“Wow.” I blushed, so tongue-tied I didn’t dare try to speak again. Sometimes my brain ran away from me, and I knew whatever words tumbled from my mouth would be too intense and too soon, as I wanted to pepper him with questions.
He surveyed me, and lit a cigarette. Was smoking allowed in here? So many French people lit up in cafés and bars, maybe it was another Parisian quirk. On him it seemed elegant, somehow. I was going crazy. Smoking was elegant? No.
In the old, slightly mildew-y room, the smoke sailed out the crack of the window, mingling with the thousand other scents that made the perfume of Paris.
“So you write your masterpieces here?” I finally managed to bumble out some words and was overjoyed they were in order and made sense.
“Most of them, yes. I’ve been writing here since Sophie took over.”
Sophie knew he wrote here and didn’t tell me! There were probably a handful of famous poets, and painters as well, who used the upstairs rooms for their crafts. It was that kind of space, where everyone was the same, no matter who you were, and that was one of its drawcards.
“I better let you get back to it. I don’t want to interrupt the flow of your writing.” I hovered there like a fool, wanting to loll about in the room and watch the world go busily by from the comfort of the conservatory.
He blew out a puff of smoke, and grinned. “I’m finished for today. The end of the book is close. So I will leave something for tomorrow.”
I smiled, behind me the fire cracked and spat like it was in its death throes and fighting back once more. “Do you write at home too?” I said, not wanting an awkward silence to fall.
He nodded. “Sometimes. I’m too manic, and I forget to eat, forget to sleep. It’s like falling in love, everything else fades, and I am lost to it.” His eyes blazed with a kind of ardor. It was evident he loved his work, and put his soul in to it, and it translated on the page. When I read his novels the rest of the world ceased to exist, it was just me and the characters on those black and white pages.
“An intense way to live.”
He stubbed the cigarette in a half oyster shell that was littered with butts. “It’s the only way to live,” he said. “I cannot control it when it begins, so I must write or I can drown in those feelings.”
He was intense, the way he spoke, the things he said. “Why don’t they ever end in happy ever after?” I double blinked and instantly wished I could take the words back. I shouldn’t have asked. I knew from speculation about Luiz that he was a private person. He was almost reclusive, or so I’d been led to believe. He’d been hiding in plain sight, and no one was any the wiser.
“Why should they?” he asked, as his eyes shadowed. “Does life really work like that, Sarah?” His words were slightly sad, a touch morose, like he was talking about himself, not his books.
I weighed up how to answer. “Not always, but shouldn’t we hope it will?”
“I don’t write fairy tales. People expect a certain level of truth from me. I write what I know, and that is that love doesn’t always last.”
I raised my eyebrows. “In your books, there’s always a reason why they split up, and it’s usually something that’s come between them, not always another person. Doesn’t that leave room that one day they might find each other again, and find their happy ever after?” I wanted to pinch myself that he was discussing something so private with me, he was well known for being reserved and elusive. And I almost applauded myself for sounding knowledgeable, even though a part of my heart chipped away when I thought of Ridge and our love affair that was on ice, our happy ever after paused for now, or so it seemed.
“You’re a hopeless romantic,” he said.
“I guess you could say that, but I’ve never understood that term. Like what’s hopeless about believing in something so beautiful? Yours are the only books sans HEA that I read. But I do rewrite the ending in my mind, I pretend they sorted it out, otherwise, I kind of can’t cope…”
He crossed his arms and leaned against the desk, a small smile playing at his lips. “And where do you take them?”
My palms were beading with moisture at the thought of telling him – was I being rude implying they should finish differently? “OK, say for Emile and Isabelle, in your most recent book. You said she could never love him because of his past, and the fact he’d been damaged by it, so much so. He couldn’t leave his home, for fear that he’d have flashbacks of the war and do something crazy. But Isabelle could have lived with him. She trusted him. And she wanted to be with him, no matter what, and you took that from her.” I felt a passion roil through me as I expressed myself. I’d been heartbroken when the last sentence of that book was goodbye.
Luiz pulled his eyebrows together. “But Emile couldn’t control those flashbacks, or what he’d do when they happened. What if he hurt her by mistake? Don’t you see? Doesn’t he love her more if he walks away knowing he can never harm her? That she’s free of the violence that plagues his dreams.”
“His dreams were violent, and toxic from what he’d been through, but they had nothing to do with Isabelle. Real love would see past any character flaw, surely? They could have had a plan for those times when he wasn’t himself. He could have taken medication, or had a counselor come and visit. Could have locked himself in the bedroom…anything, so they could be together.”
“In a perfect world, they could have done all that and more. But it’s not a perfect world, is it?”
I smiled. I wasn’t convincing him. His popularity around the world proved that people loved the shocking endings, the twists, the various plot devices used so you never knew what was coming. “Being a heart-on-sleeve type, and a romance fan to boot, maybe it’s just me, but I want them to end up together, no matter what they have to do in order for it to happen.”
Outside the day had come to an end, as night slipped firmly across the sky. “I hope you’ll continue to read them, even if the love never works out.”
“I’ll happily read them, and hope one day, when I’m all the way back in America, I’ll pick one up and find you’ve surprised us all with a love affair that lasts a lifetime.”
“Never say never, but in this case… never.”
I couldn’t help wondering if there was more behind his opinion than just notoriety and success. Was he haunted by love gone awry? I narrowed my eyes as he shuffled his papers on desk. “Does life imitate art as they say?” I broached, gently.
He spun to face me, a truly tortured expression darkening his features. “Art imitates life…”
Did it though? Or did we usually try and recreate what we read in a good book, like making the book boyfriend come to life? Or wishing those circle of friends we read about were ours?
We said our goodbyes, and I stood in the blue room for an age, wondering what had happened to Luiz to make him write the way he did. I was certain he’d lost someone. He said, art imitates life and not the other way around. Art imitates life…so he writes what he knows, and that is that love doesn’t last. I hoped we’d get to chat again soon. I wanted to pinch myself; I’d just conversed with the Luiz Delacroix, and found out more about him in twenty minutes than I would have ever guessed possible. Ridge would get such a kick out of it, he too loved Luiz’s fiction. We’d spent many a night bickering good naturedly about how his books should have ended. I sat at the table by the window, and flipped open the laptop. And emailed Ridge.
Roving Reporter,
Should I send out a search party? I’m worried you’re dead, injured, or in love with someone else.
Please reply at your earliest convenience, or I will take a French lover.
P.S I met Luiz Delacroix! And I’m going to convince him to write a HEA!
Love,
Your Parisian bookseller
***
A few days later not only did my mail have the usual bills and invoices for the shop but it had my travelers’ checks. I let out a squeal and before I could say anything, Oceane’s eyes lit upon them. She did her u
sual arm grab thing, ready to pull me outside to go shopping. “Wait,” I cried out. “Sophie’s about to email me back. I just sent her a load of reports, and she’s not impressed with the figures.” I slumped. “Which are, you guessed it, down some more. If I can’t turn things around, she’ll come back, I know she will.” And it struck me I didn’t want to leave. Paris and its charms had wooed me and I hadn’t seen enough yet, or found what I was searching for. Did that sound like a cheesy song lyric from the nineties? At any rate, I wasn’t done yet.
“Sarah, you need some new clothes. You’ve been waiting forever. Sophie’s email can wait an hour, I’m sure. I’ll get TJ to watch the counter, and supervise the staff.”
She had a way of galvanizing me, and the thought of finally having new clothes to wear, something other than Sophie’s, did excite me. I dashed to the computer to email her, and explained that I’d call later. I was only buying time, and eventually I’d have to face the same disappointed tone in her voice. But I was determined to turn things around. TJ had been a godsend with ideas, and we were slowly implementing them – I was sure we’d see results soon. I hit send on the email, and gave TJ a wave as he took my place.
Oceane chatted incessantly as we made our way to the Champs-Elysees.
“Cold today, non?” she asked, wrapping her mink coat tighter against the bluster.
“Oui.” I was dressed in one of Sophie’s outfits, another flowy, layered ensemble, and I could barely wait to find some jeans, and simple sweaters. We headed deeper into the 8th arrondissement.
“Avenue des Champs-Élysées,” Oceane said.
“Wow.” Sculpted chestnut trees lined the edge of the long avenue, and at the end, the Arc de Triomphe stood proudly, the arch colossal in comparison to everything around it. Even the detail carved into it stood out from our vantage point halfway down the avenue. Cars raced around it in a speedy procession on what must be the world’s biggest, zaniest roundabout.
“Look at those fools.” She pointed to a bunch of teens trying to make their way across the busy circle, dodging cars whose horns beeped incessantly. “There’s an underpass. You go underneath and come out right below the Arc De Triomphe.”
“Maybe we should tell them.” My heart was in my throat watching them try and escape the mad traffic.
She waved me away. “First we need to eat. Laduree.” She pointed to a patisserie, its name glinting in ornate gold. There was a long queue of people, a motley bunch with a range of accents, as Oceane led me straight past them, and up to the front where a man stood holding the door as if it was an assembly line.
“Oceane,” he said, kissing both cheeks. “Your table is at the back.” I followed her meekly, hearing the cries from the front of the queue that we’d pushed in.
“Seriously,” I said to Oceane. “How do you get in everywhere?” I was beginning to think the ‘I’ve dated a guy here’ thing was a ruse. Everyone seemed to know her, and be semi star-struck when she waltzed by, leaving them gasping after the scent of her perfume.
She motioned to a table, before sitting and throwing me a playful look. “You think I’ve slept with the whole town?”
I laughed. “Well, at first I thought they were old boyfriends but now I’m not so sure…”
A waiter came over and Oceane ordered a selection of macarons, and two cafe au laits. “My family is well known. That’s all. Now,” she said, resting her chin on her palm. “Tell me about this man of yours. How do you cope being alone all of the time? If he’s ‘The One’ where is he?” she said, arching a brow.
I toyed with the buttons on my jacket. “It’s not easy, that’s for sure. I wasn’t looking for love, but it found me, and here I am. While it’s not perfect…” I thought of the abruptly ended phone calls, and how it had made me feel second-best to some indistinct thing he was chasing, “… it’s real. And he chooses to work, which takes him away from me.” Girl talk, this I could do. Without my friends, it was the poor bookshop cats who had to hear my laments.
She frowned. “But why doesn’t he choose you?”
I didn’t want to own up to the fact that on the love lock bridge I had been wondering the same thing. My instant reaction was to defend Ridge, and explain it was pure circumstance. But sitting in the bustling little patisserie, it hit me anew – once again I was waiting for him. I’d been in Paris for over a month, and his trip here was delayed time and time again. Our phone calls had been becoming shorter and shorter. If I really admitted it to myself I’d almost given up hope he’d get here at all.
“I don’t know, Oceane.” My heart constricted confessing it out loud. “I guess he’s addicted to the chase of a new story, the competitive nature of it. His work is important for other people too.” Ridge had given countless people a voice, a way to get their stories out there for the world to read. His work wasn’t selfish, I had to admit, it truly did help people.
“Are you sure that’s all it is? Some men, they have a girl in each port.” It was a quirk of Oceane’s to be direct, like she didn’t have a filter for how that would make me feel, but she wasn’t malicious, just curious, and upfront about whatever popped into her mind.
Still, my stomach flipped at the thought. “He’s not that kind of guy. It’s purely his work that drives him. And I guess that I knew from day one he was ambitious.” Visions of the photographer, Monique, Mona, or whatever her name was flashed in my mind, which I blinked rapidly away.
“So, you wait?” she said whilst sipping her coffee.
“I wait.” It struck me how ridiculous I sounded. What kind of relationship was this? Short of flying all over the world with him, what was the solution?
“I hope he’s worth it. Paris is beautiful when you’re in love. Better though, when your lover is actually in Paris.”
“In a perfect world, he’d be here.”
“Here are the macarons,” she said, squeezing my hand in support before thanking the waiter, giving me time to consider her take on it.
I bit into a hot pink macaron, the biscuit pillow-y, like air, until I tasted the tart raspberry center. Between mouthfuls I said, “I always wondered how on earth they get so much flavor into such a small biscuit.”
Oceane waved a finger. “Non, non. They’re petit cakes, not biscuits. Laduree has been famous for their macarons for over one hundred and fifty years. They’re the experts.”
“You can taste it,” I said smiling. Lil and Cee from the Gingerbread Café would get such a kick from seeing the vivid little cakes in front of me. The greens were almost teal, the yellows saffron bright; fuchsia pinks mottled with another flavor. I hadn’t tasted anything like it before. I would have to buy boxes to take home when the time came, and I was sure it’d send Lil and CeeCee straight into the kitchen trying to recreate the flavor combinations.
An hour later, with a full belly and on a sugar high, we walked past boutiques with windows full with mannequins wearing stunningly chic clothing. After feasting on macarons and sipping strong coffee we hadn’t mentioned Ridge again, but it was still playing on my mind. I’d come to Paris for an adventure and here I was stuck in the same position I had been back in Ashford. Waiting for something to happen to me, rather than changing things myself. I could get lost here among the crowds, I didn’t stand out, I was one of thousands, and that made it easier to blend in and enjoy it. I liked being nameless, anonymous in a busy stream of people. It helped me delight in every small thing. Back home, everyone knew every single thing that had happened to me since I was a child, the small town grapevine had a lot to answer for and was like living under a microscope at times. Here I was free.
“Sarah, I think you have a chance to reinvent yourself,” Oceane said, a little gleam in her eye. “You could try some different styles. I know what would look great on you.”
Did she sense I wanted to change? It was like she’d read my mind. Oceane had an eye for all things stylish, and I trusted her judgment but I feared her budget was significantly more generous than mine.
“I
’m more of a casual dresser,” I said, wondering how I’d get away with any shred of dignity if I couldn’t afford it.
“Oui, but you’re here now. And I can find some outfits that suit your budget, and you!” Her face shone happily, and I almost flopped with relief that she knew money was scarce, and the insurance would only go so far.
“Don’t look so worried!” She gave my arm a pat. “Here, you can dress like you’re rich, if you know where to find the right boutiques.” She pulled me to a stop and swiftly looked me up and down. “Navy, and red, maybe some black and white stripes would suit you. Nautical. It’s easy when you know how. A blue blazer, a white t-shirt, and a scarlet red scarf, and voila! You’re so slim, we’ll look for some skinny leg jeans, and that way you’re still you, just more French!”
“OK,” I said laughing, her enthusiasm contagious. “Let’s see what we can find.”
With one last look at the Arc de Triomphe, Oceane pulled me into a smaller avenue, to a tiny boutique at the end of the lane. She spent the next thirty minutes tossing clothes over the top of the change room curtain, and speaking rapid-fire French to the assistant.
With a flourish she pulled back the curtain and surveyed me.
“What do you think?” she asked.
I stared at my reflection, too surprised to form words. Oceane had picked a range of garments I never would have pulled from the coat hangers, but somehow they worked. With a tight pair of dress pants, she matched up various pieces I could mix and match.
“It’s all about classics,” she said, smiling. “And finding those basics, so you can just switch a cardigan or scarf to give a whole different look.”
She’d given me a chili-red sweater, and teamed it with a polka dotted black and white scarf. With black fitted pants, and a black blazer, I still felt like me, just with a bit more oomph. Paired with a pair of leather ankle boots with a medium heel, I was totally comfortable, and not at all like I usually was shopping for clothes, which was gangly and awkward. In the pile of ‘yes’s on the chair were various color combinations of similar garments, with patterned scarves to swap and change. Form-fitting clothing was more my friend Missy’s thing, but on me in those classic combinations, it actually worked.
The Little Bookshop On the Seine Page 11
