Chapter 5
5
Honestly, he’s acting like I dog eared a page of his favourite book. I guess it’s going to have to be me who brings him back to reality where this alpha hero gets brought down a peg or two.
Before I can school him about the polite way to talk to the opposite sex, he blurts, ‘Did you follow me here?’
The audacity. ‘ Excusez moi ? I was here first.’
Valérie swings her gaze between us.
‘First?’ he says. ‘Didn’t you only return to Paris a week ago?’
Why did I tell him that! I suppress an eyeroll. ‘I meant I was here first. In the bookshop. Today. ’ Once again, I feel like I’m on the backfoot with him because he somehow manages to get the better of me by twisting what I say. Gaslighting at its finest. Doesn’t surprise me one little bit.
‘Coco, meet Henri.’ Valérie gives me a bright smile, as if flashing her pearly whites will be enough to distract me from the fact this man is a bully.
‘ Enchanté, ’ I lie and lob a bit of sarcasm back his way. After the Alexander debacle, I will not let a man get the better of me.
Henri gives me a smile as fake as his personality. ‘Likewise. ’
‘Ah – how do you two…?’ Valérie’s eyebrows pull together.
My brain fogs with anger as I recall him by the Eiffel Tower walking away as he muttered under his breath. I point an accusatory finger at him. ‘This man called me a banana!’
Valérie’s eyebrows shoot up, but a grin plays at her lips. ‘Did you, Henri?’
‘Guilty as charged.’ He holds his palms up as if he’s won a point. ‘You must admit you acted foolishly.’
Not this again! ‘You’re a horrible troll of a man.’
He steeples his fingers in that way supercilious people do when they’re about to impart their brand of wisdom, but unfortunately for him, I don’t believe he’s wise at all. ‘And you need some hard lessons about how to live safely in Paris.’
I hold up a hand. ‘Enough “lessons” for one day, Henri. You’re not the be all and end all, not even close.’
‘Is that so? Without me, you’d be at the gendarmerie right now.’
Valérie gasps. ‘The gendarmerie? Why?’
I turn away from the pig-headed imbecile and say, ‘Henri saved me from a trio of pickpockets who’d managed to get into my handbag and grab my purse and phone.’
He folds his arms across his muscular chest. I hadn’t noticed his athletic physique before. ‘Oh, so you do admit I saved you now?’
I give him a long look. ‘You stopped some pickpockets, you didn’t accomplish world peace.’
Valérie’s head is on a swivel and each time she goes to speak, one of us cuts her off. She finally manages to intervene, and with a clap of her hands she says, ‘This all makes perfect sense! If I remember correctly, Henri, your passage was: Whatever souls are made from, his and mine are the same. Emily Brontё.’ Valérie gives us such a hopeful smile that I wonder if she believes the schtick she’s selling. Whatever she’s on about, I need to nip this in the bud before it blooms into trouble, but she quickly adds, ‘ Love! The most glorious part of life.’
Surely she’s not insinuating Henri and I are a good match? This horrible hottie of a man and moi ?
‘Love can be glorious; well, at least in romance novels, Valérie, and I’m sure there’s a perfect soul out there for Henri, a woman who adores swollen-headed, conceited, toxic masculinity types. He shouldn’t give up his hope that such a woman exists, but I’m afraid that woman is not me. We are terrifically unsuited. One of us would end up dead and the other in jail and while I do love a good challenge, a jail cell holds no appeal.’
My words flutter into the ether unheard. I’ve lost Valérie to a daydream; her eyes are glassy as she skips off to fantasyland.
‘Why would you be the one in jail?’ Henri reels back, as if actually offended that in my own fantasy I’m the one who gets the better deal.
‘Well, I wouldn’t be the dead one, would I?’ I mean, is he even listening ? Another handy facet of being an editor is that I’ve been exposed to many a good crime novel and have the inside scoop on poisons that are almost undetectable in an autopsy, like aconite, for example. While I’d never poison anyone on principle, even I have my limits, my breaking point, if you will, so I’ve cannily stored many a helpful nugget of homicide knowledge away just in case. Preparation is key.
‘I can see it now,’ Valérie says in an awed hush. ‘A summery wedding, pretty flower girls, vows so beautiful there won’t be a dry eye in the house… Oh, what fun!’
How strange this bookseller is, plotting a fictional summery French wedding while I’m plotting a fictional murder. The seesaw of life and death.
Surreptitiously, I gaze at Henri to see what he’s making of these outrageous imaginings. Does Valérie often get swept away on flights of fancy like this? By the horror written all over his face, I guess not. Forget Alice in Wonderland, this is a whole other fairytale. A dark Grimms’ fairytale.
Valérie is someplace else, where rainbows and butterflies abound. ‘Actually, it can be a literary -themed wedding! Wouldn’t that be très chic ? So fitting for you both. An editor and a journalist. A match made in heaven.’
‘A match made in hell more like,’ Henri says under his breath.
‘A two-tiered book cake! No , three !’ Valérie says. ‘With fondant spines of your favourite novels. Soulmates who buddy read from now until all eternity…’
A sense of panic twists inside me. Probably because of the appeal of men who grimace and scowl, and strut and saunter, who wear too-tight clothing that accentuates their muscles and have an arty but mysterious tattoo. And now I’m being fantasy-married off to a guy just like that. My brain screams, RUN!
‘Oh, would you look at the time!’ I hold up a bare wrist. ‘I best be off. The day has gotten away from me. Uh… L’addition, s’il vous pla?t ?’ Pay and dash. It’s as good a plan as any.
‘Ah , oui , I too better go. I’ve got that… thing.’
Henri throws some crumpled euros on the bar and leaves in a hurry, as if the idea of one day marrying me is so abhorrent he’d rather run into oncoming traffic. And truthfully, I feel the same, except I’d rather not get hit by a car in my efforts to escape.
‘That went well,’ I say faux brightly, my cheeks aflame that Henri finds me entirely detestable. ‘How much do I owe you?’ I take my purse from my bag, a vintage bejewelled thing I got from Saint Ouen flea market a decade ago that has stood the test of time, lasting me longer than the loves of my life combined, which says it all really.
‘It’s your first visit,’ Valérie says. ‘Therefore, you don’t owe anything.’
I frown, waiting for the punchline. What kind of money-making gimmick is this if she doesn’t charge for the service? I go to protest, because even though it’s all a magic trick, it has been fun to suspend reality for a while. Up until we got to the Henri-is-my-soulmate part, that is.
‘But…’
‘ Non ,’ she says, a sparkle in her eye as if she’s still dreaming of my upcoming imaginary literary wedding. ‘I’ll see you soon, Coco. It’s been a pleasure.’
I nod my thanks and turn to go, but a question stops me in my tracks. ‘Why did you name this place The Paris Bookshop for the Broken Hearted?’
Her smile turns bittersweet. ‘Coco, you know how books find us at the very right time, right when our souls are yearning for a fix that we cannot name?’ I nod. Bookworms know this to be true. ‘The same goes for The Paris Bookshop for the Broken Hearted. The lost, the lonely, heartsick, heartsore find their way here. Find sanctuary.’ She holds up a hand as if sensing I’m going to scoff at such a frank admission. Which I sort of am. It’s preposterous. ‘I’ll admit it seems outlandish, a weird sort of sorcery, but this wizardry goes beyond me,’ Valérie says. ‘One day, the first broken heart came, and then a flood of them. I curated the business around it. You see the theatrics as a ploy, a con, but it’s not. This place fixes those who are mired in grief and the cure is different for everyone, as is the time it takes to work.’
Convenient. ‘Books are a salve, so I presume that’s what you mean.’ Books are wonderful friends and a place to go when the world turns dark.
‘ Non , Coco. The books help, but that’s not only where the magic lies.’
Now I’ve heard it all. What else is there to say? I don’t want to hurt the woman’s feelings but what she’s claiming is outside the realms of possibility. Then I remember the dust motes dancing, the chair making an almost human sigh. Of course, the bookshop is not magical, not really alive, but there’s just enough of a hint that it is to enchant you into believing there’s something special inside these walls. ‘I see,’ I eventually manage.
‘Take you, for example,’ Valérie says.
‘Me?’
‘You, Coco . You’re suffering with a broken heart. It’s written in every line and plane of your face. It’s obvious in the set of your jaw, as if you’re holding on to your pain with your teeth alone.’ OK, she’s nailed that one. ‘It’s evident in your soulful sad eyes. And you found your way here…’
The sceptic in me wants to voice my disbelief, but it wouldn’t be polite. I do admire her business acumen, even if there is no classification system in place for the books. Her guesses are strangely accurate too; perhaps she’s learned to read body language. That’s all it is.
‘Well?’ she prods. ‘Am I right? You’ve recently suffered a broken heart?’ The smile she gives me is so winsome I can’t help but return it. Maybe Valérie really does believe in this woo-woo, so I let it be.
‘ Oui , I’m recently single.’ And in retrospect, probably sadder about losing our publishing house now that I know what kind of man he was. OK, I’m devastated by the betrayal, but I’m an expert in compartmentalising and will myself not to let that hurt rise. ‘However,’ I rush to add, ‘that doesn’t mean I’m looking for love, especially not with a man like Henri.’
‘ Fait accompli . I cannot change what’s written in the stars, ma chérie,’ she says firmly as if it’s decided. ‘Here.’ She hands me a business card. My business card. ‘You dropped this before.’
There is one secret solved. Coco Chevallier. Editorial Director.