The Little Bookshop On the Seine

by Rebecca Raisin

  “Personally, I can’t wait to get merry,” TJ, ever the supporter, said.

  “I will adopt a little American-ism if it kills me,” Oceane smiled, and gave me a wink.

  “This is going to be amazing. Sales will soar, and I will throw you guys the most epic end of year party. We just have to pull together to make it all happen.”

  The rest of the motley crew gave me small smiles, and I knew they’d come around. Once the basic rules of working were set in stone, we’d find some harmony. And we’d sell a truckload of books, if I could help it.

  “We can start by wrapping presents!” I said, to their startled faces. “Well they’re faux presents, for under the Christmas tree when it arrives. And a couple of real presents to post home to my parents.”

  Oceane picked up a book I’d selected for my dad. “The Gargoyles of Notre Dame.” She lifted her brow. “Good choice. They have an interesting history. What’d you get your maman?”

  I opened a shopping bag, and took out the small box I’d found in one of the flea markets along the Seine. “A music box?” she asked. It was tarnished with age, and its velvet lining was worn bare, but it had so much soul to it, and once you twisted the button the music notes drifted out. “La Vie En Rose…It’s always that song,” she laughed. “Your maman will love it.”

  She would, I think. My mother had never ventured far from her little patch of the world, and I’d been so much like her – content to stay in one place, doing things mechanically, regularly, keeping up the farce I was happy. Stepping away from my own inadequacies and coming here had been one of the best choices I’d made. And I suppose I hoped giving her the music box, burnished and bruised with age, but a treasure, nonetheless, she might understand. Instead of putting it in the dresser with the plates we weren’t allowed to use, maybe she’d wind it up and listen to the haunting song, and dream about a different sort of life. And that would be enough.

  Later that night, the phone rang and I snatched it up, hoping it was Ridge.

  “Sarah!” Lucy spoke loudly. “Get dressed. I have a spare ticket to the launch of a huge art exhibition! And yours truly has a couple of paintings included!”

  A rush of pride hit me. Lucy had been so nervous in the past about sharing her work, she deemed it her heart on the canvas, and here she was exhibiting it. “OK,” I said, surveying my PJs. “I’ll grab a taxi to you?” Everyone caught the Metro here, but I still avoided it at every cost. Getting lost on a train to nowhere in the middle of the night didn’t appeal. What a change in circumstance! Instead of snoozing my life away I was burning the midnight oil and loving every second.

  ***

  I’d been half asleep the next morning when I’d opened the bookshop after Lucy’s exhibition. I’d marveled at her skill with a paintbrush. She was right when she said it was her heart exposed bare on the canvas, you could see her passion, her skill, the way she captured the emotion in each canvas. She’d taken me on a tour, explaining her pieces, and those of the other artists – what the dark and murky brushstrokes meant to her, and then asked me what they meant to me. I supposed it was like two people reading the same book, we each read a different story, even though the words were the same. The paintings were like that too. We took from them what we needed.

  I was putting the final touches to our Christmas plans; I had ordered fairy lights and real Christmas trees to put up in the corner near the children’s section, and one of each of the three levels. My belly flipped-flopped at the thought of a real Parisian festive season. Perhaps I could bake some gingerbread treats for customers? If we were a little more welcoming, rather than the book factory method of serving, customers might return instead of visiting only the once. Spontaneously I Skyped the girls back home – they were the experts on baking, and I was itching to clamp eyes on baby Willow again.

  The call was answered and CeeCee’s shiny brown face came into view.

  “Cherry blossom!” she cried. “Were your ears burning? We was just not two minutes ago talkin’ ‘bout you!”

  I laughed – as always, hearing the warmth in her voice. “And what were you girls gossiping about me for?”

  “Lil here was sayin’ how jealous she was about you bein’ in the city of food and all.” She hemmed and hawed. “I tried to tell her it’s the city of love and romance, but would she listen? No. That’s ‘cause she don’t read enough books.”

  Lil pushed her face on screen. “I read books!”

  “Cookbooks don’t count,” CeeCee said.

  Lil lifted her eyes to the heavens, and gave her a shove. “They do so! Lotta love goes into each and every recipe!”

  They could have talked over the top of each other all day, and I would have happily sat there and listened but a gaggle of tourists wandered in so I said, “Speaking of food, I need your best gingerbread coffee recipe, and also a gingerbread man one…something I can’t mess up.”

  They bustled around, lifting their latest creations to the screen, and emailing me recipes from Lil’s phone. While I watched their performance on screen, laughing, I thought how amazing modern technology was – my friends weren’t that far away, not in spirit.

  “OK, girls, I have to cut to the chase because the shop is filling up. Where’s that baby? I need a visual on her, or I won’t be able to focus…”

  Lil held up a swaddled little bundle and it was all I could do not to blubber. She was the sweetest thing with her chubby cheeks, and one tuft of blonde hair sticking straight up into the air. “Aww,” I said. “I love you, baby Willow!”

  She let out a little gurgle that almost made my heart explode.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “You’re sure you need all of this?” Oceane asked nodding towards boxes of Christmas decorations that had finally arrived. It would feel more like a real Christmas when I’d strung up fairy lights, and draped tinsel on every available surface. Baubles glittered red, green and gold, and a wreathe for the front door twinkled with little crystals, and had a huge red bow on top.

  “I’m sure,” I replied doing my best to keep my face straight. “These bells will go nice by the front door, yes?” I held aloft a cluster of golden bells that made a heck of a lot of noise.

  “Bells ringing every time someone blows through? I can’t see any reason why that wouldn’t work…”

  I laughed. “TJ come and help!” He was behind the counter trying his best to look inconspicuous.

  “Let me guess, you want me to hang the Mistletoe by the front door too?”

  I scoffed. “You guys are amateur. I want it hung above every doorway! That’s what this box is.” I pointed.

  They tried very hard to feign disinterest but I could tell they were excited. “Admit it,” I said. “You want to go dig out your ugliest Christmas sweater.”

  TJ pulled a face. “We do. In fact we might go home now and see what we can find. What do you say Oceane?”

  “Not so fast. You, my friend, are going to carry the trees up to each level for me. And if you’re good you can put the star on top once we’ve decorated them.”

  Oceane pouted. “I want to put the stars on top!”

  “That’s the spirit!” I said laughing.

  Together, we strung fairy lights across the beams above and then looped tinsel through. By the counter we draped Merry Christmas bunting.

  “So where should we put the inflatable Santa?” I asked and was met with their jaws dropping and total silence. I guess they were serious when they said Sophie didn’t get festive. “Kids section it is,” I trilled.

  Customers strolled in, smiling when they saw the flashing lights and sung under their breath to the carols which played through unseen speakers. It struck me how much fun I was having. I lifted a finger. “Christmas sales! We need to get some banners printed and get some books sold!”

  “That I can do,” Oceane said. “Leave it to me.”

  ***

  The nights were getting shorter as darkness descended earlier. I’d survived winter in Ashford, but I’d ne
ver lived by the bank of a river. The blustering wind gathered momentum, bringing with it an icy chill as it whipped into the shop, making me shiver. I pulled my scarf tighter, bundling myself up and wishing I had a pair of fingerless gloves to pull on – at least they would keep my palms warm, and leave my fingers free to type on the computer and work the till.

  We were preparing for the full Christmas rush; I had just received a special express delivery from the Gingerbread Café full of recipes and a pre-made mix for the gingerbread men I wanted to make. My own attempts had been photographed and laughed over good naturedly on Skype with the girls. I never was going to be a world class baker and now I finally had the proof.

  “Well,” TJ said breaking me out of my reverie. “It’s quiet. I say we close up and head out for drinks. YOLO, right?”

  We fell about laughing at the TJ’s attempt to use modern lingo. It was at odds with his ill-fitting suit, and his serious gaze and usual verbose way of speaking.

  “YOLO is right,” I said. “Let’s hit the town and please say where we’re going has a heater!”

  “Oh my two little bookish party animals,” Oceane said in a faux proud parent tone. “When you say hit the town, don’t tell me you mean the Bibliothèque nationale de France?”

  The French library. Luiz had promised to show me around its cavernous halls later in the week, to read more of the love letters. I couldn’t get them out of my head, the romance was so intense and I was desperate to know how it would turn out. For some reason, I thought if their love managed to weather the storm of international travel, and so much time apart, then mine would too. Ridiculous, of course, but I was a romantic at heart and a lover of words so I couldn’t help compare our stories.

  Oceane continued after a small pause, “Please say you actually mean a place where liquor is served. The harder the better.”

  “Haha. I mean a place that sells liquor with nary a book in sight,” TJ said, throwing the front door open dramatically and gesturing out into the night. “It’s Friday, time to shrug off the weekday, and get sozzled.”

  Oceane and I looked at each other and grabbed our coats ready to brave the night to see just where it would take us.

  We sat under the flashing lights of the Eiffel Tower, on a rug, wrapped in dense puffer jackets against the cold. We had the place to ourselves. As if the spectacle, the immense theater of the flashing lights above, was just for us. We must’ve been crazy, sitting on the snow covered grass, but it was worth it to have the view to ourselves.

  TJ had bought a few bottles of cheap wine, some cheeses and a baguette which he placed down on the rug. A nighttime picnic in Paris. A magical experience with friends I’d come to feel secure around, enough that I could just be, and live in the moment. Away from the shop TJ and Oceane were exactly the same people, kind, caring, and trustworthy. They both loved Once Upon a Time as much as I did, and I felt a real connection with them, despite our different personalities.

  “How do you afford to live the way you do?” I asked Oceane, slightly brazen after a couple of glasses of wine.

  “Trust fund, darling,” Oceane said laughing.

  TJ and I gasped. “I knew it!” he said. We’d shared the better part of two bottles of wine and our stories were spilling just as fast as the burgundy was.

  She shrugged. “I tried to play the bourgeois card, but it’s impossible. Everyone knows my family, so everyone knows me by default. When Sophie hired me I told her I was a struggling waitress from Eze with a penchant for reading, but I don’t think she believed me. I didn’t think she’d employ me if she knew who my family were.”

  TJ laughed so hard he began to choke on his wine. “So you’re saying Oceane, thirty-three, from Eze, romance reader, man-eater, flower aficionado, isn’t true?”

  Giggles spilled out from me at TJ’s shocked expression.

  Oceane fell back on the rug laughing. “TJ, your people dossiers are sweet. It’s all true. But my parents are super wealthy. They live in Eze, have vineyards in Provence. They export wine all over the world. I’m not actually the man-eater I’ve portrayed myself to be. I can always swing us entry into most places, because people know my family, and when I was in my early twenties I worked in Paris as a representative for my parents’ business. I got to know the place well.”

  “So you hid your wealth because of Sophie?” Somehow I couldn’t see Sophie worrying about what kind of background a person had, as long as they loved books.

  “At first, because I thought I’d ruin my chances of working at Once Upon a Time. I’d been a customer there for years, and saw the staff, dressed like riffraff, struggling artists who somehow fit better among the books than I did. I wanted to do one thing on my own, get a job that wasn’t given to me because of who my parents are.”

  “I really thought you were a man-eater.” TJ said sadly.

  Oceane gave him a playful shove. “I’ve had everything handed to me my entire life. I love words, and I wanted to be surrounded by them. I thought I could be a regular employee, but too many people know me here. They know my family. So I had to invent that man-eater persona.”

  TJ was right. Paris was a haven for lost souls. A place for reinvention. The type of city that would keep your secrets like the most loyal friend. I lay back on the rug and stared up at the stars winking at us; the fairy lights and Christmas decorations reflected in the Seine made a spectacular light show just for us. “What do you want from your life?” I asked Oceane, feeling like we were in a bubble where any question, no matter how strange, was there for the asking. “You don’t want to continue at your family business?”

  “God, no. It’s absorbed my family for generations. While I love the lifestyle it provides, I don’t want to join. My siblings can run it, and bicker between themselves. I’m happy here.” She gestured with her wine glass, slopping a little onto the white snow.

  I sat up and took another sip of wine. “What do your parents say?”

  “They think I’m doing some literary course. If I even mentioned Sophie’s shop they’d set out to buy it or something over the top. They think of me as their crazy daughter, the one who floats through life without a goal.” Her eyes widened. “But they just don’t understand that I’d rather sell books than sell wine. They feel I should strive harder. If I want to read, let’s buy a string of bookshops! They don’t get me, they don’t get it.” She sounded so passionate, so sure of herself I was in awe. Had I ever known what I wanted to do so clearly? Other than my beautiful little bookshop, the last thing I had felt truly passionate about was coming here, to Paris. And the man mountain, but that wasn’t at the forefront of my mind as much now.

  We were all here in Paris, searching for something tangible, something that would fix us. I would never in a million years have thought that Oceane wanted to be a different person to who she was. I supposed it was easy for her to shrug off any family pressure, and be who she wanted to be, even if that meant bending the truth about what she was doing in Paris. She exuded a confidence I hadn’t seen in anyone else – nothing bothered her, she’d simply wave away conflict, or roll her eyes dismissively when she disagreed with someone, and continue chasing the things that made her happy.

  “What about Beatrice?” TJ asked, pouring more wine into his glass and snagging a purple grape from the basket. “She’s not who she says she is either.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, surprise making my voice squeak. Whatever insight TJ had, I tended to trust his instincts, because so many times he’d seen beyond the veil of what I’d meant to outwardly show the world.

  “Have you noticed sometimes her posh accent slips away when she’s mad? It’s more Liverpudlian… She’s always dashing off somewhere, a watch checker, like there’s something else that takes up her time outside the shop.” he mused, and I felt Oceane leaning closer, enthralled by the story he was spinning.

  “Maybe she works two jobs?” I said. I was still suspicious after I had accused her of taking the money, and this made me more so.
<
br />   TJ’s ran a hand through his hair, “What do we know about her? Beatrice Lockhart. Twenty-five. Loves literary fiction, but doesn’t actually read it. Hates people. Huge fan of eye rolling. Claims to hail from Paddington, central London. Father is rich banker type, mother is a lawyer. Vegetarian and staunch coffee addict. Anything else?” He’d been ticking details off on his fingers, Oceane and I nodding in agreement. It struck me that I really had zero idea about who she was, and what made her tick. Guilt gnawed at me, as it always did. Should I have made pains to get to know her better? Just as TJ and Oceane had with me. There was something that had held me back, like there was an invisible wall between me and Beatrice, but maybe I should have tried harder to climb it.

  “That’s very thorough, TJ,” Oceane said. “But after a year of working alongside Beatrice, I still don’t know anything about her. She runs hot and cold with me, but doesn’t give much away. Anyone else would have invited themselves when we drank a bottle of wine by the Seine. But not her, she hurries off like she’s got somewhere else to be.”

  “So if she’s hiding who she really is, the question is why?” I asked.

  TJ threw his hands up. “I can’t help feeling disappointed that my very in-depth dossiers are actually missing some crucial elements…like the truth!”

  Oceane reached over him to sling her arm around his shoulder. “TJ you’re too much of a sweetheart to see the lies, that’s why!”

  He snorted. “Aren’t writers supposed to be able to read people? Is that why I’m not published yet? I have one major flaw?”