Chapter 4
4
The last day of the school week arrives as I’m helping Eloise find her backpack, sports uniform and library bag. I walk her to school as she chatters away ten to the dozen, her mood buoyant, which makes me very happy indeed. Maybe this move has been for the best? Can she have slid into a new environment so easily? So quickly?
I’m further convinced she has when she gives me a fluttery little wave and joins a trio of smiley faced girls waiting by the school steps. I’ve only heard her mention one of them so far, a brunette by the name of Léa, who is also a Swiftie and loves friendship bracelets and boy talk. The winning trifecta, it seems.
I’m lost in a daydream as I wander aimlessly along Rue du Maréchal Harispe and come out by the Champ de Mars, the large public greenspace between the Eiffel Tower and the école Militaire. I zigzag hordes of tourists who gather to take pics of la dame de fer , the iron lady, as locals call it. I’ve wandered further than I meant to and gaze around, working out if it’s best to take the Metro back to Montparnasse or walk. What else is there to do all day? I’ve applied for every job in publishing that I can find, even ones I’m overqualified for, but haven’t managed to snag a single interview. Having swathes of the day unaccounted for is strange. I’m so used to be being busy, time running away from me. I suppose my confidence has taken a hit and I’m in a state of flux. And after Fleur’s email, I’m not quite brave enough to face any more industry pals.
Before things turn dire with my finances, I must take action. It’s time to broaden my parameters – finding a job outside the only industry I have ever felt at home in. Whatever it takes, I’ll do it, so I can save for our own Paris pied-a-terre and get some semblance of normality back.
My heart is full of hope as I gaze at the Eiffel Tower. With the sun on my face, I feel relaxed, lulled by the sights and sounds of my home city with jovial holiday makers all around.
A disturbance pulls me from my reverie, and I’m jostled forward. A stream of curse words ring out as I turn to an angry Frenchman who I can only see in side profile as he holds a proprietorial hand in front of me. Who is this then? He argues with the three obscenely tall men who wear dark hoodies pulled up over their heads despite the sunny weather. ‘Give those back, immédiatement !’
While the Frenchman berates them, I take a moment to survey him; he’s got fire in his eyes as if ready to fight, but he’s far too handsome to be putting his good looks at risk like this! So why is he? And then I recognise him. Mon Dieu , it’s the guy from outside the train station whose arms I literally fell into. Truthfully, I’ve replayed that first brief encounter a few times since then. Is this some sort of sign? Fate? I don’t usually believe in all that mumbo jumbo, and yet…
I blank the mêlée, mesmerised by every small detail about this man, from the sultry curve of his lips to his deep tan, as if he spends his summers in the French Riviera. He’s got a Jude Law in his Talented Mr Ripley days look about him, and for a very brief moment I fall a little bit in love, before I catch myself. The sultry curve of his lips? I clearly miss editing romances, that’s all it is! A little bit in love with him? I shake my head, hoping to dislodge the fugue. There’s a quarrel happening before me and I am making goo-goo eyes at some stunning stranger. My life is already a shambles; I don’t need to add any more complications into the mix.
The Frenchman gives the tallest guy a great big shove. I gulp, wondering what I’ve inadvertently stepped into. Should I help? What if it’s a drug deal gone wrong? I could be an unwitting accomplice! Could it be a domestic dispute – perhaps the hot French guy stole one of their girlfriends? And I will not support a cheater, no matter how sultry their lips are. No, it’s best I stay well out of the fray, since it doesn’t concern me.
The trio dart glances over their shoulders and speak fast and low to one another in the shadiest of ways, while the Frenchman continues rebuking them, seemingly not concerned for his own safety. It’s then I notice the zip on my handbag is open. Je suis un idiot! Being pick-pocketed is always a risk in the tourist hotspots of Paris if you’re not aware of your surroundings. Usually this is easily avoided by using common sense: keeping your bags zipped up and placed to the front of your body, not forgotten, blowing about in the breeze behind you, like I’ve just done – an open invitation for those with the gift of sleight of hand to steal without the victim feeling a thing. All my systems are breaking down, as if someone else is in control of the motherboard. I am never this stupid! Usually, that is.
With great reluctance, one of the gang hands my purse and phone back, only because my rescuer is yelling – nay, roaring – for the gendarmes . They take off running and I turn to the blustery red-faced Frenchman, who blows out a breath before his features relax into a more amiable expression. In perfectly modulated English he says, ‘I’m so sorry that happened to you. You must be very careful around the highly trafficked tourist areas.’
I mean, it’s good advice but I already know that. Just a small lapse in concentration. ‘ Oui . Merci beaucoup !’ My voice peters off as his smile drops away. Why the sudden change in demeanour?
I’m about to tell him this is actually our second chance meeting when he says, ‘ Etes-vous Francais ?’
Am I French? ‘ Oui ?’ I must look like a tourist. Has my time away changed me so dramatically that I’m no longer recognisable as one of them? ‘ Je suis Parisienne .’
His features twist in anger. Does he not gauge the threat is over? ‘You’re Parisienne?’
He’s really belabouring the point, but I let it slide out of politeness. ‘ Oui. ’
‘Then you should know better!’ My earlier estimation of him falls. Jude Law, hardly! Unless this is some kind of villain edit, and honestly, that doesn’t surprise me – men are always a disappointment in one way or another. Even casual flings I’ve partaken in have been with the wrong type. Brooding bad guys. Smouldering-eyed alpha males. And for a moment I believed seeing this guy, the guy, was fate. How ridiculous! When will I learn ?
I need a factory reset!
Why on earth am I attracted to such hostile men? Am I secretly a hopeless romantic who always thinks these love affairs will turn out like they do in the books? Have I got some fatal flaw that makes me sensible in every other area, except choosing a man? Not that I act on these feelings very often, but they’re still there, lying dormant, waiting to strike.
Just like this specimen, who is very much main character material but suffers from an extreme case of bad manners.
‘Usually in conversation one person speaks and then the other replies.’
Sarcasm? He’s reading right out of the broody macho man handbook. ‘ I’m the victim here and you’re mad at me? That’s rather problematic.’
His cheeks redden. ‘You may as well wear a sign saying target moi , if you’re not going to pay any attention to your surroundings. Not only would they have your purse and phone but all of your personal details too. They could steal your identity. Drain your bank account.’ Too late, another man has already drained it! ‘And all sorts of nefarious things. And you’re just standing there with a smile on your face.’ Oh God, that stupid love-struck grin was a byproduct of falling in love with this fool’s sultry lips for all of five insanity-filled minutes. Blame the love at first sight books that I read on the daily. Or did.
That sudden enthral has now subsided.
Worse, he’s right about me being lax about my surroundings; however , he doesn’t need to harp on about it. ‘It’s my first week back in Paris and I was distracted by my life and my…’ Why am I justifying myself to this belligerent man?
His eyes blaze as he continues his tirade. ‘You should take more care. You’re asking for trouble.’
My chest heaves. Who knew that was a real thing? It actually heaves. ‘I’m asking for trouble because three men decided to steal from me? That’s victim blaming and well out of order. You’re a dinosaur! Stuck in another era!’
He shakes his head as if talking to a recalcitrant child. ‘If you were a tourist, I would understand, but you’re not and… Wait – didn’t you bump into me at the train station?’
‘What? No?’ I lie, otherwise I’m bound to hear about my lack of spatial awareness next. A pressure in my head forms. I try not to catastrophise that it’s the beginning of a tumour caused by undue stress, but, well, what if it is? The pain is not helped by this man who just won’t let it go, will he? ‘You are clearly not listening, like a typical man .’
He skipped right over the victim part and straight back into the blame. He’s such a cliché. If this were a romance novel, I’d be enjoying the conflict, cheering the heroine on, willing her to get the last word in, but this is real life, and I find myself somewhat flummoxed in his presence, as if I’m two steps behind.
From experience, I know I’ll conjure sharp witty comebacks around midnight, which will be entirely too late. The curse of espirit de l’escalier – to leave your wit on the stairs – I’m proficient in this particular skill. There’s no way to prepare for this kind of conflict.
‘I suggest you keep your wits about you in future,’ he says.
‘I suggest you refrain from offering unsolicited advice in future.’
He scrubs his face as if frustrated, when really I’m the one who is being mansplained to all over the place as if it’s still the nineties and women have progressed nought.
‘I guess you can thank me later?’ he says, jumping on his high horse. I can almost hear the neigh .
I press my lips together and try my best to burn him with a glare. He won’t be getting another word from me, and definitely not one of thanks. He expects to be lauded for his rescuing skills, for me to bend and scrape on my knees for my momentary lapse in concentration while he plays the part of knight in shining armour. Well, news flash: I don’t need a rescuer! I’d have figured out the crime eventually and I have the lungs of a swimmer when I need to scream for help.
‘Not even a single word of gratitude?’
Someone has a saviour complex, that’s for sure, and a penchant for holding on to conflict. Alarm bells clang. This is an avoid-at-all-costs situation, because some self-sabotaging part of my psyche lusts after men who are no good. Why? Honestly, it stems from living in fictional worlds where the bad guys are marshmallows underneath, but I’m living in nonfiction land where the bad guys are just plain bad. So why do I get a small thrill at this exchange? It’s obviously my subconscious not getting the memo.
He shakes his head and storms off, muttering to himself. All I catch is the word ‘ Banane’ . Is that obnoxious man calling me a banana? How rude.
I spin on my heel and head the opposite way, hoping I never run into him again. Which should be unlikely in this bustling metropolis. I zip up my bag and hold it firmly in front while I walk around the 7th arrondissement, looking for a place to hide, to cool my white-hot rage.
I’m rather ruffled. My confidence is already at an all-time low, and he’s just highlighted the fact I almost got pickpocketed by the Eiffel Tower, a hunting ground for thieves.
As I’m idling, getting lost in side streets, I come to a cobblestoned laneway that is as pretty as a postcard come to life. There’s an array of pastel shopfronts, as if each business coordinated so the colours that would complement one other. There’s a florist on the corner, with a trolley laden with vibrant blooms, and the exotic perfume of roses permeates the air. There’s a paperterie and fromagerie , but my eye is drawn further down to an ornate golden door. A riot of soft pink blooms spill from pots and I see the fluttering of pages atop a display table. A bookshop? I must investigate. I wander down the cobblestones and grin when I find I’m right. Above a pot of pink ranunculus, a sign waves back and forth in the breeze that reads: The Paris Bookshop for the Broken Hearted . I’m intrigued by the rather gimmicky name. Is it a clever marketing ploy for tourists? What else can it be? Although I’ve lived in Paris for the majority of my life, I’ve never seen this laneway. It’s not exactly central to the main attractions and I’ve only found it because of my efforts to hide from that man.
The golden door squeaks as I push it open. As I step inside, I’m met with the unmistakable perfume of old books; an evocative citrus aroma with honeyed vanilla notes. Every bookshop has its own special scent, just like a well-thumbed novel has its own fragrance, from leathery to lavender, or a spicy nuttiness, each note an olfactory clue to its past, its rich history.
As my eyes adjust to the dim lighting, I take in a mahogany bar along the back wall. Bottles of spirits are lined up like the colours of a rainbow as twinkling fairy lights sparkle above. Well-worn leather stools sit empty awaiting patrons. A chalkboard is written up with the daily menu of charcuterie, I smile as I read it:
Romance plat du jour, because what is life without love and sugar?
A sweet range of petit fours and macarons.
Crime plat du jour, because it would be a crime not to snack while you read!
Saucisson, paté, terrine and aged fromage served with a sliced baguette.
Fantasy/Sci-Fi plat du jour, because sometimes we all need to escape to other realms…
An extravaganza of sweet and sour bonbons.
It’s a cute idea to have platters for readers to snack on as they get lost in the pages of a book and require sustenance for the big plot twist coming. It’s as though I’ve pulled back the curtain and found Narnia in this quaint and quirky bookshop. I imagine friends converging here after work, ordering a cocktail while they lament over the ending of a love affair, the pain of a broken heart…
The bookshop itself is chaotic: shelves of indiscriminate height and colour are squashed wherever they fit, making the space feel like a maze, which is rather charming, as if you’re following the yellow brick road on a quest to the Emerald city. I choose a path to wander, edging around piles of books stacked in towers on the wooden floor. Shelves are bowed with the weight of so many novels, all jumbled together. I take my phone from my handbag and snap photos to show Eloise. She’ll love this little labyrinth of a place.
I smile when I find a romantic comedy I edited a year ago, written by Sally, one of my favourite authors. The bookshop owner must have good taste! I go to take a picture to send to her and then think better of it. Unfortunately, Sally is one of the authors who no longer speaks to me, and that still hurts.
I thumb through a stack of novels. They’re a motley mix of old and new in various languages. The arrangement in the bookshop is unusual, as if there’s no classification system in place at all. Not alphabetised, not sorted into genre, colour, height order. Not even into languages. It’s as though stock is placed wherever there’s a gap on the shelves, but then how do they ever find anything? This avant-garde sort of muddled bookshop aesthetic is very on trend at the moment, but it makes me itch and I fight the urge to neaten up the shelves.
The path loops around and I come back out in front of the bar once more.
A woman of about sixty with long grey curls wearing a flamboyant yellow ruched dress catches my eye and lets out a gasp before dashing over to me. She double blinks and then expels a breath, as if I’ve surprised her somehow. Did she not hear me come in?
When she composes herself, she says, ‘ Ma chérie , for a moment I thought you were someone else!’ A fleeting almost unfathomable look dashes across her face – pain, maybe, before she masks it with a welcoming smile. ‘I’m Valérie and I’ve got a potion and passage for you. Sit, sit.’ She taps the seat of a stool and speaks as if we’ve made this appointment ahead of time, and not that I’m a tumbleweed who just blew in off the street.
‘Bonjour, Valérie. Ah, I’m Coco,’ I say, in case she truly is mixing me up with someone else. I’m a rule follower, so I duly do as I’m told and sit at the bar, intrigued by what a potion and passage might be. Something magical? Witchy? If only I could incant a spell that would fix my life.
‘You’re right on time, Coco.’
‘I’m…?’ The rest of my sentence is lost as Valérie makes a racket with a cocktail shaker as she energetically mixes vibrant-coloured spritzers and syrups. I’m not quite sure what she’s making but it’s rather labour intensive. She pulls open drawers and cupboards and bangs them closed, all while humming ‘ La vie en rose’ .
‘Is that your daughter?’ She points to the screensaver on my phone. ‘You’re very similar.’
I smile at the thought. ‘ Oui , Eloise. She’s thirteen going on thirty.’
‘Ah, I bet she keeps you on your toes. She’s got moxie, non ?’
‘Moxie, that’s one way to put it, oui. ’ It’s such an American word, but it rings true for Eloise.
‘Are you ready?’ Valérie asks and turns holding a test tube that produces a mist as if it really is a potion.
I’ve stepped into a real-life fairytale.
Valérie places the tube onto a wooden rack while it does the ‘bubble, bubble, toil and trouble’ thing and then hands me another small bottle topped off with a cork. It holds a tiny rolled-up scroll, complete with a little wax seal. It’s adorable and I can’t help but be swept away by the theatre of it all.
‘A bespoke potion,’ she says, pointing to the test tube with the steaming vapour. I’m Alice in Wonderland, fallen down the rabbit hole into this strange, new world. ‘ L’editeur, non ? ’
The editor . I startle, snapping my gaze back to the woman. Do we know each other, and I’ve forgotten? Although it’s not like me to forget a face. Is that why she did a double take when I walked in? I’m positive I’ve never met her before; she doesn’t look familiar at all. So how does she know I’m an editor? Is it just a lucky guess? Merde , surely bad news can’t travel this fast. ‘Erm – it’s…’
She cuts me off. ‘…The name of your very own potion, which I’ll make exclusively for you when you visit. It suits you. Colourful and pretty. Sweet and sunshiny.’
Is she just intuitive? Common sense prevails. I’m in a whimsical bookshop. Editing is not exclusive to me. All her potions are probably literary themed. It’s just a coincidence that I happen to be in that field.
‘Oh, erm, merci. ’ I take a sip of the tiny drink, hoping it’s not exorbitantly priced. It’s sugary, citrusy, perfectly refreshing for these early spring days. ‘ Exquis .’
Valérie waves me away. ‘I suppose you’re wondering about the scroll? Well, wonder no more. Take it out, read it. Memorise it. Say it every day, like a mantra. In time, it will cure all that ails in your life. I promise you that. All you have to do is… believe.’
I upend the tube and somewhat reluctantly break the cute wax seal as I unfurl the delicate scroll. It reads: A person often meets his destiny on the road he took to avoid it . Jean de la Fontaine, French fabulist and seventeenth-century poet.
Whatever Valérie’s game is, she’s very good at it. The quote lifts my spirits. What if the mistakes that led me here aren’t my undoing, but rather the path that will lead to my redemption? My own heroine moment. The idea appeals that this fork in the road could lead to bigger, better things for me and Eloise.
Obviously, this is a performance, a unique selling point for customers, not an actual panacea for my troubles, but it’s still fun to pretend. Valérie has oodles of charisma and I bet she’s popular here in Paris, because who wouldn’t buy into this charm, this amusement?
It’s hard not to be carried away when I’m surrounded by a mishmash of enchanting novels and an eccentric bookseller who makes me feel relaxed, like she truly has cast a spell over me. Whatever the case may be, I like Valérie’s energy and I look forward to spending more time in this fascinating little bookshop bar.
‘ Merci , Valérie. It’s an inspiring quote. It gives me much to consider.’
Valérie studies me while she polishes a glass. ‘I’m always right, ma chérie . You’ll soon learn.’
I raise a brow as I sip my drink. Do bookworms enjoy meeting here, exclaiming over their potions and passages or sprawling on one of the many plush chairs scattered about? Even with the disarray…
The door creaks as another customer enters. Sunlight pools in, casting a diaphanous glow over the books. Dust motes dance, sparkling like glitter, which only adds to the magical feel of the special bookshop, so I refrain from mentioning it might be best to run a feather duster along the shelves once or twice a day; often my practical suggestions aren’t received well. I suppose most people don’t want solutions, they want sympathy, and I find that sort of thing hard to differentiate.
Valérie gives a fluttery wave and excuses herself to welcome the newcomer. I glance over my shoulder to see if she repeats the same performance or changes it up for everyone. She greets the man effusively and gives him hug, as if she knows him well. ‘Your usual?’
The man says, ‘ Oui , merci .’ The bright light behind him makes it impossible to discern his features and I don’t want to be caught being nosy, so I face the bar while he shuffles off towards a wrinkly leather chair at the back of the bookshop. The chair sighs in an almost humanly way as he sinks into it, as if welcoming his heft. I’m about to remark on the oddity of such a thing when I lock eyes with the man and let out a groan. It’s my ‘rescuer’. They do say bad things come in threes, and here he is in the flesh. Again.
From Valérie’s familiarity with him, I guess he’s a habitué here, which means I won’t be able to use this place as a refuge, which is a shame as I don’t often feel so comfortable in my surrounds like I do here already.
‘It’s you ,’ he says, narrowing his eyes like the egotistical male he is…