Page 9 of The Little Provence Book Shop

‘You said you were running away. What from?’ The question felt a little stark, a little rude, spoken aloud like this, but she hadn’t been able to stop herself. Monique seemed so self-assured, it was hard to imagine the younger version of her being afraid of anything.

To her relief, Monique laughed. ‘What does every young girl run from? Her mother, of course.’ She shook her head, her smile fading slightly. ‘Non, that is not it. I was running from being achild, being told what to do. My mother, she… well, perhaps I will tell you one day what she did to me; now is not the time. The point is she took my decisions away from me; she treated me like a child when I needed to be treated like an adult. And I realised: while I am under her roof, I will never be free. I will always be her daughter, her extension. Not my own person at all.’

Adeline nodded. ‘That makes sense.’ She remembered her own teenage years – that struggle to throw off the shackles of childhood, the restrictions; yet still retain the safety net that childhood afforded. How she and her mother had argued – she felt awful about that now. But things had looked different to her then, her mother constantly pecking away at her, telling her what to do, what she was doing wrong, giving her unsolicited advice about boyfriends and schoolwork and friendships and hemlines. She wondered if Monique missed her mother as much as she missed her own now? Presumably the woman was dead, given Monique’s age. She decided not to ask.

‘Not looking forward to the teenage years with this one,’ she said instead, nodding towards Lili’s prone form.

Monique followed her gaze. ‘It will be fine.’ She finished her mousse and pushed her chair from the table. ‘Coffee?’

‘Yes, please.’

Monique disappeared from the room, leaving Adeline alone; the sound of Lili’s deep breathing audible now their conversation had petered out. Adeline got up and took off her black woollen cardigan, then draped it over Lili’s tiny form. Her child snuggled into it gratefully but didn’t wake.

She went over to the shelf with the tiny jars, their colourful interiors bright against the mahogany shelf. Each bore a tiny label, ‘love’, ‘prosperity’, ‘happiness’. She reached and touched one of them gently.

‘And you?’ Monique asked as she entered the room with a tray, as if there hadn’t been a break in conversation. Adeline jumped back. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I was just…’

Monique followed her eye. ‘It is OK. You can look, if you want. It is good to be curious.’

‘Thank you.’ She racked her brain to try to remember what they’d been talking about. Mothers. Running away.

‘Me?’ she said, finally answering Monique’s question.

‘Yes. What do you think drew you here? I know you want to improve your French, but I sense there is more?’

Adeline looked at the little cup of black, glistening liquid in front of her. She dropped a sugar lump in it and it broke the surface briefly, and sent a few bubbles in its wake. She stirred carefully.

‘Well, perhaps it’s also a way of… I don’t know. Finding myself? There’s French blood in my family – my mother’s side; I only found out recently. Hence my name, Adeline. My mother’s choice. I wasn’t very happy one way or another in London and knew I wanted to do something different. My mother died recently,’ she added, as if by way of explanation. ‘And there’s some inheritance. Not a lot, but enough to take a few risks. I left my teaching job and needed something new. And I have Lili, but nobody else in my life, not really. No husband, no partner. So I thought if not now, when? And then I saw your advert.’

Monique was nodding. ‘And do you feel that you have made a good choice?’

‘Yes, yes I think so.’

Monique smiled, sipped her coffee, looked out over the quiet square outside the window.

‘Can I ask you something?’ Adeline said.

‘Oui, of course.’

‘I’ve watched you recommend books a bit this week. But I’mnot quite sure what you go on. You seem to know what some of the customers want – but I haven’t seen anyone talk to you about plot or genre… Is it just that you’ve been here so long, you know what they might like or…?’

Monique smiled. ‘Well, perhaps it is that, a little. But that is only part of it.’

‘OK?’

‘In truth I am a doctor. I find the cure for people. Ah, not in their bodies, they must go to the medical doctor for that. But I can cure their hearts. Or perhaps not me, perhaps the writers from today or long ago can do this for them.’

‘Cure their hearts?’

Monique arched an eyebrow. ‘Mais oui, don’t you believe this is possible?’

Adeline thought about the times she’d revisited a book, read a poem that had moved her. The times when the lyrics of a song seemed to speak to her, or when she’d felt affinity with a character in a book. How affirming it had been, how restorative. ‘I think it could be,’ she said. ‘And I’ve heard of book prescriptions. I think. Bibliotherapists dispensing books for therapy.’

Monique was nodding. ‘Oui, oui,it is like this,’ she said. ‘Only perhaps I am not talking so much to people butfeelingthem, their hearts, their needs. I have always been able to do this. Not for everyone. But for most. I can find a connection and it helps me,’ she shrugged. ‘Probably I sound a little mad,’ she admitted. She didn’t seem too despondent about the idea.

Adeline smiled. ‘Not mad. Interesting.’

‘And this is good?’

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