Chapter 12
12
The next day, I get to the bookshop early so I can scope out the book loft before the day gets underway.
‘You’re not going to make this a habit, are you?’ Valérie says from behind the coffee machine. ‘I’m not used to punctual staff. If you’re going to be reliable, it’s going to be hard for me to cope when you leave.’
My chest tightens. ‘Why would I leave?’
She ushers me inside. ‘Ah, my dearest Coco. This, as we both know, is a stopgap in your new life. So don’t ruin me by being too good or I’ll come to expect it from future employees.’
Is it a stopgap? Old me would have a spreadsheet of goals and aspirations, but I’m still too heartsick to think ahead. My grand ten-year plan for London Field is literally just a worthless piece of paper now. All that planning for zip. My dreams up in smoke. It’s still hard to believe that it’s all gone.
It might be pure cowardice but I’m happy cooling my heels at the bookshop hiding from the publishing industry. I’m not sure it’s a stopgap so much as a lifeline.
‘You have a very odd way of looking at the world,’ I say. ‘And I like it. I promise to be a less reliable employee if that’s what you really want?’ While we’re joking, I do question how she copes if she’s got a revolving door of staff. It must be hard on her if she can’t count on anyone long term.
‘ Merci. Café crème?’
‘ Oui. I’m going to have a look up there.’ I point. ‘Before we’re officially open.’
‘Ah, now your early arrival makes sense. Do that and I’ll put together a breakfast tray for us.’ More food. Valérie has a really soft maternal side to her, or she just likes feeding me up.
I take the stairs two at a time. The wooden floors creak as I step around colourful oversized beanbags and hammocks that swing softly in the breeze from an open window. In each corner is a daybed, like the ones you find on tropical holidays. They’re dressed with stylish European cushions and navy linen throw rugs. From the rear window there’s a beautiful view of the River Seine and the Eiffel Tower. It’s breathtaking, and I can only imagine bibliophiles nabbing a spot and whiling away the day reading in supreme comfort. Readers always talk about finding a bookish paradise, the perfect place to read… and it’s been right here in Paris all along.
Next to each perch point, there are tables with drink and charcuterie menus and a cute little bell that says ‘Ring for service’. I take a punt and ring the bell and Valérie shouts, ‘Don’t think I’m running up all those stairs for you, Coco.’ And I laugh. Do customers even know this area exists? I didn’t hear anyone ring the bell yesterday and didn’t notice anyone venture up these stairs either. Maybe it’s my job to tell them this space exists.
There is a stacked bookshelf full of colourful spines with a plaque that reads :
Bibliothéque Madeline. Feel free to read and return these books as you wish.
Has Valérie named this library after a character from a book? While it’s not a children’s area, I’m reminded of the kids’ book series Madeline set in a boarding school in Paris. It’s still popular to this day and has even been adapted into TV and film.
I go downstairs to ask about the book loft area, but there are already customers milling about and a few at the bar perusing the drinks menu. ‘Drink your café crème while it’s hot, Coco, and I’ll take care of this. Have your breakfast.’
‘It’s OK, let me help and then we can both sit down to eat.’
I approach a man with a camera slung around his neck. ‘Bonjour.’
‘Hello,’ he says in an Australian accent, so I switch to English.
‘Are you looking for any book in particular?’ I’m still not quite sure how to best assist customers in finding books because they’re not easy to find. I’m learning the lay of the land the more times I approach customers and rifle through shelves, and it’s only day two, so I suppose it’ll take a bit of time. He regards me cooly as if deciding whether I’m up to the job. ‘Do you work here?’
Is that a trick question? ‘Yes? Can I help you find a book?’
‘OK, I’m looking for something to read while I’m at a café. A classic. Think Tolstoy but make it fun.’
‘That is quite the ask.’ Impossible! Russian classics aren’t exactly known for their humour.
‘Between us, I’m trying to impress a woman, so it’ll be more like a prop than a book I intend on reading.’
Now I’ve heard it all. ‘And you think that will work?’
‘Yes, I’m certain it’ll show my keen intellect.’
I take a moment to consider whether it’ll be easier to help this man with the truth, or to just find a book by a Russian author. He must sense my quandary because he says, ‘Is it not hot? Me reading a Tolstoy equivalent?’
I grimace. ‘Not in the slightest, especially if it’s all fake.’
‘That’s why I came here; the bookshop name intrigued me.’ He shuffles closer and whispers, ‘I’m suffering through a bout of…’ Now I’m intrigued! Why do men always stop at the good bits? He drops his head and rubs at his temples, as if truly suffering a malady of some sort. ‘ Unrequited love .’
When he lifts his head once more, his eyes are full of anguish. Oh, he’s got it bad. Does the bookshop draw lonely people too? People who want to love but are stuck? What am I even saying? It’s not real! It’s just a name. A very savvy business name that gives people hope who are in need of some.
‘I see. Look, I’m not a doctor but this is a clear case of lovesickness.’
‘Yes. Yes, that’s exactly what it is. Worse, I’m going back to Sydney soon. If I don’t make my feelings known I’ll spend the rest of my life wondering what if.’
‘We can’t have that.’
‘It would be torture. The woman I’ve got my heart set on is well read – I’ve seen her with classics, memoirs, historical fiction and all sorts. I want to get her attention with what I’m reading and be awed by my choice.’
‘What do you like reading?’
‘Anything and everything, but this has to be right. Has to be the perfect novel.’
It’s sweet really. ‘OK, well, have you ever considered a book of poetry?’
‘What, like Rupi Kaur, Neil Hilborn and such? ’
‘Yes, like them. I’ve just found the most beautiful book of poems in here somewhere. Let me find it. We have it in English and French…’
‘OK.’
I motion for the customer to follow me as I find the small hardback book in a stack by the till. Either Valérie really likes poetry, or these were discounted because she has boxes of them, and lots of copies scattered around the bookshop. ‘Here it is.’
He takes the proffered book. ‘But… poetry? Isn’t that a bit obvious?’
‘Not this kind of poetry. It’s the type that makes you think. How well do you know this woman?’
‘We frequent the same café, usually taking a table beside one another, and aside from a few stolen glances we have shared not a single word. When I go to speak, I freeze. She’s French and my language skills are rudimentary at best.’
‘Well then, this book might be just the talking point you need. Perhaps you could buy a copy in French and ask for her help translating?’
A warm smile spreads across his face. ‘You are a genius.’
‘I’ve read a lot of romance novels.’
I ring up his purchases and he promises to return and let me know about the mysterious French woman who’s stolen his heart.