Aria’s Travelling Book Shop

‘I am.’

‘OK, now that’s cleared up, are you ready to make a move, tomorrow morning about ten?’

‘There’s nothing keeping me here, if that’s what you’re asking.’ Best to run away like you always do, Aria …

‘Mm-hm.’

‘Well, I guess all I can say is toodle-loo England, and bonjour France.’

‘Oui, oui.’ She gives me a peck on the cheek. ‘Get cracking and we’ll meet for a late lunch, yeah? One last meal of proper fish and chips before we leave the motherland?’

‘Is there anything better to soak up the effects of the night before?’

Her eyes sparkle. ‘Well, only if you’re Max. He’s already insisted I have kombu kelp juice, whatever the hell that is.’

‘Tell him seaweed is a living breathing thing too.’

‘Will do.’ She grins. ‘I’m going to wash Poppy and check all my kitchen accoutrements are packed away ahead of the long drive. Meet you out front at two-thirty and we’ll walk down to the pub?’

I nod. ‘Perfect.’

I wave her goodbye and flop back into my chair to contemplate it all. France, Jonathan, TJ. The epic journey ahead. I’ve managed to live over a thousand days without my husband. One thousand days. It seems like forever and yet just like yesterday too. With him in mind, a new man turning my head seems so foreign.

The spark with Jonathan has been ignited no matter how much I deny it, but a drunken kiss isn’t exactly a relationship, is it? I can still protect my heart and forget all about it.

Whenever I’m conflicted, I picture myself the heroine in a love story to make sense of it all. That’s the problem with being obsessed with romance novels, you see everything play out as one, including your very own life.

Hopeless romantic Aria vowed never to love again after losing her husband, TJ, but fate seems to have other ideas and keeps throwing mysterious Jonathan in her path. Is this a test of her commitment to her husband, or is it a sign she should open her heart and her mind to the possibility of falling in love once more? Nomadic by nature, Aria can’t see the point when home is always at the end of a new patch of road …

Chapter 4

London to Calais

After a much better night’s sleep sans alcohol I’m packed and ready to go. I take my pot of tea and sit on the tiny deck outside the Little Bookshop, marvelling at sunshiny clear skies while I wait for Rosie to appear. The swollen fat grey clouds of the previous day are long gone, and instead all I see is an expanse of bright blue above. Birds chirp and butterflies frolic as if trying to woo me to stay.

Spring has been as dull as dishwater up until now. London, the wily beast, puts on a great show when we’re about to leave these familiar shores.

Before long Rosie joins me for our usual morning ritual – I hand over a cup of tea which she swaps for a chocolate chip muffin. She chats away nineteen to the dozen while I come slowly awake, mainlining tea in order to be able to communicate. Our Rosie is one of those annoying early bird catches the worm types.

‘What’s with all this glorious sunshine?’

‘It should be criminal,’ I agree, taking a bite of gooey chocolatey goodness waiting for the sugar to jumpstart my body into another day.

Pretty flowers add pops of colour to the expanse of garden. ‘It’s a false spring. It’ll go back to grey as soon as we hit the border, you know.’

I laugh. ‘I know. The homeland trying to lull us into a false sense of security.’

‘Bloody outrageous.’ She takes a bite of her muffin.

‘I’m not fooled for a minute! Where’s Max?’

‘Securing the perimeter,’ she says, her voice deadpan.

I grin at her explanation. ‘Jogging?’

‘Yeah, I guess. I’ll never understand his need to exert so much energy first thing in the morning.’ She looks guiltily at the rich calorie-laden sweet treat in her hand and then shrugs and continues munching away at it.

‘Gotta keep up that physique somehow.’ Max is buffed and bronzed, a real mountain of a man. It’s a mystery to us how he maintains said physique subsisting on a sugar-free, processed-carb-free, vegan diet. Rosie of course is the exact opposite; she bakes old-fashioned comfort food (carbs loaded with sugar and spice and all things nice) and doesn’t run unless some mythical terror is chasing her.

Rosie and Max are my favourite ‘opposites attract’ romance trope come to life. While Max is a carefree, save-the-planet pacifist, Rosie is a highly efficient over-planner who doesn’t read social cues too well. They’re the perfect balance for one another and proof romance novels are truly a guide to life and not just a fun way to pass the time.

‘While we’re talking about healthy choices and diet and exercise, could I tempt you with some scones and lashings of jam and cream?’

‘My arm could be twisted.’ I swipe the crumbs from the chocolate muffin I’ve just demolished out of sight. Rosie says I’ve got hollow legs and she’d hate me for it if she didn’t love me so much. She’s curvaceous and I’m straight up and down – I know which I’d rather be, but Rosie doesn’t believe me.

‘Stay right there.’

Within minutes she’s back with a plate bearing freshly baked scones, still warm to the touch. ‘Golly what time were you up?’

‘Four,’ she says sheepishly. ‘Couldn’t sleep. Big day.’

Poor Rosie. Any change does not come easily to her and I know she struggles with it more than she lets on. Pre-dawn, she’d have been scrubbing the inside of her van, Poppy, and then baking up a storm until it was light enough to wash the outside of Poppy. When she’s in turmoil, she cleans. She cleans and cleans and then cleans again. And then bakes. And the whole cycle of cleaning starts again while the rest of us sleep like the dead.

‘All set though?’ A small part of me worries that Rosie will pull the plug and decide leaving is too great a risk for her. She’s changed so much over the last year, but part of her will always carry that fear that the unknown is not safe.

She rubs the back of her neck. ‘It’s going to be an adventure and while I’m nervous I know I’ll have you and Max, so what’s there to be worried about?’ Her words wobble but I smile encouragingly at Rosie trying so hard to be brave. ‘Once we’re finished here,’ she says, ‘I’ll check Poppy over once more and then we’re good to go.’

I lean into her. ‘That’s the spirit.’

As we chat a couple of remaining nomads come to say one last goodbye. ‘Stay for morning tea?’ Rosie says to them before dashing back to her van for more plates.

Leo, who runs Rollerskating on the Road, gives me a big hug. He’s off to run his retro skating tours in Cornwall to catch the hordes of tourists who flock there over spring and summer.

‘I’m going to miss you,’ I say, giving his hair a tousle. He’s one of my favourite people on the festival circuit for his ever-present megawatt smile. A twenty-something with the world at his feet and his whole life ahead of him. What’s not to be happy about when you’ve got wheels strapped on and the day is but young?

‘Keep in touch, yeah?’ he says, squishing the breath from my lungs as he hugs me tight. ‘And I mean it, I want to hear all about France and the wild exploits you lot get up to.’

‘Sure will. You be safe, please? Don’t go careening down hilly streets and around blind corners. I want to see your big smile with all of your teeth in place when I get back.’

‘I’ll try.’ He grins flashing those pearly whites. ‘But I can’t promise anything.’

‘Daredevil.’

‘Bookworm.’

I laugh. ‘And proud of it!’

‘I’m going to miss you two so much,’ he says and moves to give Rosie a hug. I can tell she’s trying not to be as stiff as a toy solider but our Rosie’s not one for displays of affection.

‘You remember to wear that helmet I got for you. It has the highest rating safety specifications out there. I tested it myself,’ Rosie says.

‘I sure will, Rosie, and I won’t listen to anyone in future who calls me a namby-pamby for wearing such a thing.’ I struggle to hold myself in check. The helmet Rosie bought for Leo resembles something worn on the Apollo 11 mission and I wonder how on earth he can see out of the damn thing, but you know Rosie, safety first, always.

‘A namby-pamby? But it’s for safety, I don’t understand?’ Rosie asks, bamboozled by others not being as safety conscious.

He shrugs. ‘Jealousy is a curse. Be kind to the herbivore, won’t you?’ he says to Rosie about Max, the resident plant-eater. Rosie is trying her best to keep up with the conversation, confusion shining in her blue doe eyes because she’s probably picturing Leo and what other safety gear she should have bought him.

I move to her and swing an arm over her shoulder. We exchange a glance and I give her an almost imperceptible nod to spill that we know his secret. She whispers, ‘Look after Lulu too!’ We cover our mouths to stop giggles from pouring out – how child-like we are at times!

He raises a brow. ‘It’s out then, is it?’

‘Imagine keeping that from us,’ I jokingly admonish him. But we all know love on the road is delicate when it’s new. Eyes on your every move doesn’t help and the gossip spreads like wildfire, so it’s best to play it coy until those feelings are certain, and that much I do know … from watching on the sidelines, all the damn time.

Lulu joins us smelling as always like the purple flower she loves so much. She owns Lavender at Lulu’s, a pop-up shop that sells homemade natural bath products, from soaps to shampoos and everything in between. She wears her heart on her sleeve and is the true peace-loving hippy of the past, reincarnated.

I take a step back to drink in the lovebirds one last time, my heart doing a little happy dance for them. They’re both salt of the earth, big-hearted wanderers who tread gently on this planet.

We take time over our scones laden with jam and cream coupled with freshly brewed tea. It’s a wonder I’m not the size of a house since Rosie walked into my life, but I suppose I’ve stopped eating from a packet these days, whatever charred mess I’d previously managed to consume in order to stay alive. Cooking is not my forte and I had little interest in food until Rosie came screaming into my life.

Everything she makes is from scratch and even if it is laced with butter and sugar, there’s a homeliness about it, conjuring Sunday visits to Gran’s house where you’d leave with a warm heart and a full belly.

Maybe I can grow a food baby, that will give me something to love …

After sharing their travel plans, Lulu and Leo thank us and offer another round of hugs. We watch them walk off together, hand in hand. ‘No more goodbyes, my heart can’t stand it,’ I say, resting my head on Rosie’s shoulder.

Rosie gives my arm an affectionate rub. ‘We’ll see them again, surely.’ It’s a strange game this wandering lark. You’d think it would be easy to keep in touch, but it never works out that way. Patchy Wi-Fi, days spent driving from one place to the next, busy festivals and fairs and those people who once owned a corner of your heart slowly get pushed out for the people you meet on the next part of the ride. These special people may dart out of our lives but I will always remember them for the easy open friendship they offered.

‘I’m hoping there’ll be a wedding invitation in the inbox soon!’ I nudge Rosie and motion to Leo and Lulu who kiss in the distance under the shade of an oak tree.

‘Won’t she make the most beautiful bride?’

I sigh, picturing it. ‘Stunning! I can see her with long blonde plaits, wearing a gauzy cheesecloth dress.’ I’ll never tire of seeing love bloom. Never, ever, ever. ‘Barefoot, a beach wedding …’

‘A bouquet of bluebells and forget-me-nots.’ Rosie’s face shines, as we lose ourselves dreaming.

‘Daisy chains for the flower girls.’

‘Cream linen for the ring bearer, a lavender filled cushion a bed for the quartz wedding ring.’

I smooth down my shirt. ‘If we mentioned all this to her do you think she’d freak out?’

Rosie laughs. ‘It might be a little presumptuous since they’ve only been dating for a week.’

‘But when you know, you know.’ They catch us staring and we both yelp and wave enthusiastically as if we’re proud parents. ‘OK, Cupid. Let’s just stalk their Facebook pages and if we get any hint marriage is on the cards then we can bombard her with our suggestions.’

‘Bombard?’ Rosie queries.

‘Gently make myriad helpful suggestions … Perhaps I’d better stick to fictional weddings.’ Wedding season, you’ll find me attending all sorts of fictional weddings; from historical to modern-day romances, there’s not a single one that doesn’t make me shed happy tears.

‘For the time being stick to the books,’ Rosie says. ‘You can blubber until your heart is content and you don’t have to worry about wearing waterproof mascara.’

‘True, another reason reading beats real life. Waterproof mascara is impossible to remove.’

I turn to her, suddenly enamoured with the thought of weddings, babies, good, solid strong futures. ‘What about you, Rosie? Have you and Max discussed the next stage much?’

A blush creeps up her neck.

‘You have!’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Her voice rises with each syllable.

I fold my arms. ‘What’s ridiculous about it? I’ve never seen a couple so besotted before.’

Playfully she swats at me, a sure-fire sign she’s embarrassed discussing it. ‘So why do I need marriage to cement it?’

Hands on hip, I say as if it’s obvious, ‘So I can plan the wedding!’

She dissolves into a fit of laughter. ‘That’s it?’

‘Well, I want to be an aunty too. Can you imagine your little brood of curly-haired beauties who roam wild and free, climbing trees and speaking four different languages?’

‘It screams pathetic, but yes I have pictured them, a little boy and a little girl two years after … and I’m already in love with them, even though the boy is a bit reckless and the girl always hangs off Max and insists on speaking in an American accent like her daddy. Isn’t that a little cuckoo?’

I waggle my brow. ‘What are their names?’

She gives me a hip bump.

‘I know you have it all planned, Rosie!’

Our peals of laughter punctuate the day. It feels so good to celebrate these little wins my friends are having. To think of the way love can blossom into real-life miniature humans blows my mind and I’d love to be part of their family, as the eccentric word nerd adopted aunty who lives next door and teaches them to read.

‘Fine, their tentative names are Alchemy and Huckleberry.’

My laughter dies and dries into a hard lump in my throat which I semi-choke on. ‘Wow … Rosie, they are, erm, certainly unique names. Won’t forget those in a hurry.’

‘I thought you’d especially like the literary nod to Huckleberry.’

I swallow my shock. ‘Ah, wonderful! I’ll order in The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn just as soon as I get a free moment.’

She gives me a hard stare. ‘Do you really think I’d name my children Alchemy and Huckleberry?’

‘You’re not?’

‘No, I’m not.’

‘Oh thank god! I wasn’t sure what to say! You know as well as I do that nomads have a tendency to name their offspring all sorts of wacky and wonderful things, I thought you’d been bitten by the same bug. Don’t get me wrong, I love Sage’s son Quest, and Ziggy’s daughter Freedom—’

‘You hate their names.’

‘I do not! Their names are as adventurous as their little spirits. What if Quest grows up to be an explorer? Quest going on a quest! And Freedom might become a human rights lawyer and how handy will her name come in then?’ OK, I don’t love their names, but I’ll never tell.

‘You’re a hopeless liar, Aria. My chosen names if you must know are Indigo for the little boy who is destined to arrive first, and exactly two years and six months later little Aria Rose will be born into this world. You’ve ruined the surprise.’

‘Aria Rose?’

‘It’s got a nice ring to it, you have to admit.’

‘It’s beautiful. And I’m honoured. So when do these little cherubs plan on gracing the planet?’

She huffs and takes out her ever-present notebook with a long sigh as if I’ve pushed her patience to the limit, knowing (as I do) that everything is planned no matter whether babies can be or not.

With supreme confidence, she says, ‘Indigo should arrive around June 2023, and baby Aria in January 2026 or there about. It’s not too soon, is it?’ A frown appears.

‘Not at all.’ Knowing Rosie, she’ll figure out a way to make babies happen exactly as her schedule decrees. ‘What does Max say?’

She scoffs. ‘He says let nature take its course, and if it’s sooner then that’s all the better.’ She pinches the bridge of her nose as if Max’s carefree nature pains her. ‘But I’m not ready, not yet. I’m still adjusting to life on the road.’

‘Me too,’ I say and feel the truth in my words. ‘It’s an ongoing learning curve.’

‘What about you, Aria, would you ever consider babies?’

I baulk. ‘By immaculate conception?’

She purses her lips.

Noting the time so I can distract her, I say, ‘Wow, we’d better push off if we want to stick to your schedule.’

There’s a tap on the van door. A courier stands there with a package in hand. ‘Aria Summers?’

‘That’s me,’ I say. Had I placed a special book order I’d forgotten about? Or a blindfold so I won’t see myself walking into any more bad choices? Maybe a chastity belt for those times when I forget I’m resolutely single …

‘Sign here, love.’ I do and he hands over the package. ‘Have a good day.’

‘Book order?’ Rosie asks.

I tap a finger to my chin. ‘Must be but I can’t remember who for? I’m sure I got them all sorted already.’ A big part of my business is ordering in rare books for my customers and then shipping them on for a small profit. I also have an online shop with a romance cult following. Anything to keep the wolf from the door. Van life is a constant state of hustle to be able to continue the journey.

‘Open it up.’

I tear it open to find a handwritten note and what looks to be a diary.

When I see the name at the end my heart stops. ‘It’s from TJ’s mum.’

I fold the letter.

‘Aren’t you going to read it?’ Rosie asks, eyes enquiring. ‘Oh … privacy, right? I’ll go and give you a few minutes?’

I nod. ‘Thanks, Rosie.’

When she’s gone I take the letter and sit on the edge of my bed, trying to slow the rapid beating of my pulse. Surely TJ’s mum wouldn’t write to harangue me? I’d always hoped we could mend bridges but part of me is still angry about the way the family ghosted me after TJ died. His mum, Mary, led the charge, ignoring me at his funeral, not inviting me to family birthdays or Christmases after he’d gone. It was as though I didn’t exist to them anymore. I’d gone from favourite daughter-in-law to public enemy number one. It hurt. It still hurts. And despite being treated horrendously by them, I still miss them, especially Mary who was like a mother to me once.

Dear Aria,

I hope this finds you well. Although if you’re anything like me, you’re just plodding through every day on autopilot. The world isn’t the same without TJ. Don’t you find that colour has been leached from everything? The sun isn’t as bright and even the sound of laughter sounds strange to me these days, but I endure. What else can one do?

He left this diary with instructions to send it to you, but I’d misplaced it. For that I am sorry.

Mary

She had this precious keepsake for almost three years and forgot? It’s that same old game-playing and to what end? I expected better from them, but grief is a wily beast so I stretch my limits trying to sympathize to justify her behaviour, find any reason why she’d keep this from me and come up short. She blames me for taking TJ away from her when he got sick, and she won’t listen to reason about it.

My hands shake as I tentatively open the diary. I slam it closed when I see the loops and scrawls of TJ’s neat writing. I’d never seen him write in a diary, not once. I blink back tears at having a relic so treasurable – his thoughts, his words, trapped inside. There couldn’t be anything sweeter for a word nerd like myself. But when did he write in it? What if it’s some terrible secret he’s chosen to confess?

There’s no time to ponder now. We’re about to leave and the very last thing I want to do is read it in haste. I kiss the diary and put it in my bedside drawer wishing my husband had been sent back to me but knowing that his words are the next best thing.

Chapter 5

Calais

The diary is on my mind as we say goodbye to old London town and start our journey. It’s nice to be alone in the front of the van and let my mind wander. I’m following Max so I don’t have to worry about the route. Instead I spend the next couple of hours reminiscing about TJ and some of the amazing adventures we shared. He was the type of guy who was up for anything. Rock-climbing, chick-flick marathons, sailing, and my favourite – walking in the rain hand in hand with me. He loved his life and I hang on to that.

After a long drive we arrive in Calais, park up and stop to stretch our legs as gloriously warm sunlight bathes our stiff bodies. French accents bounce around, and I smile listening to such poetic language. Ooh la la, it’s theatre come to life as men gesticulate wildly over tiny cups of café crème and women with broody eyes sit smoking cigarettes.

‘Not too keen on doing that drive again. Poppy was all over the road,’ Rosie says, her face white. Driving a big rig like Poppy is no easy feat, just keeping her on the road requires a certain kind of concentration. Like the Little Bookshop, pink campervan Poppy has a mind of her own at times and will pull this way and that to get your attention. They’re grand dames who’ve had long, illustrious lives before they stepped into ours.

‘That’s the first leg done, Rosie. You did well. We’ve got less than three hours to go to get to Rouen.’

She blows hair from her eyes and Max takes her in his arms. He doesn’t say anything, he’s always just there for her when she needs it. A calming presence who never speaks in platitudes to Rosie, because who likes platitudes? I love love and seeing it jump from the pages and come to life with these two gives me the warm and fuzzies.

But I can’t let them know that. ‘Get a room, you two.’

Rosie’s anxious mood is soon replaced by wonder as, wrapped in Max’s arms, she takes in her surroundings. The parading of their love is probably half the reason I’m suddenly consumed with Jonathan fantasies – the two of us reading side by side with only the flickering glow of candlelight. OK so it’s not exactly a wild, passionate imagining but baby steps, and all that.

Rosie’s happiness is infectious so it takes me a minute to take in the view and that’s when I spot them. ‘Look!’ I point. ‘You can just see the white cliffs of Dover from here.’ They are so spectacular, the white of them is luminous even this far away. ‘I can’t help it; the song is playing in my head.’ I start humming Vera Lynn’s classic hit ‘The White Cliffs of Dover’.

‘Wow,’ Rosie says. ‘I’d love to take the ferry past them one day, see them up close.’

‘Me too.’ There’s so much world to explore, I’m hoping this French trip inspires us to keep going as far as we can in our vans. ‘But for now, adventure awaits. And that is Le Phare, the lighthouse on the point.’

Rosie groans, not being one for heights. ‘How many steps?’ Or exercise.

I feign ignorance.

‘Don’t try that look on me, I can see right through it.’

‘Fine. Two hundred and seventy-one teeny tiny little steps.’

She harrumphs. ‘I’ll never understand why you two like hurting your bodies in such a way. Where’s the fun in having your thigh muscles burning?’