying them so long, but part of me wonders if I still believe it myself.

‘You left without saying goodbye to Jonathan.’

I slide my gaze away. ‘So?’

‘You’re not fooling me.’

‘I’m not trying to.’

She lets out a frustrated groan. ‘You’re going to let a great guy slip through your fingers, Aria and you might be able to lie to everyone else including yourself, but you can’t lie to me. I can see the loneliness in your eyes when you think no one is looking. Last night I saw your face drop when you scanned all the couples in the room and then light up when you were with Jonathan.’ She pats my arm and says gingerly, ‘It’s OK to want to be loved. TJ would want that for you.’

What would TJ think if he could see me now? Waking up hair a bird’s nest, eyes red from lack of sleep, having kissed a guy I barely know? It smacks of a life lived teetering on the edge and once again I doubt my place in the world. Just what am I doing?

‘Whatever it was last night was just a momentary slip. There are millions of women out there with fulfilling, happy single lives. Why am I any different? I don’t need a guy to complete me like the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle. I’m fine just as I am.’ Lies, lies, lies.

There is something endlessly fascinating about Jonathan but my guilt-plagued heart can’t give in to such temptations.

‘I’m not saying you need Jonathan, I’m saying you want Jonathan, there’s a big difference. And it doesn’t even have to be romance, it can simply start with friendship.’

‘I’ll take your comments under consideration,’ I say making a moue. This badgering about boys was a lot more fun when it was me pestering Rosie and not the other way around.

She puts her hands on her hips and does a sigh so theatrical it’s worthy of an award. ‘When you go into job-interview mode, I know I’ve lost you.’

I stand and fold the throw rug.

‘And pretending to tidy. The conversation really is closed,’ she says and laughs.

I laugh too, knowing she’s picked up on it. I never clean the Little Bookshop aside from vacuuming. Even the dust bunnies are my friends. That’s the appeal of the tiny space. It’s full to bursting with romance novels, the air perfumed with the lemony scent of preloved books and rose candles. Ruby and teal velvet cushions give it a Gatsby feel and plush throw rugs litter the space for customers who find a tome and settle in for the day.

Books line shelves and lie in disorderly alphabetical piles from the floor up making it a warm cosy little haven, lit by fairy lights and the odd candle when Rosie doesn’t blow them out with wild protestations about fire hazards and cinder boxes.

‘What’s the plan then?’ I cannily reroute, breezy as anything.

‘If you’re insisting on your own spinsterhood, then I guess we pack up and get ready to head off for France tomorrow? We’ve got that fete and a few festivals lined up already.’

I raise a brow. ‘Let me see your bullet-point plan, Rosie and don’t pretend you haven’t scheduled our every move.’

A blush creeps up her cheeks and she takes a notebook from her bag. ‘OK, OK, I have made a very simple plan, we don’t have to follow it precisely’ – she lifts a shoulder – ‘but it’s rock solid and I think we should.’ The book falls open and I see pages and pages of notes.

‘Bloody hell, Rosie. France is not another planet, you know that, right?’

There’s no accounting for some. Rosie’s a planner and always will be.

‘I know, but we only speak basic French and I wanted to make sure every possible contingency was catered for.’ She flicks the pages with a worried sigh. ‘I think I’ve covered it all.’

I take the notebook from her hands; it’s heavy with ink and angst.

‘Rosie …’ I struggle with what to say. ‘This must have taken you weeks.’

She tries to laugh it off. ‘Yeah about six all up. I guess I’m a little more nervous about leaving the UK than I once thought.’

Anxious Rosie’s researched every possible thing that could go wrong and then found potential solutions. I skim through the notes before landing on one that makes me smile. ‘Haunted places to avoid in France …?’

Surveying her nails as if they’re fascinating, she says offhandedly, ‘Better to be prepared for everything. It’s an old city and I think it’s best if we go in with eyes wide open.’

I struggle to contain my mirth because I know she’s serious but it’s almost impossible as I feel my lips quiver with it all. Rosie’s such a hoot and has no idea how funny she is, probably because she truly believes in such things.

Composed, I say, ‘You think we’re going to be killed by ghosts?’ Rosie’s got this weird obsession with envisaging her demise, often in a gruesome way. Escaped convicts with white-blonde hair fetishes (coincidentally the colour of her hair), spontaneous combustion, vampires, Ebola, packs of wild animals … you name it, she’s imagined it.

‘It’s possible.’ Her face is a picture of solemnity and I can’t tell whether she’s winding me up or not. Rosie’s foibles are many and varied which is what makes her so great, but it also makes her hard to gauge at times.

‘Right, well, I’m glad you’ve made note of so many places to avoid. Who wants to see glamourous old chateaux anyway?’

‘You’re being sarcastic?’

‘I am.’

‘You’re evil.’