The Paris Bookshop for the Broken-Hearted
Chapter 1
1
Never in my wildest dreams did I expect my life would implode in such spectacular fashion. How does it happen to a person like me, who plots every move with military precision? I have systems in place, and I trust those systems will keep me safe. Spoiler alert: they have not.
Not only do I have myself to worry about, there’s also my thirteen-year-old daughter Eloise to consider. She’s not coping with the sudden move from London back to our hometown of Paris. I don’t blame her. Who wants to be wrenched away from their friends and all they know?
Despite my efforts to salvage the situation, my finances are in dire straits. I can’t pay next month’s rent and the bills are piling up, so I had to take drastic action and get us packed up and on the move quick smart. Deep down, Eloise knows returning to Paris is truly the last resort, but that doesn’t mean she’s happy about it. What teenager would be?
Me, well, I’m grateful we’ve got somewhere to go, in the midst of all this upheaval.
Although fleeing like this, admitting defeat, is incredibly difficult under the circumstances. To say I feel like a failure would be an understatement. My entire adult life, I’ve strived to get ahead so my daughter has a stable and secure homelife.
And now here I am, my worst fears realised. Almost penniless, no home to call our own, and no job. I’ve got whiplash from the latest plot twists in this saga, but this is real life, not a lofty piece of fiction that I can close the cover on.
It’s a scary place to be when you’re a solo mum, but I do my utmost to shove those worries aside for now and focus on what I can control. My daughter’s happiness. Starting over.
It’s not all doom and gloom though; my parents are waiting for us in Montparnasse with open arms.
As the Eurostar chugs closer to Gare du Nord, I lean back in my seat as Eloise’s head lolls softly on my shoulder. When she sleeps, all the anger she holds falls away from her pretty features. Anger that has been solely directed at me. Understandable. There is no one else for her to blame in our little family unit of two.
I’ve done my best to defuse her temper by explaining our shiny new (uncertain) plan and all the reasons it will serve us well, but she insists leaving London is ‘lame’ and that I’ve ruined her life. At these times, I find myself resorting to humour, admittedly not the strongest weapon in my arsenal, but it’s what most ‘parenting a modern-day teen’ books suggest – Get on their level. Make it fun!
When that inevitably fails, I highlight the many adventures we can share, like spotting the Parisian gargoyles that scare away evil forces from sacred places. In reality, the gargoyles have a much more practical purpose: they channel rainwater away from walls to prevent erosion and water damage. I prefer to think of them as sentinels sitting high on their lofty perches, keeping the city safe from all manner of dark forces .
At these types of suggestions, I’m met with an eyeroll from Eloise and a screwed-up moue that quite puts me back in my box. Still, I press on with my efforts because I’ve paid a fortune for those parenting books and I’m not willing to admit defeat. Not again, that is. Everything can’t go belly up, or what does that say about me?
We’re nearly home now. The closer we get to Paris, the more I can breathe. The knots that have been tying up my shoulders slowly release. I never thought I’d leave London, especially under a cloud of suspicion, but here we are. At least I’ll have my parents to lean on.
My maman and Eloise are as thick as thieves, so I’m hoping she’ll be able to get more than a monosyllable out of my daughter while I dust off the past.
Or possibly have a breakdown.
Why not both? It’s best to keep my options open, I’ve learned that much from these last hellish months where I’ve pasted on a smile for so long it’s resulted in lockjaw, which will probably end with me needing dental work as I grind my teeth to dust. I remind myself not to succumb to panic.
I attempt some box breathing, a technique my former therapist taught me to help with anxiety. I’ve found myself using these calming methods more frequently lately, probably due to the fact my carefully laid plans HAVE BEEN DOUSED AND SET ON FIRE. That’s the rage rearing its ugly head again. All the while I’m stuck on this train pretending to read a novel while my heart beats staccato and my thoughts race too fast. The sudden onset of these wild swings of emotion have been tricky to navigate while I outwardly try to appear serene. In control. Steadfast. Just like always. I am a together person and I will remain that way, dammit.
In the quiet of the moment, I mull over the fact my beloved systems let me down. Actually, let me rephrase that: how a man I loved and trusted manipulated the systems and let me down. The way I’d set up the computer program, there should have been an alarm, a flashing neon sign alerting me: Doom approaching! Humiliation not far behind.
Stupid, stupid me in love-bubble land got lax and fully trusted in the man I’d given my heart to. My partner in love and business, Alexander, took a wrecking ball to both and then did a midnight flit. I’m (usually) a sane and rational person but there have been moments since when I’ve been tempted to exact revenge on the guy for his crimes. Luckily for him, Eloise needs me most evenings, if only to tell me all the ways in which I’ve failed, so I’ve been a little busy, a little too frazzled , to find his hideout and swap his toothpaste with haemorrhoid cream. That’s probably the broken heart talking. In the chaos of untangling his deceit, there hasn’t been time to process my own private hurt. Now he’s out of my life for good, I can pretend he never existed. Alexander who?
I’ve aged about a decade since the fallout and all I really want to do is rant and rave and stomp my feet, but of course I can’t because it’s not in my nature. I haven’t planned for that and my daughter would have a conniption if she saw her very calm, very poised mother lose her grip with reality. Sometimes being the adult is grossly unfair.
Right now, a guttural cry, fists raised to an expanse of blue spring sky, eyes bulging as I expel all that pent-up rage would be just the ticket. Instead, I sit ramrod straight on this rollicking train, pretending to read while I sip water that dribbles down my chin because of that previously mentioned lockjaw.
The book I’m struggling with is a romance novel. Every word is like a stab to the heart. I’m only reading this lovey-dovey tome as it was a parting gift from my upstairs neighbour, who said reading romance novels is the only proven cure for a broken heart. I’d pressed her on the veracity of such claims, disappointed when she didn’t have hard evidence to back that up. Instead, she huffed and puffed, thrust the book into my hands and quickly shut the door.
If I didn’t believe burning books was a crime, this adorable enemies-to-lovers tale would already be engulfed in flames as I did an anti-love chant at the top of my lungs to warn others just like me who thought love at first sight was real.
Guess what? It’s not.
It’s a lie that all those romantic novelists spin for their own financial gain. How very dare they! I’ve got half a mind to send out a press release about the matter, until I remember that I don’t have a business any more and I’m also a persona non grata and thus the book trade would probably assume I’d lost my mind. Which could be the case, since I’ve edited and enjoyed romance novels for the last ten years or so and am complicit in this love story farce!
Well, not any more. Eloise and I have left London with only two suitcases and a backpack full of books. I also have a couple of extra bags, but those are under my eyes and here for the duration. Belongings that we couldn’t part with have been shipped over ahead of us, mostly things that are important to Eloise, keepsakes and sentimental items.
After all this drama, I feel decidedly ancient at the ripe old age of thirty-three. I had my daughter relatively young at twenty. Her ‘papa’ Etienne, my high school sweetheart and absolute love of my nineteen-year-old life, took one look at the positive pregnancy test and ran away screaming, never to be seen again. I learned the hard way that no matter what precautions are in place, accidents can happen. But somehow it felt more divine than that. I’m not a believer in woo-woo, but when Eloise popped out earthside I knew it was meant to be, no matter what hardships I faced being a young and solo mum.
Still, Etienne’s abandonment only firmed up my resolve that men were the devil and not to be trusted. From then on, I’d need a laser-like focus to achieve my dreams with a baby in tow. Not long after Eloise’s birth, it was back to university to continue with my degree. It wasn’t easy juggling motherhood and study, and some days I wanted to give it all up and just be with my baby, but I’d picture her future and knuckle down and get to work.
There wasn’t the time or inclination for a romantic relationship, and honestly, I didn’t miss it. Becoming a mother was a masterclass in learning to accept that you can’t plan everything. You have to learn to be a little more flexible. Men were out, routines were in.
After university, I worked my way up in the French publishing industry over the course of the next few years. When I was offered an entry-level publishing position in London, I jumped at the chance. The move was only doable because I had a small inheritance from my aunt, which helped make ends meet what with the exorbitant cost of living and daycare expenses in a big city like London. I learned the true meaning of the word frugal and kept my eye on the prize. Levelling up. Ambition filled my gut when food didn’t.
And who enters the second act, but a handsome bibliophile with a bad boy swagger, Alexander. He loved words, but was trained in numbers, dressed preppily but spoke seductively. Had that whole ‘take charge’ energy that appealed. It helped he was the total opposite of my teddy bear teenage boyfriend who’d done a runner before my belly had had a chance to swell. In my mind that equated to teddy bears bad, bad boys good. Really, the science behind it was seriously lacking, I see that now.
I, Coco Chevallier, hesitantly allowed myself the gift of returning to love-bubble land. A place where nothing good happens. Why didn’t I remember that? Alexander promised me the world and delivered nought, setting fire to everything on his way out.
It’s also kind of ridiculous that a woman who edits sweeping love stories for a job has only had two longish relationships. Is it me? It must be me. Or it’s them. I suppose having only two real loves means that the results aren’t quantifiable. But I’ve always felt I couldn’t just rush into love. I didn’t want to risk introducing my daughter to a deadbeat. Except I accidentally did. Well, never again.
The Eurostar screeches and hisses its way into the station, the pneumatic sound not dissimilar to the shrieking my daughter made when I told her we were leaving London. The racket jolts Eloise from her nap. She yawns and stretches her arms high above her, gracefully, like a swan unfurling.
They say when you have a child you wear your heart outside of your body, and it’s true. Your heart is suddenly at risk, vulnerable, because it beats not just for you, but for the emotional connection to your child. Everything is magnified. It’s all at once strange, intense and beautiful.
‘I hate trains,’ she says, rubbing at her reddened eyes, still swollen from an earlier crying jag because her friends surprised her today to say yet another farewell. ‘Is Mémère meeting us at the station?’ Eloise asks.
‘No, darling. I told her we’d get the bus and meet her at the apartment to save her the trouble. We can go to Marché Edgar Quinet and buy a baguette, olives and brie for apéro .’ My parents live in an apartment in Montparnasse right in the thick of all the action.
The area is steeped in literary history. It was once a hotspot for impoverished artists in the twenties and was much less salubrious than it is now. To this day, it’s a literary hub and with my bookworm sensibilities, I love every square centimetre of it. It’s also a foodie paradise and has open-air produce markets, high quality but budget friendly. I have accounted for Eloise wanting to splurge on some snacks when we arrive, so the market fits the bill and the finances, or lack thereof.
‘I hate Paris.’
Sometimes it feels like teenagers hate everything, but according to the literature, they’re figuring out their identity and grappling with being more independent. Makes sense to me, so I follow the script I’ve been taught: be sympathetic .
‘That’s the spirit. Paris is a hellhole.’ I hope that by agreeing with her she’ll see I’m on her side. We’re a team of two. Go team!
She wrinkles her nose. ‘Are you trying to be funny?’
I wrinkle my nose to mimic hers. ‘What? No. I’m being supportive .’
Conversing with Eloise is like walking on tightrope; it’s such a balancing act between getting it right and getting it wrong – I always seem to get it wrong, but I’m hopeful the more I learn about these tumultuous teenage years, the better equipped I’ll be.
I remember being a gangly teen where small annoyances were heightened as those hormones roiled inside, so I do my best to be agreeable and slap on a smile that gives me a tension headache. Lockjaw is rearing its ugly head again. ‘Let’s eat our body weight in fromage and see if that helps matters.’
Eloise rolls her eyes and harrumphs. This is such a fragile age. I wish I could say it was just the collapsing of our London life that provoked this sort of behaviour from my daughter, but alas, it was not. As soon as night became day on the dawn of her thirteenth birthday, my happy-go-lucky goofball changed, developed big emotions, big feelings that she still doesn’t quite have a handle on. All totally normal, of course, but the swiftness of the transformation took me by surprise. Hence the scramble to educate myself so that we’d both come out the other side relatively intact.
‘Cheese? That’s your answer?’
How can cheese ever be wrong? It’s cheese! By the curl of her lip, I surmise she isn’t impressed. ‘It can’t hurt, can it?’ Buying food at the local market is more cost effective than dining out in bistros. Until I find another job, things are going to be tight financially. And so far, the job hunting is not going well. In fact, I have the sneaking suspicion I’ve been blacklisted in the publishing industry in London, another reason to hurry home and hope my job prospects are more successful in Paris. But I don’t share any of that with my daughter as she’s likely to throw the hissiest of hissy fits and I don’t have enough paracetamol for that today.
Surely returning home to Paris is the answer? I only hope news of the thefts hasn’t reached the City of Lights. I’ve been cleared of any wrongdoing, but still that taint remains. It’s an actual nightmare that this has happened to me when I’m wholly innocent. I try not to dwell on it or I’ll self-combust.
The train comes to a stop. ‘Grab your bag, darling. Let’s go.’
I step from the train onto the hectic platform and help Eloise down with her suitcase. We make our way through Gare du Nord station; the chaos, the intensity of so many bodies rushing about, even the gendarmes with their ginormous rifles and serious faces, put me strangely at ease. I feel comforted by the familiarity of being on home soil once again.
Outside the station, I walk ahead of Eloise as she fumbles with her phone. A rather good-looking man approaches; we do a two-step shuffle to avoid walking into each other but misstep into the same spot. We pause, and it’s almost as if the world tilts, or I’m off balance. But I can’t help feeling a sizzle of attraction as we lock eyes. That’s until Eloise slams into the back of me, shooting me into the warmth of his arms.
‘Watch where you’re going!’ my daughter shrieks, and the moment is lost. The man slides out of my way and is gone.
What was that? I’ve never felt a spark like that before; a coupe de foudre . I turn to search for him on the crowed pavement, but he’s gone.
‘Will you move ?’ Eloise spits. ‘I need Wi-Fi.’
I exhale the intensity. Coupe de foudre . Love at first sight is a myth! A lie! My poor bruised heart is clearly malfunctioning. Why then did that brief interaction feel like a romance novel come to life?