The Lollipop Shoes

The Lollipop Shoes

'Who died?' I said. 'Or is it a secret?' 'My mother, Vianne Rocher.' Seeking refuge and anonymity in the cobbled streets of Montmartre, Yanne and her daughters, Rosette and Annie, live peacefully, if not happily, above their little chocolate shop. Nothing unusual marks them out; no red sachets hang by the door. The wind has stopped – at least for a while. Then into their lives blows Zozie de l’Alba, the lady with the lollipop shoes, and everything begins to change…. But this new friendship is not what it seems. Ruthless, devious and seductive, Zozie de l’Alba has plans of her own – plans that will shake their world to pieces. And with everything she loves at stake, Yanne must face a difficult choice; to flee, as she has done so many times before, or to confront her most dangerous enemy….. Herself. From the Hardcover edition. “This is Harris’s best novel to date.” — Financial Times “ Chocolat was a hard act to follow but Harris has managed it in style.” — Daily Express “One of Britain’s most popular novelists.” — Daily Mail “She is so terrific, she can write about anywhere, anything, anyone.” — Daily Telegraph Who died? I said. Or is it a secret? My mother, Vianne Rocher. Seeking refuge and anonymity in the cobbled streets of Montmartre, Yanne and her daughters, Rosette and Annie, live peacefully, if not happily, above their little chocolate shop.Nothing unusual marks them out; no red sachets hang by the door.The wind has stopped at least for a while.Then into their lives blows Zozie de l Alba, the lady with the lollipop shoes, and everything begins to change But this new friendship is not what it seems.Ruthless, devious and seductive, Zozie de l Alba has plans of her own plans that will shake their world to pieces.And with everything she loves at stake, Yanne must face a difficult choice; to flee, as she has done so many times before, or to confront her most dangerous enemy Herself. Praise for Joanne Harris: One of Britain s most popular novelists Daily Mail She is so terrific, she can write about anywhere, anything, anyone Daily Telegraph Joanne Harris is the author of the Whitbread-short-listed Chocolat (made into a major film starring Juliette Binoche), Blackberry Wine ; Five Quarters of the Orange ; Coastliners ; Holy Fools ; Sleep Pale Sister ; Jigs & Reels ; Gentlemen & Players ; and, with Fran Warde, The French Kitchen: A Cookbook ; and The French Market: More Recipes from a French Kitchen . From the Hardcover edition. 1 Wednesday, 31 October Día de los Muertos It is a relatively little-known fact that, over the course of a single year, about twenty million letters are delivered to the dead. People forget to stop the mail – those grieving widows and prospective heirs – and so magazine subscriptions remain uncancelled; distant friends unnotified; library fines unpaid. That’s twenty million circulars, bank statements, credit cards, love letters, junk mail, greetings, gossip and bills, dropping daily on to doormats or parquet floors, thrust casually through railings, wedged into letter-boxes, accumulating in stairwells, left unwanted on porches and steps, never to reach their addressee. The dead don’t care. More importantly, neither do the living. The living just follow their petty concerns, quite unaware that very close by, a miracle is taking place. The dead are coming back to life. It doesn’t take much to raise the dead. A couple of bills; a name; a postcode; nothing that can’t be found in any old domestic bin-bag, torn apart (perhaps by foxes) and left on the doorstep like a gift. You can learn a lot from abandoned mail: names, bank details, passwords, e-mail addresses, security codes. With the right combination of personal details you can open up a bank account; hire a car; even apply for a new passport. The dead don’t need such things any more. A gift, as I said, just waiting for collection. Sometimes Fate even delivers in person, and it always pays to be alert. Carpe diem , and devil take the hindmost. Which is why I always read the obituaries, sometimes managing to acquire the identity even before the funeral has taken place. And which is why, when I saw the sign, and beneath it the post-box with its packet of letters, I accepted the gift with a gracious smile. Of course, it wasn’t my post-box. The postal service here is better than most, and letters are rarely misdelivered. It’s one more reason I prefer Paris; that and the food, the wine, the theatres, the shops and the virtually unlimited opportunities. But Paris costs – the overheads are extraordinary – and besides, I’d been itching for some time to reinvent myself again. I’d been playing it safe for nearly two months, teaching in a lycée in the 11th arrondissement, but in the wake of the recent troubles there I’d decided at last to make a clean break (taking with me twenty-five thousand euros’ worth of departmental funds, to be delivered into an account opened in the name of an ex-colleague and to be r