Chapter 34
34
12 DECEMBER
Manon and I are at Saint Ouen Flea Market shopping for furniture for Library Ana?s when we happen upon an antique shop called Palais. We peek through the window at the gorgeous ornate gold furniture, the exact style I want for the hotel.
‘Can you see any price tags?’ I whisper. From the quality of the range, I have doubts it’s in our budget but part of me hopes for the best.
‘ Non, and you know what they say: if you have to ask the price, you can’t afford it,’ Manon says. Inside, there’s a woman of indeterminate age, dressed in a flamboyant fluffy coat and matching fluffy beret. She clocks us peeking and waves us in.
‘ Bienvenue , I’m Geneviève. Mimosa?’
‘ Oui, ’ Manon says as if she shares mimosas with Geneviève all the time, despite us never having met her before. ‘Anais would love one too.’
I paste on a smile and grip Manon’s arm. What if this is some sales ploy? The antiques in Palais are breathtakingly beautiful, but we’d come in search of more overlooked beauty with a flea market price tag.
Geneviève returns with three mimosas. I take the proffered glass and a sip to be polite. There’s more champagne than orange juice and already I feel the alcohol warm me from the inside out.
‘What brings you to Saint Ouen?’
Manon takes more of a guzzle than a sip and says, ‘We’re renovating a boutique hotel in the 6th and were looking for some furniture for what will become the library. While we’re in a bourgeois location, sadly we have a tiny little budget. Unfortunately, I’m not sure it would stretch to these magnificent pieces.’
‘Ooh, let me be the judge of that. While most of the range here are genuine antiques from chateaux all over France and castellos from Italy, I do stock some replica pieces for those who have an eye for luxury. I’ve also got some pieces in need of refurb; they might suit?’
‘ Fantastique! What about this beauty?’ Manon points to a ruby-red chaise longue.
‘Replica, and not excessively priced. I have matching Louis XVI bergère chairs that will suit a library. I’ve got a range of occasional tables with marble tops; some need legs tightening, others the marble is marked or slightly chipped. I can do them for a discount.’
I’m still not convinced we can afford replica or even the in-need-of-refurb antiques, but I hold my breath and hope.
‘What about this?’ I’ve never seen a world globe as big as this. It could be a feature in the middle of the library. Library guests can sit with a book in their lap, a glass of wine in their hand, and spin the globe, a finger landing on the next city they’ll visit. We have a globe in suite nineteen but I’m still not sure about sharing those treasures.
‘This,’ Geneviève says, her eyes twinkling, ‘is more than just a globe and utterly perfect for your needs. Let me show you.’ She removes the surround and opens the globe to reveal a bar. There is room for bottles of spirits, and it has six highball glasses sitting in brown velvet lining.
‘ Ooh la la! ’ I say. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’
‘Do you have two of these?’ Manon jokes.
‘You don’t need one for your suite,’ I say with a laugh, admonishing her. Truthfully, I’d love one for my personal space too. What could be better than curling up in front of the fire after a long evening writing, pouring myself a cognac and spinning the globe, wondering what people on the other side of the world are doing right that second?
‘You’re making this very hard for us, Geneviève. I knew we’d fall in love with everything in here.’
‘No pressure but I can tally these up and see where we’re at. I offer deposit down, interest free payment plans to local Parisian businesses, so that might work too.’
‘ Merci .’
‘That sounds good, right?’ Manon says, tugging on my arm. ‘You want the library to be the showstopper, and with those ruby-red chaises, it will be. You’ve got to spend money to make money.’
We’ve been so frugal with funds and have made do with what we’ve got and could repurpose, but the library room will look spectacular with furniture like this. Do I splurge, just this once? The payment plan is very tempting.
When Geneviève comes back, she slips me a sheet of paper with a figure written on it. It’s utterly French not to talk so openly about things as gauche as money. The price is more than I’d bargained on spending today, but the replicas are worth it and will add such elegance to the library.
Manon surreptitiously peers over my shoulder. ‘Do it, Anais.’
‘You’ve been very kind, Geneviève. We’d love to feature these antiques in Library Ana?s . If we could arrange the payment plan and delivery, that would be wonderful.’
We sort payment and logistics when a woman with a pixie haircut wanders in and greets us with a wave. She’s strangely familiar but I can’t think why.
‘Sorry , ’ I say. ‘Won’t be long; we’re just finishing up.’
She sits on the ruby-red chaise we’ve just purchased. ‘Ooh, it’s OK, no rush. I’m Lilou; I work next door at Ephemera.’
Geneviève smiles as she hands me a receipt. ‘You might also know her as Paris Cupid.’
‘ Geneviève ,’ Lilou says with a sigh. ‘She just can’t help herself.’
‘Ah! That’s why I recognised your face!’ A few months ago, the name Paris Cupid was on everyone’s lips as no one knew the identity of the anonymous matchmaker who set up so many Parisians, including movie star Emmanuel Roux, AKA the Playboy of Paris.
‘Have you ever thought about writing love letters?’ Lilou asks.
‘Well, I sort of write ninety-thousand-word love letters in the shape of romance novels.’
‘Ooh, what’s your name?’
‘Anais De la Croix.’
With that, Lilou jumps from the chaise and comes over to me, pulling me in for a hug that is strong despite her petite frame. ‘I’ve read every single one of your books and I cannot wait for your new book next Christmas. Can you give me a hint of what it’s about?’
‘At this stage it’s under wraps I’m afraid, but I can tell you it’s set in Paris.’
‘You absolute tease! I can’t wait.’
We leave the market and go for afternoon tea. Lilou from Ephemera has given me a much-needed confidence boost about my writing, by reminding me that my books are special to readers, even when I’ve lost my mojo and am suffering a block, or imposter syndrome or whatever the case may be. I’ve been in a rut, thinking only of myself, not my faithful readers, some who’ve been with me since book one. That’s the kind of magic that usually has me plugged into my characters, hyper-focused on their lives as if they’re real, so I can take readers on a journey. While I escape my own life writing, readers escape theirs by reading if I do my job well enough.
Lilou doesn’t know it, but her words have zapped that part of me that needed rebooting. I’ve got a Christmas book to finish and I’m going to make it my best one yet, because that’s what Lilou and everyone who has supported me deserves. My fingers itch to write, and there’s not one thought of bludgeoning. Well, not much. When we get back to the hotel I go to my manuscript and jump straight in.
Hilary was certain no other city was as pretty as Paris at Christmastime. The four hundred chestnut trees along the Place de la Concorde were strung with glittering fairy lights, as if showing the way to the magnificent Arc de Triomphe. Even with the sparkling display of joie de vivre around her, she felt that something was missing from her life. Love, actually…
And it was time to act on her feelings.
The words pour out of me like a dam that’s burst its banks. Time is forgotten as I type like my life depends on it and, for the first time since my divorce, I enjoy writing about love. Complicated, messy, beautiful love. Soon the characters become three dimensional and real to me, as if I’m writing about people whose every secret I know, and I can sense just what they need, even if they can’t. But… that doesn’t mean I’m going to give it to them. Not yet anyway, because one thing I know for sure is that love might be a long journey, but it’s always worth it when the timing is right…