“OK.” Sophie really neglected in telling me the finer details when I first agreed to exchange. “Why doesn’t Sophie assign some of these jobs to other people?” It didn’t make an iota of sense one person doing so much work.
“She doesn’t trust anyone enough. Sophie’s traditional.”
I fell silent, worrying I’d make a mess of it all. There was so much to consider with the various aspects of the business, if there were any disasters it would fall squarely on my shoulders.
Suddenly I pined for my own bookshop, the simplicity of it. And I wondered when I’d snatch time to read, which for me was as essential as breathing.
“One moment,” Oceane said, stopping as we arrived in front of a little flower shop. The pastel green front was chipped and faded in that shabby chic French style that people the world over tried to recreate. A slatted wooden bench sat in front of the window, filled with cane baskets of brightly colored blooms. Petals had fallen to the ground, like a scattering of confetti. I bent to the bouquets, their sweet, feminine perfume mingling in the air. I wanted to gather them in my arms, and take them all back with me, to wake to the sight of them, and breathe in their evocative scent like a tincture.
“Oui?” A French woman appeared, dressed well, similar to Oceane. Were jeans and t-shirts not a thing here? I’d have to rethink my super casual wardrobe when the insurance checks arrived. I felt downright bedraggled in comparison to the smart, French way of dressing.
Pointing to a bunch of pale pink peonies, whose petals were folded in on themselves like a secret, Oceane spoke quickly to the woman. My best friend Missy loved peonies, she had pots full back home, and crooned to them lovingly as if it would help them live. She was a real green thumb, and these little flower shops that were hidden down cobbled avenues would have sent her into a tizzy.
I pointed to a bunch of peonies too. I wanted to wake to their pinkness, and remember that there was beauty everywhere here, even if I was cooped up in the bookshop, counting endless piles of books, or wrangling the paperwork.
We paid, and cradled our tissue-paper wrapped purchases like they were babies, wandering out of the avenue and back into the filmy light of day. I checked my watch. We’d been gone almost an hour. “We better head back.” I said, worry catching me as I thought of all I had to do.
“Oh, there’s no rush,” Oceane said. “French people take long lunches. I usually go home, and sit on the balcony for a while. Besides, my flowers need a vase and some water.”
I followed blithely along, hoping the bookshop wasn’t being overrun, as guilt at being absent gnawed at me.
Oceane’s apartment was on the Quai Voltaire a few doors down from the Musee d’Orsay. The museum took up a fair expanse of street, the façade of the building was magnificent. Inside was full of priceless art, and I itched to wander in. I wasn’t an expert on the arrondissements but I could guess that this part of Paris was expensive to live in. I wondered how she could afford the trappings of her lifestyle on the salary Sophie paid her, but thought it rude to ask.
“Do you spend a lot of time at the Musee d’Orsay?” I asked.
“Oui,” she nodded. “I adore art, especially the greats. Van Gogh, Monet, Renoir…I pretend they’re alive and we’re neighbors.” She blushed, as if she hadn’t meant to admit that.
“Which is your favorite?” I asked.
“It’s impossible to choose, and like books, sometimes one appeals to you more, depending on what kind of mood you’re in or which draws you when you most need it. Let me show you,” she said. “We don’t need to line up. You need to see them for yourself.” She shook her head. “I could never tire of staring at them, Sarah.”
Sure enough, we bypassed the queue and went in another entrance. Oceane giving the security guard a fluttery wave. How did she do it?
With a laugh, I caught up with Oceane and her breakneck pace, and stopped short. The ceiling above was vaulted, almost like a tunnel, with intricate patterned glass and gold panels. Arched windows funneled in bleached light.
“It’s used to be train station a long time ago,” Oceane said, pointing upwards.
“That explains the height. It’s stunning, the way the light filters in.”
We spoke in hushed tones, with a certain reverence that the building prompted. We hurried along, until she stopped abruptly. “Here’s Vincent.”
I gasped, astounded that I was standing in front of a Vincent Van Gogh painting. Like, it was right there. Vincent. Van. Gogh. It spoke to me in such a way, I promptly burst into tears. Oceane patted my back. “His work has the ability to do that,” she said softly.
The painting was Starry Night over the Rhone, and the famous blue and yellow loops and swirls on the canvas were so detailed close up they pulsed. The reflection of lights on the water was startlingly life-like, so golden, it glowed under the daubs of moonlight. I’d read many a biography about Vincent, and the sadness that followed him. Seeing his work brought back all those memories, and the own picture I painted in my mind about him and his complex life. I’d felt a real empathy for him, like he was too good for this world.
We went back to Oceane’s apartment; I was dazed by what I’d seen, and I vowed to return to the museum at a later date, giving myself a full day to explore. Seeing Vincent’s work had touched me deeply, I felt different when I walked outside, as if I’d added a layer to my life. By stepping away from my fears and visiting Paris, I’d just clapped eyes on a masterpiece, and I was indelibly changed by it. It would probably sound dramatic, trying to explain to my friends back home, but it was almost like I felt a vibration from Vincent himself, as though he was still alive through his work. What else would I find here?
Bustling around, Oceane arranged her flowers and murmured to them. I sat on one of the chairs outside, the sun warming my cheeks. The balcony had a selection of planters filled with fragrant herbs, Oceane said she enjoyed cooking and liked having fresh ingredients on hand. She filled a watering can and gave them a quick drink. She was in no hurry to get back, retreating into the spacious apartment, returning with a bottle of wine and two glasses.
“Don’t be so concerned,” she said. “We all take long breaks, it’s the way it goes.”
I didn’t want to be a wet blanket but felt the shop pull me back. The thought of staying up into the night in front of the glare of a computer monitor galvanized me. “Take your time, if that’s what you normally do. But I better return. I’m worried about the five thousand things I need to do.”
“OK,” she said, sitting on the chair beside me and pointing her face to the sun. “I’ll be back later. You’ll see, Sarah. That shop with swallow you up, if you don’t step out from time to time.”
I gave her a quick hug, feeling slightly woozy from daytime wine. This French lifestyle would take some getting used to. But I had to make a start on the to-do list for the shop. I’d need to escape the following day for my passport appointment, and I only hoped it didn’t eat too much time out of my day.
Chapter Seven
“You’ll have a new passport in three weeks, Miss Smith, at the earliest. Please be more careful. Passports are not like train tickets. You should know where it is at all times.” The consulate official tutted, and signed the paperwork with a flourish.
His colleague steepled his fingers and reiterated, “You have to be careful, Miss Smith. We suggest you read our website when it comes to travel warnings and how to be safe. Paris is a beautiful city but you must take precautions…”
I forced a tight smile. They were speaking to me like I was a child, and it grated. Did I have a sign on my forehead saying, ‘Kid trapped in adult’s body’? “Yeah, it was an accident, a split-second decision, so it’s not like I plan to repeat it.”
“Just be careful. Treat your passport like it’s priceless, OK?”
Steepled fingers joined in, “Like… it’s the Mona Lisa.”
I willed my eyes not to roll, it was a good twenty-second battle. “The Mona Lisa. Got it.” I smiled to soft
en the sarcasm that poured from my mouth and donned my most innocent expression.
“Three weeks, so no international travel until then, OK?”
I slapped a hand to my forehead. “No international travel? Are you sure? Can’t I use my train ticket in lieu of a passport?” I couldn’t resist acting like the imbecile they took me for. “Joke.” I said to their startled faces. “I’ll lock myself safely in my room so no harm comes to me.”
When I finally found my way back to the bookshop, phones were left ringing, the counter was staffed only by Oceane, and customers grumbled to one another about the wait. I dashed behind the counter and stowed my bag ready to help.
“Next.” I smiled brightly, hoping to ward off any complaints. “Where is everyone?” I asked under my breath.
“Who knows?” Oceane muttered. “It’s like with Sophie gone everyone’s in holiday mode. I don’t get paid enough for this kind of treatment. I’ve been screeched at a hundred times already.”
I nodded in agreement. The next customer approached. “You’re in all the Paris guidebooks as the best bookshop, yet you don’t even have the latest Cathy Kelly book here! What kind of bookshop is this?” The woman plonked some romance novels down, and glared.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “The Cathy Kelly’s only just arrived and we haven’t had a chance…”
She held up a hand. “I’ve waited an hour to be served. I just want to pay and go.”
“Sorry,” I said lamely. Where the hell was everyone?
Once we’d caught up, I rushed to the store room and unpacked the latest delivery of books. Really, we needed someone in charge of restocking. You couldn’t sell books if they were hidden in a back room. I raced to the computer and made up some quick flyers, advertising ‘Buy three books get the fourth half price’. People loved getting a bargain, and I was mindful of keeping the sales figures healthy. When I had more time I’d introduce other bundle deals to inspire people to buy. Already, I could tell the difference between a customer who truly loved books, and paid for one, and a tourist who just wanted to cross another sight off their list. Somehow, we had to convert those sightseers into customers.
***
Ridge and I had become masters in phone tag. It was like we instinctively knew when the other one was busy or sleeping, and seemed to call at that moment. I missed him like crazy, and still got a little thrill when I heard his message bank recording, even though it meant he wasn’t available to chat. A week on Paris soil, and I still hadn’t managed to tee up a time that was convenient to speak to Ridge, or the girls back home. It was so odd to think they were sleeping, while I was racing around the shop, the days whooshing by in a blur.
When there was a lull in customers, I dashed outside to call Ridge, calculating the time difference and hoping I’d catch him before he left his hotel for the day. “Morning, beautiful,” he said, in that rich husky just-woke-up way. I could see him in my mind’s eye, laying with crisp cotton sheets tangled around his taut, tanned body. Him running a hand through his shock of black hair. That sexy, dazed gaze of his as if he’d awoken from a nice dream.
“Morning, Mister. Still lazing in bed?”
He let out a gruff sigh. “I am, and it’s not half as much fun without you.”
“I hope not.” I strolled down the street to Square Rene Viviani, and walked through an arbor covered with climbing roses which gave off a musk scent. I sat under a canopy of leaves, bracing myself against the strong winds. As cold as it was, there was something magical about the rain hitting my flushed cheeks, and Ridge’s silky voice.
“How’s it going there? A book lover’s dream?” A rustle of sheets, and the splash of running water filtered down the line.
What could I say that wouldn’t make me sound like a timid little mouse? “Oh, you know, I’m still having a few teething problems, but I’m sure I’ll get there. The little hurdles are nothing when I have Paris outside waiting…” I big, fat, lied. He was so self-assured and dynamic, I didn’t want him to worry that I couldn’t handle myself in the so-called big bad world.
“Sounds like you’ve got a handle on things there.”
“Yep, having a blast. I cried when I saw Van Gogh’s –”
He interrupted, “Wait one second, baby.”
My mouth promptly closed as someone spoke out of hearing range. When he came back to me, his voice was firmer, more businesslike. “Sorry, I have to go. You can tell me all about Picasso later.”
“It was Van Gogh…”
He spoke to someone again, whoever it was their voice garbled through in an urgent tone. “Gotta go, baby. It looks like the story might have just broken. I’ll call you as soon as I can.” With that he hung up, leaving me with just the pitter patter of rain for company. Was he really that busy, he couldn’t spare five minutes?
***
A few days later I was still reeling from the awful experience at the passport office, they’d been so belittling – I bristled every time I thought of it. Why didn’t I speak up for myself better? Their warning rants had continued on for another thirty minutes until I was mute with anger. And then there was Ridge’s abrupt hang up. He hadn’t managed to call me back, so the story must’ve have been breaking like the slowest wave on earth. I’d left a bunch of messages for him, and then vowed no more. It was hard not to take it personally. Surely he ate? And slept? Showered. He could spend a minute on the phone to me. But perhaps, like so many times, he was out of range, or something. My life was hectic here anyway, and I always had so many things vying for my attention.
Still trying to familiarize myself with the shop, I worked on stacking shelves whilst TJ manned the counter. It was a gloriously quiet moment, one where we scrambled to get as much cleared up before the next wave of tourists and book lovers swarmed in. The door gusted open and the man I had caught a glimpse of in the conservatory on my first day walked in. The one who hid in the shadows like he didn’t want to be seen. Again, his blonde-haired, blue eyed looks seemed familiar, but how could they? I didn’t know any French men, I was from smallsville.
“Who is that?” I asked TJ, in a whisper. For some reason I was drawn to the mysterious man who sat upstairs for hours on end and yet I had never seen him buy a book.
TJ shrugged. “Haven’t stopped to speak to him before. But every day like clockwork he’s here. He’s been here ever since I arrived.” He moved to fix a fallen stack of books. “I’m going to tidy the blue room.”
The blue room was yet another little piece of perfection in the store. It was stacked with blue bound novels. Sophie’s idea of a private joke because of the amount of times she had been asked for a book, the only clue given was that it had a blue cover. The blue room had an old locked armoire in the corner filled with the manuscripts of writers who’d left them with Sophie as a gift when their books were published. An antique roll-top desk stood proudly in front of the window. “OK,” I said distractedly.
The blonde man intrigued me. I hadn’t seen many people with such expressive features before, but instead of happiness, he face was lined with pain. I wanted to know why. He was one of many that regularly visited the store. People often came to sketch, or read, they traipsed in as if they were at a friend’s home. He was different though, it was as though he was searching for someone when his eyes scanned the counter, and always came up missing.
***
TJ strolled over, his boyish grin in place. “Hectic day. You want me to lock up?”
I yawned, which produced a chain reaction – TJ joined in, and so did Beatrice who’d wandered over, leaned her elbows on the counter and cradled her face in her hands.
“Would you mind?” I asked TJ, grateful he’d even offered. My legs were jelly-like from standing so long, and my lower back twanged each time I bent to restack shelves.
“I know men aren’t supposed to say things like this, but you don’t look so great, Sarah. Maybe an early night’s in order?” He patted my shoulder in a big brother kind of way.
I groaned an
d covered my face. Even at dawn when I first awoke I had shadows under my eyes, and my complexion resembled Casper the ghost. Too many late nights with only the glare of the computer screen for company. “I’m shattered,” I said, managing a small laugh. “I could sleep standing up. Though I think I may be developing some buff arms.” All that book heaving and carting of boxes was doing wonders for my tiny frame.
“I promise by week four things improve. It’s all about snatching those break times, and getting some distance between you and the shop.”
“Week four, you say?” I held onto that, hoping he was right and that somehow after a month here, I’d learn to cope better.
Beatrice chewed a nail, surveying me. “Don’t forget Sophie’ll expect the end of month reports soon.”
“Urgh, the reports. I’d forgotten.”
Beatrice smirked. “All part of the management fun.” Was I imagining it or did she gloat a little when she said that?
“Great,” I couldn’t even pretend to be chirpy. “I’ll take the till, TJ, you can start a new cash drawer.” Time to count the takings, and add everything into Sophie’s difficult computer program.
Hours later, nursing another coffee, I squinted hard at the screen. Had I made a mistake somewhere? Sighing, I rechecked the figures again. And once more, flicked through the Euros, securing them into piles with rubber bands. Please no! I had tripled checked, and the same figure popped up every time.
Money was missing. And not small change, either. I’d have to tell Sophie.
My stomach clenched at the thought. She’d think I was completely incapable of running her shop. Worry gnawed at me, and like the coward I was, I put off calling her until the next day.
Glumly, I gathered everything up, stowing the money in the safe, and headed to bed. No shower, no dinner, just an overwhelming need to pull the quilt cover over my head and sleep. Fatigue hit me like a brick, and I fell into a fitful slumber, jarring awake when anxiety dreams tumbled into my subconscious.
The Little Bookshop On the Seine Page 8
