Excerpt from Marguerite by Marina Kemp, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

She didn't see Madame Brochon on her trips into the village, but there was many a Brochon-like matron. The grande dame of the boulangerie refused, even after Marguerite's seventh or eighth visit, to register recognition; she pursed her lips when Marguerite ordered her bread, as if tolerating a young child. But Marguerite had learnt in these places that it was a dangerous thing to look for hostility where perhaps there was mere indifference. She knew it was a trick of the lonely to favour the rude to the simply unmoved; that the loneliest thing in these villages and in this most tucked-away of professions was to elicit no response at all.

She visited the library in her third week. Jérôme had asked for a book to be read to him each night. She had just dried him after an evening bath, the time when he was at his most spitting.

'Can you even read?' he had hissed after bathtime's habitual and adamant silence, punctured only by grunts of indignation and occasional discomfort. Her hands were by his ankle; she was trying to guide one bony foot through the gash of a pyjama leg. His feet were growing soft under her auspices. She rubbed them after every bath with oil, sensed the relief this gave him not in any active words of encouragement but in the absence of the contrary.

'Yes,' she said simply. One foot was through; she started on the other.

'Well, I should think it would do you some good to do some reading,' he said, wincing theatrically as she pulled the waistline of the pyjamas in one swift motion up to his knees. 'Careful!' he snarled. She inhaled, waited for him to speak again. There was silence. She pulled the soft flannel trousers past his knees - swollen bulbs where stray, sparse hairs stood upright among clusters of moles.

'I should not mind,' he continued, looking resolutely at the ceiling as she pulled the trousers up past the shrunken bud of his penis, his soft, felt-like balls, the static fuzz of his white pubic hair, 'if you would find something to read. Before I sleep.'

She tied the trousers' drawstring in a gentle bow at his waist, smoothed the flannel shirt down over his belly. It was distended, hard as a drum. He flinched and flapped his hands.

'All right, all right,' he said. 'Stop fussing.' She stood and he put his hands on her arms and gave her his weight - considerable, in spite of his boniness - as she swung him gently onto his back, lowering him down onto the clean bedsheets.

'Is there anything in particular you'd like me to read?' she asked.

He frowned furiously. 'It's not for my sake, it's for yours. Pick something you can read, only make sure it isn't some ghastly romance. And I don't want poetry. I want something with a real story, something noble. I used to enjoy the classics: Dumas, Hugo, Gaston Leroux. Albert Cohen, even. Just for God's sake no romance or girly tripe.' Then he added, 'Whatever you think you could benefit from.'

And so she found herself two days later in the municipal library. It was as she had imagined, both dim and too bright. The librarian, young and sallow, stamped her books carefully and listed the rules of the place in a flat voice.

'Returns must be made before twelve weeks have elapsed. Extensions can be made only by direct request in person and at the discretion of the librarian on duty. Care must always be taken to keep both food and liquids away from all books issued by this library, and in case of damage you should be prepared to pay a fine of up to twenty-five euros.' Once he had reeled the rules off, he looked a little embarrassed. He secured his glasses, which had not slipped, with one finger, smiling faintly. His nails were chewed right down to the quick, a metro-map of veins across his hand.

'I hope you'll enjoy the three volumes,' he said, turning to disappear back into the solemn darkness of his little booth.

Throughout his monologue, Marguerite had been conscious of being watched, and as she turned to leave she caught the eye of the woman sitting at a table close by. She wore a dark green hijab; her chin was raised imperiously. She didn't drop her gaze. As Marguerite walked past to leave, she said: 'And you are from ... ?'

Excerpted from Marguerite by Marina Kemp. Copyright © 2020 by Marina Kemp. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.