Footsteps worked their way up the stairs. I hastily swiped away at my tears, and hoped whoever it was wouldn’t venture into this room. It was filled with dusty old maps, and a mishmash of globes in various states of disrepair. Old compasses, and barometers. Like an adventurer’s cave, a place to come and dream about the next voyage. Boats in bottles sat on hutches. The thought of not being one of those types, someone who takes the reins and sets sail, made the sobs start anew. Goddammit, I was losing it. I wasn’t a blubberer usually, but here my emotions were heightened, and I felt silly for it.
A blonde head peeked through the door. “Bonjour. Are you OK?”
I started. The guy who spent most days hunched over a table in the conservatory. His intense blue eyes marred by melancholy, or so I imagined. “Sorry. Yes, I’m fine. Just…” I grappled with what to say that wouldn’t make me seem like a fool. A little lost without the routine of my old life.
“Homesick?” His features softened.
“Umm…yes,” I said. “Is it so obvious?”
He gestured to the sofa beside me, as if asking for my permission to sit. I nodded.
“It’s not for the faint-hearted, this place.”
I must’ve had looked like some doddery, faint-worthy girl. “It’s a contradiction, sometimes, I suppose.” Wrapped up in its embrace, tottering along a forgotten avenue, I felt alive, and present in that very moment. But seeing a picture of my friends, and sweet baby Willow, a part of me longed for the simplicity of life back home.
“That’s what makes it such a great place,” he said, smiling.
“What do you do all day in the conservatory?” I hadn’t meant to be so blunt, but he was still a mystery.
I’m sure he flushed a little. “I write.”
“Books?” No, Sarah, he writes the telephone directory. Sheesh.
“Oui.”
“What type?”
He shrugged as if it was nothing. “Love stories.”
He ran a hand through his hair, and stood abruptly. “I hope you let Paris show you its beauty. What you don’t find in here,” he motioned around the room. “You’ll find out there. Just give it time.”
And with that he strode out. I wanted to follow him into the conservatory and ask him what his name was so I could find his books, but his sudden need to retreat stopped me. Maybe one of the staff knew who he was.
November
When November rolled around, I was still struggling to adjust to the hectic nature of my job. By afternoon, I was reaching for the paracetamol, as the chatter in the bookshop reached fever pitch, and so did the buzzing in my brain. It was a culture shock, getting used to the crowds, and the noise, and the fact there was never time to take a break. Back home, it was nothing for me to amble across to the Gingerbread Café and chat to the girls for an hour. Here, I could barely take a minute to dash to the kitchenette for a drink. I could see why Oceane stepped out for long lunches, because the days were endless; to the credit of the staff, they stayed as long as was needed, but you just never knew when they’d deign to work.
There was no pattern for peak times, the ebb and flow of people changed without warning. When the shop was empty of crowds, we scurried along, righting piles of fallen books, and restocking tables of the bestsellers, scooping up trash, and taking a deep breath before the shop filled again.
Lunchtime was approaching and I found myself eager to get outside, away from the mob of customers. There was only Oceane with me. Beatrice had stepped out to run errands, and TJ was due in, not that that actually meant he would be.
Callie and Jorge arrived, two of the casual staff, and I almost wept with relief. The claustrophobic nature of the packed bookshop was getting to me. “Hey!” I said, a little too exuberantly. “Can you take over? I need to run to the bank, and…”
Jorge held up his hand. “Nope. Just stopping by for some books.”
I threw Callie a desperate look.
“Same,” she replied. “Besides, we worked yesterday.” As if a shift every few days was enough. They walked through to the piano room without a backward glance. I had to do something for things to change. It was absolute mayhem, and I was red-eyed from fatigue.
TJ loped in with Beatrice in tow. “Guys, finally!” I said. “Look, I need to go to the bank, and post some of the online orders. But I wanted to run something past you. I’ve been meaning to do it since I first arrived, but there hasn’t been a moment spare.” I sent up a silent prayer this would go better than when I corralled them into a group about the missing money.
Beatrice smiled, the same one that didn’t seem to reach her eyes. “Sure,” she said.
“The roster…it’s not working. No one turns up when they’re supposed to. It makes it hard when I have to cover so many shifts. But instead of coming here, and just making these huge changes, I thought I’d approach it differently. No one wants a new person to boss them about, so what do you think of team building sessions?” Their faces dropped, like I’d just suggested we work for free or something. Part of the plan was that I’d also know who was on what shift, and could nail down the thief better.
“Erm,” TJ said.
I wasn’t selling it well enough. “Perhaps we could take a macaron baking class, and discover deep down, we’re all soft and squishy on the inside?” I nodded emphatically to convince them.
TJ narrowed his eyes. Beatrice tried her hardest to smile, but it came out more like a grimace.
I hurried on: “Chocolate making classes, even? A wine and cheese walking tour?” My words tumbled out in haste.
The air in the room cooled. TJ coughed into his hand, and mumbled something about being too busy. With a flick of her red curls, Beatrice studied the carpet intently. No one was making eye contact.
“Guys, like, imagine being free of the shop for a few hours…we could talk books, and get our hands dirty, bake bread, or…” my mind whirled with ideas, “…climb the Eiffel Tower, I think there’s seven hundred and four steps! We’d feel alive! Like we’d achieved something together! As a team!” I was exclaiming too hard, I knew it, but I was desperate for them to see I meant well. Callie and Jorge returned, their hands filled with books. “Did you say team building?” Jorge asked, his lip quivering with held in laughter that finally spilled from him in one big shriek. Callie stared at me like I was speaking a foreign language.
“Well…Yeah, I did.” Was that ridiculous a thing to suggest? Was I making a mess of things again?
Oceane appeared and moved towards me, under her breath she said, “Darling, just no. No.”
“But, but…surely, together, doing something fun, we could really bond. Really become friends, as well as colleagues…” my voice petered out, as Oceane grabbed my arm. “We’re off for lunch,” she said loftily, and dragged me into the light dusting of rain, ignoring TJs protestations that he wasn’t staying long.
“But I’d almost convinced them. And the banking –”
“Leave it,” she said. “Let’s have a minute to chat.”
We turned right from the shop. My mind was a jumble – I couldn’t understand why no one would take me seriously. The further away we were from the bookshop, the quieter the buzzing in my brain got. Strolling around Paris had the ability to comfort me in a way only books had done before. I loved finding the street signs, like this one – Quai de Montebello – and rolling the words on my tongue. They were always exotic sounding compared to little old Ashford, where our streets were more predictably named, like Main Street, Second Avenue.
“You’re an adorable American,” she said. “But that’s just the thing. You’re a little too American, sometimes. Here, people are more reserved. Team building will not work. It’s the way you project yourself that will make them respect you. Being a sweetie pie, cute as a button, group hugger, will not work. And trying to get them to become the same – no, just no, Sarah.” Her expression was fervent.
“I’m not a group hugger!”
“I meant metaphorically,” she said. “But I ca
n just see you now, a group – what did you call it – bonding session. Next minute there’s high fives, and we’re wearing baseball caps or something. Non. Non, non, non.” She shuddered.
My shoulders slumped a little south. I was too American? Or too small-town girl, maybe? “We’re not hitting sales targets, and someone’s pilfering money. All I wanted to do was inspire them so we could work together to improve things. Otherwise, I’m letting Sophie down, but I can’t do it alone.”
She laughed. “You will get better at this. I know it seems like there’s no order, but that’s the way it’s always been, and people don’t like change. The money, well, that’s a different story. We do need to get to the bottom of that. But pushing them to agree to certain times and days, it won’t work. They flit in when it suits them.”
I stuffed my hands into my pockets. “I can’t understand it, that’s all. Sophie is so formal about the paperwork, the endless spreadsheets, but then so lax with the staff. It’s mind boggling. Maybe it’s just that I’m not used to such a hectic job. I’m exhausted by nighttime. I was searching for some balance. I thought if they became my friends, they’d understand. They’d try harder, follow some simple rules. Freeing me up to have a day off, here and there. Help hit the sales targets.”
Oceane clucked her tongue. “It’s been hard for you. I know you’ve worked too many hours. You need to take charge, and take a day off when you can, otherwise you’ll never see Paris.”
I crossed my arms, considering it. She was right. I’d seen a few sights as I raced my way through the day, but so far most of Paris was still a mystery to me. “That’s one of my greatest fears, missing out on sight-seeing, because there’s no time. Who comes to Paris, and doesn’t explore? I want to spend a morning in the Louvre, and gaze at the Mona Lisa. Read in the Tuileries Garden. But I can’t even think of doing that, until I know things aren’t going to combust when I’m not there.”
“When your man arrives, you can escape, and do those things together. TJ and I will help you more. But do take some time for yourself, Sarah. Otherwise this time will pass you by. When is he coming, by the way?” She stared me down.
I shrugged. “Soon, I hope. I haven’t got a clue.” It was radio silence again, and beginning to wear thin. My emails were left unanswered, and calls went straight to message bank. My dreamy romance had turned into dinner for one, and late night chats with the stray cats who made Once Upon a Time their home. Not ideal, but at least they listened when I asked advice in the dead of night, mewling, I’m sure, when they agreed.
“I see,” she said.
Cars honked and sped down roads. Tourists milled, sitting by the Left Bank, eating croissants from white paper bags. A wave of envy washed over me that they didn’t have to work, they could just meander around Paris, snapping endless pictures and enjoying each different vista. How many places on my bucket list had I crossed off since arriving in Paris? Not as many as I had wanted and already a month had passed.
“Anyway, back to the bookshop. You have to be more forthright. Take those long lunches. When you see staff wander in, grab your things and go. Don’t ask them, tell them.”
I thought about it for a few minutes as Oceane and I continued walking, weaving in and out of the foot traffic. It was hard for me to be that person, the one who spoke the loudest, spoke up first, but I could see her point – if I didn’t take charge they’d continue to stomp all over me. And perhaps I needed to stop thinking like an American and start thinking like a Parisian. I vowed to throw away my well-read copy of How To Be The Boss 101 as soon as I got back to the apartment.
Continuing at Oceane’s usual breakneck pace, we came to a bridge that was covered in padlocks. The love locks! I’d read so much about the famous place where lovers stood, in my guidebooks. This was where they would make promises, and secure their engraved padlocks to the wire, for all eternity. Something that could never be destroyed or tainted. A pure sign of true love.
“Pont de l’Archeveche,” Oceane announced, as she smoothed down her mussed hair that had been ruffled by the light breeze.
The long row of gilded padlocks shone in the gray day, like a holy place. Thousands of locks, layered one on top of the next, thick and almost rotund as they found any space to secure the link. It was like something out of a love story – I had never imagined there would be so many. I stepped forward to read some of the inscriptions, wondering if I was crossing some invisible boundary by reading the couples’ messages scribbled on the locks, some with text, some expertly engraved.
“Aren’t they beautiful?” I sighed. Romance seeped from the bridge. That so many couples came here to seal their love, and kiss under Parisian skies, made me smile. Further along, an old man sat on a crate playing an accordion, and the whole experience felt so Parisian I wanted to laugh out loud. This was the Paris I had always imagined, afternoons languishing in the moment.
“Very beautiful,” Oceane said. “You know my friend Anouk has a lock here somewhere, but we’d be hard pressed to find it. The man in question broke her heart, anyway, so it’s probably been snapped open and thrown into the Seine.”
I wanted to ask what happened but we edged closer and the man playing the accordion called out: “What song would you like?”
“Ummm,” I glanced at Oceane, who shrugged in her usual non-committal way. It was such a strange moment, as if time had stopped, and it was just us three here. The bridge was quiet, even the Seine was empty of boats in this spot. I wanted to feel Ridge’s arms around me, as I snapped closed our own love lock. The scent of him, and the city whipping around me would make me giddy. Yet, here I was with Oceane and a man with blackened teeth, and a rheumy-eyed smile.
Would Ridge understand the symbolism?
“For you,” the old man said, “La Vie en Rose.”
I hugged myself against the wind, as the first few notes of the iconic song drifted out to me, creating a bittersweet moment where you’re living in the small space of time and nothing else mattered. As the familiar song came to the ending, I couldn’t stop myself from clapping. I threw some coins in his accordion case as Oceane pulled me along, down another avenue towards a café where she promised they served the most heavenly café au laits. The tune played over in my mind, as I hummed it long after the accordion player was out of sight. The haunting notes provoked a loneliness I had all but been hiding from. Ridge. I needed him. Simply because I loved him. I’d be upfront, and tell him.
When I returned to the shop, I took five minutes to compose an email, hoping his response would be swift.
Ridge Warner,
The city of romance is lonely without you. We could secure a love lock on the famous bridge. Or sip champagne, its bubbles like stars, while we whisper promises to each other at the foot of the Eiffel Tower. Can you come soon? Paris is truly spectacular and I want to hold your hand and get lost here with you.
Yours as ever,
Sarah Smith
Chapter Nine
I checked my emails for what seemed like the hundredth time, still no response from Ridge. What would it be this time? No internet connection? A remote posting in some tropical jungle? Phone lines down? A typhoon? Locked away somewhere with the photographer?
TJ and Oceane were at the counter, bickering over a book.
“You can’t just end the story like that,” she said, her eyes blazing. “It’s too ambiguous. We need to know if he made it in the end, if he survived. To say the girl wrapped her arms around him as his breath shook and eyes squinted closed… that’s it? He died? Or did they rush him to hospital? Unless there’s a sequel, which it clearly states there isn’t, I think it’s the cheat’s way out. I need to know! Did he make it? Urgh, I threw the book in a fit of pique!”
TJ shook his head. “It’s leaving it up to the reader to decide, to map out their fate.”
Oceane fluffed the crop of her hair. “Boring. The author was stuck and ended it lazily. Let the reader decide? It’s not a Choose Your Own Adventure book!”
&
nbsp; TJ, ever the diplomat, said “We’ll have to agree to disagree.” When it came to the missing money, my instincts told me, it wasn’t either of these two. TJ was too sweet a person, and Oceane had more money than anyone. Fifty Euro here and there wouldn’t be enough to pay for her swishy lunches, let alone her shopping trips down the Champs-Elysées.
I laughed quietly at their bantering and went upstairs, this was more how I had imagined life in Once Upon a Time, if only I had time to join in their literary discussions. With a stack of files hugged to my chest and the laptop under one arm, I planned to work where I’d have a view. When I got to the conservatory I stopped in my tracks, I’d forgotten the blonde-haired guy had arrived when the doors opened earlier that day. He was always so quiet, I worried sometimes we’d lock him inside by mistake. Though there were worse things than being stuck in a bookshop like Once Upon a Time for twenty-four hours.
With my bundle of work in hand, I teetered on the threshold, not wanting to disturb the writer who rushed in each morning.
He must have heard the cogs in my mind ticking over because he turned to me. “Bonsoir.”
“Bonsoir,” I replied. “I’m Sarah.” We had crossed paths so many times, and I hadn’t thought to introduce myself until now.
“Luiz Delacroix.” He stood, and did up a button on his coat before holding out a hand.
I shook it and tried not to gasp. No wonder his face was so familiar! “The writer?” Luiz Delacroix was one of my favorite authors. He wrote about love in such a way, I pined for the characters long after I closed the cover. His stories, sadly, never ended in a happily ever after. And I’d always wondered why. They were tragic tales of love gone wrong, but they swept me away nonetheless – even though I always hoped they’d end differently. Not only that, but he also wrote his stories in the bookshop I just happened to be running...it felt like fate.
He tilted his head. “Guilty. I am he,” he said with a shy smile. I was so star-struck that I couldn’t form words. Luiz was famous the world over, men and women alike swooned over his prose, and his intense good looks. His picture adorned the back of each dust jacket, I must have stared into those blue eyes of his a million times, after closing one of his books, and trying to figure him out.
The Little Bookshop On the Seine Page 10
