The Little French Bookshop

by Cecile Pivot

Genres: Friendship; Holiday Romance

Synopsis

A letter writing workshop.
Five strangers.
Countless secrets bursting in between the pages.

When French bookseller Esther loses her father, she decides to place an ad in a newspaper, inviting struggling readers to join her secret letter writing workshop.

To Esther's surprise, applications pile in by the dozens - and before long, an elderly lady, a disillusioned businessman, a disheartened couple and an awkward teenager find themselves sharing stories, seeking advice, and forging new friendships.

As Esther's students uncover the hopes, dreams and fears that were hiding behind the pen, Esther, too, finds herself thrown into a new world full of unexpected adventures.

Release date: February 3, 2022

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 240

Sample

Esther

Things didn’t pan out quite the way I expected. I should have guessed after our meeting in Paris, the one time we all met up. They hadn’t signed up for my letter writing workshop to improve their letter writing skills. Well, it wasn’t their main motivation, put it that way. I soon discovered that this letter writing workshop was their lifeline, their only way out. It would rescue them from their trials and tribulations and help them grasp where they had gone wrong, mourn those they had lost, get their lives back on track, and rekindle lost love. Of course, I didn’t realize all of this until much later on when I was already immersed in the intimate details of their lives. Why am I surprised? After all, wasn’t it my lifeline too, after my father died?

I overestimated myself, assuming they would all be dying to write to me. In fact, John was the only one who did. I had envisaged myself being firm with them, but this didn’t go to plan either. I couldn’t do a thing with Samuel who wouldn’t toe the line and refused to write to more than one person. I had also assumed they would be eager for my advice. Instead, they had other priorities and my words often fell on deaf ears.

I can’t remember the exact moment I decided to put our letters together and compile a book. I think it was after the monologue exercise. Juliette hesitated before finally accepting, but Jean, John and Nicolas were immediately in favour, as long as I changed their names. Samuel agreed too but insisted that I use his.

I set about preparing for publication. This involved re-reading, editing, correcting and fine-tuning the letters, taking care to preserve each writer’s individual style. They all have their little quirks. For instance, Samuel scoffs at repetitions, Juliette has trouble with linking words (as she does in linking the past to the present), Nicolas is blunt and outs­poken (as in real life), Jean is hooked on interjections and John loves adverbs.

To make it easier for the reader, I indicated the names of the letter writers and their recipients at the top of each letter.

I wanted the book to end with Samuel, as he is the youngest of the group. I wanted him to have the last word. First, because I appreciate his intuitive intelligence and his sensitivity, which shine through in his writing. Second, because I see myself in him in a lot of ways. Neither of us were able to mourn the passing of our loved ones and bore a huge amount of guilt as a result. Finally, because I hadn’t imagined that he would make so much progress in just a few months. Who could have foreseen that he would seize his life with both hands and display such spontaneity and generosity? And not just Samuel. John has also found the means to turn his life around. I like to think that my letter writing workshop came at a fortuitous time and changed their lives for the better.

Let me introduce myself. I am forty-two years old, and my name is Esther Urbain.

An Ad In The Classifieds

I was neither a writer nor a teacher, so I was going to need to prove my credibility to potential students. I planned to draw on my experience as a librarian of epistolary works and quote my favourites such as Correspondence by François Truffaut or Letters to Lou by Guillaume Apollinaire. I could also talk about the writing workshops I had organized in Lille from my own bookshop. These were hosted by local writers and held in the evening after closing time. With a subject like letter writing, I feared that my ad would merely attract lonely old people, who would jump at the chance to dig out their yellowed writing paper from their drawers and unravel their memories.

I had a clear idea how this workshop of mine would function. On 5th January 2019, the ad which I had posted a few days earlier on my bookshop’s website appeared in four local dailies. When I had called the classified ads department of one paper, they had suggested I take the bundled offer to increase impact: Learn how to get your thoughts down on paper, tell a story and talk about yourself by registering for my letter writing workshop. Participate from wherever you live. Runs from 4th February to 3rd May 2019.

I got about twenty replies, from people of all ages, with a few more men than women. I gave each one the same pitch: Esther Urbain, bookshop owner in Lille, librarian and copy editor specializing in letter writing. I told them this was my first time running a letter writing workshop and that my role would be to help them write their own letters, while retaining their individual style and personality. I would rework their texts with them, and help them find the right words, to ensure balanced and accurate sentences. To do this, I would need to read their letters. I scheduled a meeting in Paris for the following month, just one, as I intended to provide feedback for each new letter by phone or email.

The oddest reply I received came from a psychiatrist in Paris called Adeline Montgermon. After asking me how the workshop would proceed and requesting references, she told me about a patient of hers.

“She’s suffering from post-partum depression. Do you know what that is?”

“Err, no, not really, is it umm . . .” I replied vaguely.

She gabbled on. I gathered that her question had been a mere formality, as my answer didn’t seem to interest her. All our conversations would go the same way.

“Well, let me explain. I’ll keep it brief. If you’re interested in the subject, I can recommend some books—you’re a bookseller after all. It is also referred to as postnatal depression. It is a severe form of depression with multiple causes and affects the bond between mother and baby. My thirty-eight-year-old patient’s depression was detected when her baby was five months old. She was initially admitted to a psychiatric hospital but was sent home before she was ready. Now she is being treated in a maternity clinic, with her daughter, several times a week. I do the consultations there, and that’s where I met her. The little girl is now eight and a half months old, and her mother’s condition is worrying.”

I sensed a hint of annoyance in Adeline Montgermon’s voice. I imagine she had opposed her patient’s release from hospital.

“She claims that her husband wasn’t supportive when she first came home. She has since reverted back to a state of extreme fragility, like just after her baby was born, and her anxiety and distress have resurfaced. I saw them both a few days ago. My patient quite categorically said that she wished to leave the family home and live on her own for an indefinite period of time . . . Without her husband and daughter. This came out of the blue; he wasn’t expecting it.”

“You mean they hadn’t talked about it before coming to see you?”

“No. She wanted to tell him in front of me. My patient has difficulty finding her words and expressing her thoughts. She’s very vulnerable. As for him, he has endured his wife’s anxiety and panic attacks for months. He does what he can but feels powerless to help her. He is really struggling with what is happening to his wife. I suggested that he consult one of my colleagues, but he refused outright. It’s a shame, but I’m not overly concerned. He’s feisty. Time will tell whether the split is temporary or permanent. Though they have difficulty communicating, their relationship is sound. I suggested that they take advantage of this time apart to write to each other. Honestly, I have no idea what’ll come of it. I think if they write to each other, they will be more receptive and actually listen to one another; something they are incapable of doing at the moment. And that’s when I came across your ad. Perfect timing in fact. You see I’m afraid that my patient will clam up at the slightest hitch or annoyance, so it would reassure me to know she was writing to her husband via a workshop. Especially one run by a woman.”

“What exactly do you want me to do?”

“Enrol them in your workshop.”

“I don’t know what to say, it’s tricky . . . I mean I’m not a therapist and— ”

“I know that. You’ll treat them the same as you do the others. As for me, I’ll continue to monitor my patient.”

“But it’ll mean intruding into their private life . . .”

“Like you’ll do with your other students. That’s not your problem. Rest assured, this will not be a problem for you, or them. Of course, I’m well aware that it may be tricky at times.”

“Besides, I doubt they’ll pay much attention to the writing advice I give them . . .”

She wouldn’t take no for an answer, so I gave in.

I registered them a few days later once she had sent me their names. Juliette and Nicolas Esthover both sent me an email, a few hours apart. They said Dr Montgermon had recommended the workshop to them, but that was it. Four other people followed: John Beaumont, a businessman, who spent his life travelling; Alice Panquerolles, a hypnotherapist from Lyon; Samuel Djian, a young lad who had said by way of response: “Why not? After all I have to find something to do . . .”, and Jean Dupuis, the most enthusiastic of them all, who you could tell from her voice was no spring chicken. I had hoped that there would be more participants. I noted with disappointment that not a single one of them expressed any interest in writing a book or had a manuscript lying idle in a desk somewhere. Shouldn’t this be their number one reason for joining a writing workshop? Maybe letter writing arouses different expectations in people? If so, I would love to know what they are.

Finding a day, time and place to meet in Paris that suited everyone was no easy task. Only Jean Dupuis was totally available. She told me, laughing on the phone, that she was “as free as a bird”. John Beaumont informed me that he would be out of town and could not be with us that day. We finally agreed to meet on 31st January at 6:30 pm, at the Hoxton, a rather chic, hip, hotel-restaurant in the Sentier neighbourhood, with an interior courtyard, winter garden and nice seated areas. My cousin, Raphael, had recommended the place to me. It was also an opportunity to spend two days with him, as he lived nearby.

Before our meeting, I sent an email to the six participants, asking them to think carefully about the following question: What battles are you fighting? If they were willing, the idea was that they would answer the question aloud in front of the others. I chose this particular subject because I’m convinced that everyone is fighting a battle of some sort in their lives and it is sufficiently open-ended that the person can approach it in any way they wish: they can be evasive and use a well-worn cliché, or take the opposite tack and give a much more personal, revealing response.

What Battles Are You Fighting?

[email protected], [email protected], [email protected], [email protected], [email protected]

Subject: Getting started with our workshop

Hello everyone,

I was delighted to meet you all last Friday. It’s not easy to feel comfortable at these kinds of meetings when you are just getting to know each other. That’s why I would like to thank you all for answering the question: “What battles are you fighting?” You were all very candid. Below is a recap of the ground rules, along with a photo of John Beaumont who, as you know, couldn’t be with us in Paris. John has likewise received a photo of you all.

Throughout this workshop, you will each write to two people. You can either write directly to one or two correspondents, or you can wait for someone to write to you. Although, with the latter option, you do run the risk of being left behind. If you receive a request and don’t wish to res­pond to it, please let me know asap. I advise you to use your first names. This will help break the ice.

During the workshop, you must only communicate with each other by letter. If possible, write to each other regularly to keep the momentum going. Try not to let too much time elapse before replying.

May I remind you that your first two letters (since you have two correspondents) must include your answer to the question raised at our meeting: “What battles are you fighting?”

You can choose me to be one of your correspondents.

To be able to assist you with your letter writing, I will need to see a copy of each of your letters. I have noted that Juliette, John and Samuel will send me scans of their letters by email, while Nicolas and Jean will send me photocopies by post. Once I have read your letters, I will call you (Jean, Juliette, Nicolas, Samuel) or send you an email (John) to give you my feedback.

Later on, I will give you three exercises to do.

Remember that I am not here to judge your opinions, feelings or emotions, but to help you improve your writing skills.

If you have any questions, I will be happy to answer them. You have my contact details. Please note our workshop ends the week of 13th May 2019.

Ladies and gentlemen, on this Monday 4th February 2019, I declare our letter writing workshop open!

Speak to you soon,

Esther Urbain

Jean to Samuel

Verjus-sur-Saône, 6th February 2019

Hello Samuel,

I hope you won’t be too disappointed to receive a letter from me. I decided to write to you as I miss the company of young people. I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t reply though. At your age, writing to an elderly lady is hardly an exciting prospect.

When I was a piano teacher, I spent most of my waking hours with young people. Sadly, I no longer teach. If I had had grandchildren, my life would have been different. Don’t worry, I’m not planning to make you my surrogate grandchild. This is the course my life has taken and I’m resigned to it. Funnily enough, people who make fatalistic statements like “embrace your fate” or “it’s your destiny” infuriate me. Yet here I am doing the same, though I don’t mean a word of it. I don’t have grandchildren, but wish I did, it’s unfair. There you go! I don’t suppose you’ll believe me if I tell you that I’m not a lonely old lady, but it’s true. I’ve got friends, lots of animals, and I’m very active . . . And, you know what? Living alone isn’t all that bad.

What did you think of our meeting? I thought we all appeared ill at ease. We hardly dared look each other in the face, or even smile. It reminded me of the first day of school, when you sneak a peek at the other pupils feeling curious and wary all at once. To my surprise, when Esther asked us to answer that question we all bared our souls. I remember you said you were “fighting against the urge to smash everything up”. Ouch! You’ve got your whole life ahead of you, young man. You seem like an intelligent lad, you’ve got all your mental and physical faculties, and on top of that you’re a looker! So why such a cynical ­response? You arrived late, dragging your feet as if you had been forced to come. Eyes glued to your phone. I’m surprised you even noticed us! I’m not judging you. I simply concluded that you didn’t come of your own accord. As for me, you probably don’t remember, but I replied that I was fighting a battle against anger. My reply was so frank, I was worried it wouldn’t go down well. As it turned out, everyone’s replies were as sinister as mine (quite funny, when you think about it!), so I blended right in with the general doom and gloom.

I hope you write back. I would be delighted to hear from you.

Best wishes,

Jean

Jean puts down her pencil. She’ll re-read it later. Was she too direct? Should she tone it down? She’s convinced that Samuel will quit the workshop at the slightest excuse or if he has to make any sort of effort. He may even have quit after the meeting, deciding that it wasn’t for him. At the Hoxton, she had seen him arriving from a distance. At first, she hadn’t realized that this was the young man they were waiting for. They were already seated at the back of the first reception room, near the bar. After he passed through the double-door entrance, he stopped dead in his tracks. The hood of his fleece was pulled up over his head, and he was clad in jeans and white trainers. You could read him like an open book. He wasn’t used to that kind of place. Intimidated by the decor, he was already on the defensive and didn’t dare look around him. The eighteenth-century private mansion, a listed building with its winter garden, botanical wall and interior courtyards, was certainly impressive. It was the kind of place where business people meet to discuss digital culture, ­media, public relations and sustainable development. Parisians and fashionable tourists go there to sip cocktails and show off their designer bumbags, the latest must-have accessory, by Prada, Dior, Vuitton or Gucci. People sit in small cosy groups; it’s all very casual chic.

If it weren’t for her friend Luc, the owner of the bistro in the village where she drinks her coffee every morning, she would never have known about Esther’s ad in the local paper. Luc had thought that the idea of a letter writing workshop was “strange”. He could “smell a rat”. But that morning, she didn’t pull him up on his annoying habit of throwing in anglicisms any chance he got. Knowing how touchy and sensitive he was, she had learnt to hold her tongue. As she had copied out the small ad into her notebook, Luc had urged caution, despite knowing she wouldn’t listen and was as stubborn as a mule. Developers and estate agents had been coveting her house for a while now. They had offered her twice the going rate for the area. “You shouldn’t let this opportunity pass you by, Mrs Dupuis,” they remarked each time. They had even offered to help her find a new home nearby if she wished, somewhere more modern and comfortable. One day, one of them had praised the virtues of having a “nice cosy little home”. Jean had been furious, retorting that she hated anything “cosy”. To her, cosy was synonymous with softness, coc. . .