Page 1 of The Bordeaux Book Club

PROLOGUE

George was just stepping out of the café, takeaway coffee in hand, when he saw Grace appear in the window of thetabacopposite. He recognised her instantly, despite his throbbing temples, and felt his neck prickle as he remembered trying to talk to her at the gardening club meet and finding his tongue had tied itself in knots. It had shocked him, this sudden mutism; he’d always been able to talk for England, so everyone told him. But then again, he wasn’t in England in any more. And he’d felt a bit out of place amongst all those posh retirees.

The cold, silvery, winter light crept softly around the edges of the white, February clouds, and fell on Grace’s skin as she searched for an empty place in the window. Reaching up, her tongue protruding slightly at the edge of her mouth, she pressed the corners of the A4 sheet against the glass alongside the adverts for a local artisan market, a babysitting service and a poster advertising a music night, the date of which had already passed. He could just make out the word ‘club’ in bold on the paper.

Another club. He tried not to laugh. He barely knew the woman, but he’d gathered that if there was an event or club orfête or pretty much anything going on in the local community, she’d be involved somehow. He wondered what she was up to this time.

He busied himself, looking at the property adverts in the estate agent window while he waited for her to leave then, when she had, strolled nonchalantly across the street and had a quick gander.

Sure enough, it was an advert for a new organisation – with Grace at its helm. This time, it seemed, she was starting a book club for ‘Anglophones’ – the advert written in English, with French translation underneath in the hope of attracting a wider clientele.

He wasn’t sure why he took a picture of the number with his phone. Just in case, he told himself. He hadn’t read a book for years, not a fiction one at least. But maybe it was time. Another night in with the boys at the house would probably finish him off – he was getting too old for so much alcohol. And he couldn’t just sit around in his tiny flat – he’d go mad.

At least it would be something to do.

The noise of Monica’s phone made her jump – she hated the way its shrill sound pierced the silence, bouncing from the high ceilings and wooden floors which magnified the noise horribly. Bella’s limbs stiffened in her arms and Monica shushed her baby gently, annoyed that her hard-won sleep had been disturbed. Moving Bella onto her other shoulder she picked up the mobile, expertly navigating its screen one-handedly with dextrous use of her thumb.

It was from Peter. It said simply,

Saw this

She clicked on the attached photo to enlarge it and saw an ad forThe Bordeaux Book Club. For English speakers. She looked instinctively at the book, spine-cracked, that she’d placed face-down on the table when Bella had cried, but found herself shaking her head, although there was nobody there to witness it.

Could she manage it? It was hard work simply changing nappies and preparing bottles – anything for herself seemed to have taken a back seat since Bella’s arrival. And she could only imagine the sort of people who’d be there – probably a bunch of retirees desperate to read war stories or drink red wine while discussing the latest John Grisham.

Still, she had promised herself she’d make more connections locally. And this was a chance to at least do something different – to keep her busy while Peter was away.

What do you think?

Peter messaged. She replied,

Maybe

Alfie placed his rucksack at his feet, then lifted his phone and took a quick snap of the advert. It could be just the thing he’d been looking for. Something that could prove uplifting, a distraction from the worst parts of life. He slipped the phone back in the pocket of his jeans and shouldered his backpack with a sigh of effort.

Camille left the shop, slipping a pack of cigarettes into her bag. ‘You have found something?’ she asked him, in French.

‘Maybe,’ he said, shrugging. ‘A book club. For English speakers.’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘For…’

He nodded. ‘It just… well, it might work. You know.’

‘Perhaps I should come too?’ she suggested. ‘To improve my English.’

He nodded. ‘Yeah, if you want.’

They turned and walked slowly down the road, disappearing into the melange of pedestrians making their way to work or university, or strolling more slowly, with no particular destination in mind.

A little further along the road, she slipped her hand in his and he squeezed it gratefully.

‘You will find a way,’ she told him softly.

He wanted to thank her, but the word stuck in his throat. Instead, he looked forward intently until the moment passed, then murmured a short, ‘Hope so.’

Then they turned the corner and were swallowed into the heart of Bordeaux – just a couple of students on their way to class.

Grace sounded almost breathless on the phone. ‘Four enquiries already!’ she told Leah.

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