#Extract from #AGoodLife by Virginie Grimaldi |@GinieGrimaldi | @EuropaEdUK

A Good Life by Virginie Grimaldi will publish June 6th with Europa Editions UK. Translated from the French by Hildegarde Serle, it is described as ‘an emotional and uplifting novel from the French Marian Keyes’.

Europa Editions UK have provided me with an extract today which will give you all a sneak peek into the opening pages of A Good Life and an insight into the writing of Virginie Grimaldi. I have also included the pre-order link below, with some reviews, so I do hope you enjoy and are tempted!

What people are saying:

“A Good Life is like a warm splash of sunshine in the winter darkness! I love the vivid, sharp humour of Virginie’s observations, the poignancy and hopefulness of the story and the resonances in the sisters’ relationship. It’s a beautiful story, so elegantly written.” —Nicola Cornick, author of The Last Daughter

“Virginie Grimaldi delivers her most accomplished, strongest novel. Her best.” —THE PARISIAN

“A story of life, bursts of happiness, scars of misfortune, in which many readers should find themselves.”— FRANCE INTER

[ About A Good Life ]

Emma and Agathe are sisters. They grew up together yet are very different. Agathe, the youngest, messy and ardent, has always taken up all the space in the bath, in the bedroom, and in Emma’s heart. After five years of unexplained silence, Emma arranges to meet Agathe in the family’s holiday home. After Mima, their beloved grandmother, passed away, the place must be emptied, and the memories revisited.

The two sisters have a week to tell each other everything and make up for the time they spent apart. Will they be able to fix the past?

In the beauty of this summer in the Basque Country, where their childhood is knocking at the door, the strength of their story resounds. Between laughter and tears, a moving and irresistible novel.

A Good Life ~ Preorder/Purchase Link

[ Extract ]

Yesterday
April 1985
Emma—5 years old

My sister was born this morning. She’s ugly.
She’s all red and all streaky.
Daddy asks if I’m pleased, I say no. I’m not pleased. I don’t want her. I hope they’re going to leave her at the hospital.
I won’t lend her my toys.
But I do like her teddy.

Today
August 5
Emma

2:32 p.m.
The gate’s not bolted. It creaks as I push it open, as if reproaching me for not having come for a long time. The white paint has flaked off in places, revealing the original black. After Mima was burgled, I insisted she get an alarm installed, as well as a padlock and several motion-sensor spotlights around the house. She tried every excuse: “The cat will set off the alarm;” “I won’t be able to open my windows;” “Monsieur Malois was burgled and the alarm didn’t work;” “It’s too expensive;” “Anyway, I’ve nothing worth stealing;” “Leave me in peace, Emma, you’re as obstinate as your father.”
I’m the first to arrive. The shutters are closed, weeds have crept up between the flagstones of the terrace, the tomato plants are weighed down with fruit. Mima planted them on my birthday. She phoned me just after, cursing the soil lodged under her nails that refused to wash away. “I planted some beefsteak tomatoes, I know you like them,” she told me. “I’ll make you a fine salad when you come.”
Right beside the beefsteaks, there’s a cherry-tomato plant, Agathe’s favorite. I pick one, wipe it on my shirt, and sink my teeth into it. The skin breaks, the flesh bursts out and spills over my lips, the sharp juice leaving seeds on my tongue, and it’s childhood memories that come knocking.
“You’re already here?”
Agathe’s voice makes me jump. I didn’t hear her arrive. She clasps me in her arms, while mine remain dangling. In the family, we’re pretty stingy with displays of affection. But not my sister. She’s fluent in hugging and wears her heart on her sleeve.
“I’m happy to see you!” she says, relaxing her grip. “After all this time . . . ”
She breaks off, stares at me, and I get emotional when her eyes meet mine.
“I was amazed when I got your message,” she continues.
“Great idea you had. I’m livid about Mima’s house being sold, but it’s no surprise coming from our dear uncle. The guy’s still asking me for the twenty centimes he lent me when I was eight, I’m sure he was a parking meter in another life.”
“It would explain his square head.”
“Yeah. If you press on his nose, he shits a parking ticket. Right, shall we open up the house?”
I follow her to the door. Sunlight splashes her hair, and some long white strands show up in her blond mop. My heart contracts at this evidence of time passing. When I saw her every day, my little sister didn’t age. We’re five years older since the last time, and suddenly Agathe has become an adult.
“Don’t know where I shoved the key.”
She empties her bag out onto the doormat, the long bronze key lies there, in the middle of the packs of chewing gum and cigarettes.
“There it is!”
I’d have liked it not to be there. For us to leave, unable to enter, forced to give up. I’d have liked never to have suggested to my sister that we come to spend our last vacation here, like when we were little, before the house belongs to others. I’d have liked never to know the feeling of this door opening without our grandmother’s voice asking us to take off our shoes.

Yesterday
September 1986
Emma—6 years old

Agathe’s pooped in the bath again. Her turds are bobbing all around me. Mommy takes her out of the water, shrieking. She often shrieks, since Agathe.
When Daddy gets home from work, Mommy tells him. He laughs, so she laughs, too. I give them a cuddle.
Tomorrow, I’m starting at primary school. I hope I’ll be in Cécile’s class, but not in Margaux’s. She shows off too much about her long hair, and also, she told me I was dumb because I couldn’t ride a bike without stabilizers.
I want long hair, too, but Mommy won’t let me. She says it’s too much of a pain to wash because of my curls. She cuts it short with the big orange scissors. When I’m big, I’ll have long hair like Margaux.

Today
August 5
Agathe

2:35 p.m.
Before I’ve even set foot in the house, the alarm starts wailing. At least it puts paid to any tears. Emma jumps like popcorn, before sticking her fingers in her ears. Note for later: if I plan on doing a burglary, don’t ask my sister to join me.
I tap out the code on the keypad. Mima had shared it with me when she was in hospital, so I could come and feed the cat.
8085.
The years her two granddaughters were born.
I open the downstairs shutters, Emma deals with those upstairs. I join her in Mima’s bedroom, and find her rooted to the spot in front of the chest of drawers. The jewelry box lies open, empty. She shakes her head:
“Clearly, the parking meter remembered he had a mother.”
“I’d pay a lot to see his face when he discovers that most of the jewelry’s fake.”
“Does he know we’re here?”
“No. I’ve not spoken to him since the funeral.”
Silence descends. I said the taboo word. Emma didn’t come to Mima’s funeral. Supposedly, a school trip she couldn’t cancel. Can’t imagine a destination that could take priority over saying farewell to our grandmother, but I wasn’t in a position to interfere.
We go back down to the sitting room. On the waxed cloth over the little wooden table, the TV program lies open at Friday May 27. In the basket, the apples are shriveled.
“Take the cheese and fruit home with you,” Mima told me, on one of my hospital visits. “I could be here for a while, they’ll go off.”
I refused to do so, out of superstition. She was recovering a little each day, the doctors were confident.
“I’m not going to eat your rotten cheese,” I said. “An entire town could be wiped out just by opening your fridge. Don’t know why they bother to build nuclear bombs when there’s camembert.
” She laughed, so I went on:
“Why d’you think you’ve lost all your teeth? It’s not age, Mima, it’s the stink.”
The nurse’s aide brought in supper, Mima smiled on seeing the slice of bland cheese wrapped in cellophane. I kissed her forehead and promised I’d be back tomorrow. At 4:56 in the morning, a stroke more severe than the previous one took away all our tomorrows.
Emma opens the fridge:
“We need to go shopping.”
“We can do it tomorrow, no? I’d rather go to the beach. The weather’s fantastic, let’s make the most of it, never lasts long here.”
She doesn’t need to insist, her eyes give me the message. She sits at the table and starts writing a list. The honeymoon has lasted barely a few minutes, and it’s back to the old routine, as if we’d left it behind just yesterday.
“What d’you have for breakfast?”
“Coffee,” I reply, trying to hide my disappointment.
She writes it down. Her hair’s very short, in profile she could be our mother. I’d never noticed how like her she is. Apparently, I got my looks entirely from my father, particularly his nose. Not sure I’m grateful for that, even considered having it surgically tweaked, but in the end, I kept it as it is—could come in handy. If I’m on a boat one day and the tiller stops working, for example.
“We could have veal tonight?” Emma suggests.
“I’m vegetarian.”
“Since when?”
“Two or three years.”
“Right. You do eat chicken, though?”
“No, but you can get some for yourself.”
“Oh, no, never mind. We’ll eat fish.”
“I don’t eat seafood either.”
“But what do you feed yourself on? Seeds?”
“Only seeds, yes. In fact, I’ll have to watch out because I’ve noticed something weird. Look.”
I move closer to her and lift up the sleeve of my T-shirt.
“Can’t see anything,” she says.
“Yes, there, look closer. You can’t see it?”
“No.”
“I’m starting to sprout feathers. And the other day, I laid an egg.”
She rolls her eyes and returns to her list, but I can clearly see her mouth struggling not to laugh

[ Bio ]

Virginie Grimaldi was born in 1977 in Bordeaux where she still lives. She was the most read French novelist in 2019, 2020 and 2021 (Le Figaro littéraire/GFK awards) and winner of the Favorite Book of the French in 2022 (France Télévisions). Her books have been translated into over twenty languages. X ~ @GinieGrimaldi

Hildegarde Serle graduated in French from Oxford University. After working as a newspaper subeditor in London for many years, she obtained the Chartered Institute of Linguists Diploma in Translation. For Europa she has translated Christelle Dabos’ Mirror Visitor series and the novels by Valérie Perrin.