Page 13 of The Little Provence Book Shop
And the poems. Of course. She wasn’t someone who read poems often – certainly not collections of them. But she loved coming across them in books, or reading a poignant verse online. She was curious as to why Monique had felt it important she read Emily Dickinson’s work. Adeline knew a little aboutthe poet: she’d lived in nineteenth-century America; that her poems were considered the work of an early feminist voice. But beyond that, her mind was blank.
Moving to the kitchen at the back of the property, Adeline cleared the few plates from the table and stacked them by the sink. She opened the fridge and pulled out a half-consumed bottle of wine and poured herself a small glass. Then she rummaged in her bag for the volume, curious to see what insight it might offer – or at least try to work out what Monique felt she’d gain from reading it. ‘Damn,’ she said aloud, when she realised she’d forgotten to take it with her when she’d locked the shop earlier.
She could leave it. She’d be back in tomorrow morning. She pulled her well-thumbed copy ofChocolatfrom her bag – a favourite that had helped to ignite her curiosity about France – and settled down to read.
But her mind kept buzzing.
It was only a five-minute walk to the shop. Lili would be safe, tucked up in her room behind a locked front door. And she’d be able to dash there and back without her daughter ever knowing.
She slipped on her coat and walked out into the early evening. It was eight thirty, and the air was in a state of flux somewhere between day and night. The sky was murky, undefined; a sliver of moon glowed in the sky, and she could make out the whole of it, three quarters in shadow; a black ball of rock with its edge dipped in gold.
Her footsteps sounded loud on the stone pathway as, head down, she passed a few locals meandering home; a group of children out past their bedtime; a man walking his dog. At last, her heart thundering, she reached the bookshop and drew the large metal key from her bag.
She rattled it slightly in the lock to find purchase thenturned it and pushed the door gently, making sure to stop it short before it nudged the bell; she didn’t want to disturb Monique in the flat above – she’d only be a moment. The few street lamps and the cool moonlight gave her enough to see by. She stepped inside and there it was, the orange volume, still tucked under the stool near the counter.
She felt the pull of Lili, back in her bed, and felt her stomach twist at having left her; what had she been thinking? She’d never have done this in London, no matter the number of deadlocks and bolts their home had had in its armoury. It was this place, its charm, friendliness. The fact that people all seemed to know one another; people didn’t always lock their cars or their doors for that matter.
But people were still people. She shouldn’t be lulled by the simplicity of life here. She had to get back.
She was halfway across the room when she sensed it; a shift in the air or atmosphere that made her freeze. Someone was there. Sure enough, as she looked to the wooden stairs that disappeared to the top floor and Monique’s flat, she could see movement in the shadows. A figure. A man.
She managed to repress a scream, instead letting out a small squeak of surprise. ‘What are… Who are you?’ she asked, still keeping her voice soft; still, for some reason, hoping she could retrieve her book and get home without disturbing anyone.
The man stepped forward into the cool, stark light. He was young, his skin smooth and pale, his hair curly and thick, falling forward a little over his forehead. Something about the way he was standing revealed an unexpected ease, a comfortableness at being seen. Not an intruder then. But who else would be there in the little bookshop after closing time?
‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you.’ He smiled, the action somehow taking over his entire face – eyesshining, lips stretching, dimples forming in his cheeks. And although her heart had still not slowed from the shock of him, she almost felt her mouth want to smile back. ‘I am sorry I made you… squeak.’
Was he laughing at her? ‘Who are you?’ she asked. ‘The shop’s closed.’
He laughed, a slightly suppressed sound; perhaps conscious that Monique would be upstairs. ‘Don’t worry, I am not a customer,’ he said, ‘but then I think you might be Adeline,non?’
‘Yes.’ She looked at him, still suspicious. ‘And you are…?’
‘Michel.’ He said his name as if she should know it and she racked her brain for any memory of Monique mentioning him. He looked far too young to be her partner, and anyway she was sure Monique was single.
He laughed again at her incredulous face. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I thought my aunt would have spoken about me. I’m Monique’s nephew. Michel Chambon.’ He held out his hand as if expecting her to move forward and shake it.
‘OK,’ she said, still annoyed at his ‘squeak’ comment. He was lucky she hadn’t used some of her slightly dormant self-defence moves she’d learned in a course at uni… ‘Look, I have to get back. I just wanted to grab this book.’ She stepped forward and slipped the small volume out from under the stool, holding it towards him as if proving her point.
‘There is no rush,’ he smiled. ‘We have just eaten, but I’m sure Monique…’
‘No. I really have to go.’ She wanted to tell him her child was at home on her own, but it suddenly seemed horribly neglectful. She didn’t want him to know. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow perhaps?’ she said.
‘Yes. I will be here tomorrow,’ he smiled. ‘And I know that Monique would like us to meet.’
She nodded, briefly, and raced across the shop, her heart suddenly full of terror at the thought of Lili in that dark house alone. What if she woke up? She’d be scared. And would she trust Adeline again when she next lay down in bed and closed her eyes?
‘Well. Bye,’ she said as she closed the door, noticing the curiosity in his eyes. She must have looked strange, she reflected, racing from the shop so quickly – as if collecting the poetry book had been some sort of emergency. But it didn’t matter. She had to get home.
She was crossing the courtyard, just a couple of hundred metres from her front door and head down, when it happened. She felt a sudden resistance as she collided with someone. There was a ripping sound, and the drumming of objects; a bag had spilt oranges and coffee and a bag of sugar onto the pavement. Looking up, she saw a familiar person. André, his usually open face furrowed to a frown.
‘Sorry,’ she said, turning as she continued to race past. ‘I can’t… I’m sorry.’
He glowered at her, reaching down to pick the box of coffee and the bag of sugar from where they’d tipped into the road.
‘Sorry!’ she said again, holding her hands up briefly and almost running backwards in an attempt to make eye contact. ‘It’s just…’ But André, crouching in the street to gather his things, didn’t look up.
When she reached her front door, her hand was shaking and she had to steady herself before inserting the key. Then she let herself into the silent house and raced up the stairs to the open bedroom door.
