Chapter 17
17
The following Tuesday, I’m back at The Bookshop for the Broken Hearted, taking a delivery of stock. The sun is shining and it’s warmer than forecast, so I open the windows to let in the fresh, blossom-scented spring breeze. ‘You can pop them by the door,’ I say to the courier. ‘I’ll get them inside soon.’ I’ll cart them in one by one and put the stock away in the lulls, so the boxes don’t get relegated to the storeroom and lost forever.
The weekend must have been a busy one as there are plenty of spaces on the shelves, and even some of the towering piles of books situated on the wooden floor are now gone entirely. It helps that Valérie prices second-hand books affordably. They start from one euro depending on age and condition.
‘Coco,’ Valérie calls out. ‘Your café crème is on the bar.’
‘ Merci. I won’t be long!’ I heft one of the boxes to the main bookshop floor.
‘Why are you carrying such a heavy box?’ she remarks with a lift of her brow. ‘You’ll hurt your back doing that.’
‘Well… ’
She clucks her tongue. ‘Use the trolley, ma chérie . That’s what it’s for.’
A trolley! ‘The other day when I asked Henri for help with the stock he didn’t mention that there’s a trolley, and surely he must have seen it before, since he’s here so often he’s practically part of the furniture.’
‘Because he’s a man . They don’t see what’s right in front of them. That or he just wanted to haul heavy boxes in front of you to show off his big muscles.’
I blush. ‘I’m sure he did no such thing.’
‘You must admit he does have a nice physique.’
‘It’s… OK. Is this appropriate to talk about at work?’
‘We’re in the business of curing broken hearts so naturally talk about men will arise, non ?’
It’s hard to gauge the rules without an employee manual, but Valérie will not be convinced she needs one. ‘Right, but are we allowed to objectify them like that?’
‘Oh, Coco, you’re a hoot. Of course we are! Henri is a handsome specimen of a man and there’s no harm in looking at his muscles when he flexes them doing odd jobs around the bookshop, is there?’
Well… Before the words leave my lips, she shakes her head as if baffled by me. ‘The book trolley is against the wall to the left of the kitchen, bright yellow, you can’t miss it. But sit down, have your coffee first.’
I join Valérie at the bar as we chat away over coffee and fresh buttery croissants, spreading flaky pastry all over the place as we go. ‘Your daughter is a delight. Beautiful and book smart.’
‘ Merci , Valérie. She’s a little too smart at times.’
‘Teenage daughters can humble you like no other.’
I laugh. ‘Sounds like you’re speaking from experience.’ It strikes me I don’t know anything about Valérie’s private life, probably because she’s too busy digging into everyone else’s.
She waves me away and reaches for a beignet, a French donut. ‘Something like that. Now, tell me, how are you enjoying it here so far?’
‘It’s absolute mayhem. Chaos. It’s dusty, musty, my legs ache at the end of the day running those stairs, and I have a multitude of small burns from using the coffee machine incorrectly. The customers are weird and wonderful and ask the strangest questions, and I honestly have never felt so alive .’
‘ Bien. And Henri, you’re getting along now?’
‘As much as we can when someone runs hot and cold like he does.’
There’s a benevolence in her eyes. I wonder if she’s asked Henri about me too, patiently waiting for us to stop banging heads.
‘Once you get to know him better, you’ll see him for what he really is. A warm, kind-hearted soul who’s on his way out of a rough patch just like everyone here.’
‘OK.’ I don’t delve any further into it because I’m sure she’s just angling for me to admit I’m keen on the guy so she can plan our wedding. Sure, I’m intrigued by him, but I’m disillusioned by the opposite sex and wonder if that’s going to be permanent.
‘And you’re all ready for the book club on Thursday?’
I nod. ‘As ready as I can be. I’ve sorted the catering from the patisserie; they’ll deliver on the day, along with your regular order for the charcuterie boards for the bookshop. I’ve had a number of enquiries?—’
‘Bonjour, Valérie!’ A booming voice interrupts us, making me jump in fright. I’m surprised to see such volume come from a petite young woman with a pink pixie haircut. ‘Who is this then?’ She jerks a thumb in my direction .
‘This is Coco,’ Valérie says. ‘Your new book club moderator.’
She gives me a slow once over that makes me shrink a little against such overt scrutiny. ‘Are you sure she’s up for the job? No offence, Coco, but by looks alone, I don’t think you are.’
Is this about my skinny jeans again? Or my permanent pinched expression that is locked in place no matter how many breathing exercises I do? ‘What makes you say that?’ I ask, curious.
‘There’s a timidity to you, non ? You’re wringing your hands like you’re nervous, you’re wearing ballet flats like you’re delicate, and is that a blouse with frills ? It’s very pirate chic, if that’s the look you were going for.’
‘It’s librarian chic.’ Also known as one of my seven work outfits. I’m not exactly a clotheshorse, but I have a capsule wardrobe I can rotate and mix and match so I don’t have to think about it much. I’ll probably lose my French citizenship mentioning that fashion doesn’t inspire me, but honestly, who can pretend about these things? ‘If I were to spoil myself it would be a book-buying spree, not a blouse with or without frills.’
‘That makes sense. I’ll reserve further judgement for a day or two.’
I hide a smile. ‘Lucky me.’
First impressions are important and how I gauge most personalities. This pink-haired individual – with her wild outfit, wearing dramatic winged liner – appears to be a rather unique straight talker. I enjoy the forthrightness of people who don’t mince words because I know where I stand with them. There are no surprises.
‘So,’ I say. ‘I’m also intrigued by what you’re wearing. Are you trying to blend in, or stand out?’ I point to the juxtaposition of high visibility fluoro shorts with reflective stripes, coupled with a camouflage top, like she wants to be at one with the jungle. ‘It’s like a sartorial battle between being seen and being hidden.’
It takes her a moment to process what I’m asking. ‘ Oui, that’s me in a nutshell. A paradox! And I go by the name of Ziggy.’
‘Nice to meet you, Ziggy. I’ll reserve further judgement for a day or two.’
‘Touché. So, this morning I was chatting online to my good friend Freya Cooper…’
I blanch. Does she mean the author Freya Cooper? The author Freya Cooper who was up until recently published with London Field Publishing? I gulp back worry.
‘…And she was telling me all about her upcoming release. A summer book about second-chance love. I’ve been invited to the book launch in London. Isn’t that magnifique ?’ My chest tightens at the thought. I edited that book myself and had to let it go, along with Freya. It’s a wonderful escapist read that really tugs at the heartstrings.
How can this be, though? Just a coincidence?
‘You must know her well?’ I ask Ziggy.
‘ Oui . I’m friends with all the big-name authors. I’m a well-known book content creator. A hundred thousand on Insta.’
‘Followers?’
‘Well, it’s not posts, is it?’ She shriek-laughs. The grating sound is going to take some getting used to. My shoulders are up around my ears, but they slowly release once I realise that as a content creator, Ziggy must know lots of authors at a superficial level. There’s nothing to be concerned about, and it’s not like Freya would share the behind-the-scenes details about London Field Publishing crumbling with an online acquaintance. My secret is still safe.
Inside, I roil at the fact I’m keeping my old life hidden, feeling that same sense of shame, but I can’t seem to get past it. Knowing Valérie well enough now, I trust she’d believe my version of events, but I don’t want to be seen as a patsy, or worse, be pitied. At lunch with Anais, I felt warrior like, ready to avenge my name, my pride, but that buzz soon ended when I got home and saw my bank balance. First, I must get my safety nets back in place before I make any rash decisions.
Ziggy is staring at me, waiting for a response about her Instagram. ‘One hundred thousand followers is very impressive.’ Book content creators are important members of the bookish community who read, review and support writers they love using all sorts of mediums for their content creation: videos, pictures, blogs, vlogs, in-person events. They’re instrumental in helping spread the word about books and are an asset to the writing community. Creators and authors often grow close as they interact over the course of many books across social media. Ziggy might be close to my former author, but I’m sure it’s only surface-level, because Freya is usually rather circumspect. Even doing a book launch is out of character. I guess she’s muddling along with a new publisher and the launch is a result of that. Wanting to fit in, to do the right thing by her new team. My heart squeezes at the thought that book landed in someone else’s lap.
Another woman wanders in, wearing a flowy organza dress. ‘Bonjour. Oh – who are you? A new staff member?’
‘I’m Coco.’ Valérie gives her the same spiel about me running the book club.
‘Coco is the same as you, Lucy, half-British, half-French, recently moved back from London.’
‘Ooh nice! Welcome.’ She gives me a wide smile. ‘You’re utterly perfect. Just the right amount of demureness, with that quiet intensity that you will need to keep control. I’ll help you, if they get out of hand, don’t worry.’
‘Coco is sassy too,’ Ziggy throws in for good measure.
‘I’m well read, if that’s of any importance?’ I say, amused that they have sized me up to see if I’ll fit here.
‘And oh so humble.’ Ziggy laughs.
‘Isn’t reading what it’s all about though?’ I ask. ‘Being a book club and all.’
Lucy wrinkles her nose. ‘We try not to judge others on their reading habits, you see, or we wouldn’t have a book club. Some members speed read, and is that really reading? Well, let’s not bring that up again. That debate went on through the night and we’ve now learned that some things are best left unsaid; but I digress. A few members don’t ever read the assigned book club pick and that’s OK too.’ Lucy radiates calmness compared to the other book club members such as Agnes and Ziggy. I hope there are more like her with a Zen-like presence.
Ziggy rolls her eyes, clearly chomping at the bit to speak, but Lucy holds a hand up to stop her interrupting.
‘Who are we to force them to read? Maybe their dog got sick, or they dropped their book in the bath. There are plenty of reasons why they might not get to it and it’s best not to make an example of them,’ Lucy says.
Ziggy huffs. ‘I wholeheartedly disagree. Which is my right as a book club member. Why bother coming to book club if they’re not going to read? We have to sit there and listen to them harp on about books from four thousand years ago while they trash-talk new styles and throw the word “woke” around in the wrong context. It’s frustrating to say the least.’
‘Some only read literary fiction and that’s their prerogative. It’s a judgement-free zone.’
They’re obviously talking about American Agnes .
‘Not for me, it’s not. I’ll judge them accordingly,’ Ziggy says with a mischievous glint in her eyes. What have I got myself into?
‘You will not , Ziggy.’ Lucy flashes me a reassuring smile.
Ziggy falls onto a chair. ‘Don’t be alarmed, Coco. It’s always fun, if not a little loud.’
‘Yes,’ confirms Lucy. ‘We have a lot of drop-ins who treat it like wine club or maybe escape-the-controlling-husband club. Who knows their motivations, but everyone is welcome.’
Ziggy emphatically shakes her head. ‘No, it’s called a book club, Lucy. BOOK club.’
I double blink as they parry back and forth about the merits of a book club being solely for reading or not. Now the unruly part is making more sense. They dissolve into an argument about dog-earring pages of a book, of all things.
‘Are they always like this?’ I ask Valérie, who is paying not one bit of attention to them as she loads the dishwasher with cocktail glasses.
‘Always, you learn to tune out and it becomes like white noise.’
Ziggy blows out a breath. ‘Well, my good friend Freya Cooper would be very upset if the advance review copy she sent was treated in such a violent way.’
‘Violent?’ Lucy gasps. ‘It’s simply turning down the corner of a piece of paper!’
‘It was once a living, breathing thing, a beautiful tree, and we must respect its past.’
Lucy lets out a frustrated sigh. ‘Oh, here she goes. Holier than thou. Next she’ll be name dropping all her eco warrior author friends. What she probably hasn’t told you is that she slides into their DMs. Weasels her way into their very lives. That’s why we call her Obsessive Fan Girl.’
Ziggy folds her arms defensively. ‘ So? How else would I chat to them? I can’t exactly slide into their house , can I? Although I have been to Stephen’s house once. Well, technically an Airbnb, when he was in Paris for a literary event, but it was a chance meeting.’
Lucy guffaws.
Ziggy shoots her a glare and continues. ‘There he was, head down as he chatted on the phone, and I was doing the same myself when he ran straight into me and knocked me flying. After I realised it was him, I really felt the sting of all those cuts and grazes. He was hurt too. Twisted his ankle. So there we were, a heap on the pavement right by the Arc De Triomphe?—’
‘Admit it, you Misery’d your way in. Just like the character Annie Wilkes.’
Ziggy’s mouth falls open. ‘I did no such thing! I was genuinely hurt. Legs akimbo, pride dented, and when I gazed into those deep azure eyes of his, I noticed the same sense of longing reflected back at me. But sadly, being a married man, he couldn’t act on those feelings. And neither could I – I respect the sanctity of marriage.’
‘Act on what feelings?’ Lucy laughs. ‘He called you an Uber, and that was it.’
‘A premier Uber. And he gave me a signed copy of his latest book.’
‘Was it the one with the twist – the wife was the serial killer and she set her husband up to take the fall because he was cheating on her with his masseuse and she swore revenge?’
Ziggy nods.
‘Well, none of us have to read it now, do we?’ Valérie says with a tut as she turns the dishwasher on and exits the bar and heads towards the book tunnel .
‘You’ll get used to Lucy,’ Ziggy says. ‘She cannot help herself. They call her Spoiler Alert.’
‘They? More like you ,’ Lucy says. ‘I don’t mean to spoil the plot. It’s hard to keep track of all those thrillers when they’re named The Wife’s Killer , or The Locked Room . It’s impossible not to mix them all up so I have to sort of remind myself of the storyline to make sure we’re discussing the same book. My nickname is rather uncalled for.’
Ziggy says, ‘What about mine! You started the whole Obsessive Fan Girl thing, which is categorically untrue! I’m sure it’s jealousy speaking because of my close friendship with so many authors. I can’t help it if I’ve got a certain je ne sais quoi that these bestselling writers sense even over the internet.’ She lifts her hands in surrender. ‘Of course, no one in the book club can admit that it’s my winning personality, my impressive bilingual skills and great way of articulating, that has aided in these author friendships, so they try to bring me down a peg.’
Lucy groans. ‘That’s not exactly true, Ziggy. Why don’t you tell Coco how many times you walked up and down the pavement in front of Stephen’s Airbnb until you “accidentally” bumped into him?’ Lucy swings her gaze to me. ‘So many that I’m sure she burned a hole in the pavement. Ziggy saw his post on Twitter, a picture of the Arc de Triomphe, taken from the window of his apartment. She figured out which building it was then walked up and down it until she could action her very own meet-cute, complete with the inevitable bumping of heads, the ubiquitous baguette flying into the air, while her tote bag falls to the floor and, mon Dieu , but which book should fall from its very clutches but his ? A setup of the finest order… Et voilà , he’s taken the bait and believes he’s truly hurt this innocent French ingénue, whose humble baguette is now in three pieces. What a farce!’
Ziggy’s mouth drops open. ‘You should be a writer with that fantastical imagination of yours.’ The apples of her cheeks pink while Lucy waits her out. I’m carried away by their bickering and invested in the story. ‘Fine, so I might have orchestrated a meet-cute? Does that make me a bad person? Non , it does not.’
‘It makes you a stalker. And what about the sanctity of marriage you respect so highly?’
‘What if he had an open marriage, then what? Every good romcom starts with a meet-cute, and I decided my own grand passion would be the same. It’s not illegal to walk up and down the pavement until an author you admire happens along.’
‘Who is this Stephen? You don’t mean Stephen King?’
‘ Merde! ’ Ziggy says. ‘Stephen King is old enough to be my grand-pere !’ Even Lucy looks a little green around the gills at that suggestion.
An awkward laugh escapes me. ‘Sorry, I wasn’t thinking.’
‘She’s obsessed with Stephen Silver.’
‘Ooh, the American who writes pulse-racing thrillers?’
‘ Oui , and here comes the plot twist,’ Ziggy says. ‘Not long after we met, his wife died! Tragique .’
‘Really?’ I scramble to think of the wife in question and the tragic accident but can’t place it.
Ziggy nods solemnly. ‘A terrible, terrible accident. They were holidaying in a sleepy village in the UK and her hair dryer ended up in the bath when she was in it. Electrocuted.’
‘That sounds – impossible. There are safety precautions these days, especially in hotels that prevent this sort of accident from happening.’
Ziggy waves me away. ‘ Oui , she should have been more careful.’
Lucy’s lip wobbles until she bursts out laughing. ‘No one died! This is just another of Ziggy’s fantasies. He is still married to his lovely wife but Ziggy gets carried away to fantasyland.’
I’m going to have my hands full with this book club. Valérie was right to warn me.
‘It could happen,’ Ziggy protests.
I shake my head, still reeling.
‘Sorry,’ Ziggy laughs. ‘You’ll get used to my sense of humour. Oui , I stalked the guy but only to get his signature on my book and possibly an invitation to his summer home in Long Island. But … it didn’t happen.’
‘Ziggy’s put love to one side after a terrible breakup.’
‘Oh?’ I say. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘That’s how we became friends,’ says Lucy. ‘We both ended up here at the same time. Ziggy had been dumped by her online beau?—’
‘Online, oui , but it was real love.’
‘He was an aspiring author, who I feel used her for her connections, but we often disagree on this.’
‘That’s terrible. I’m sorry, Ziggy.’
She lifts a shoulder. ‘It’s OK. Valérie sorted me out with a potion and passage and now I know true love is on its way; it’s only a matter of being patient.’
‘Oh?’
‘ Oui. Ce qui sera sera .’ What will be, will be. How do they all just have blind faith? What the hell does Valérie put in those potions to make them trust her like that? Whatever it is, she clearly didn’t put it in mine.
‘And you, Lucy, were you suffering an upset too?’
A lot of broken-hearted souls do find their way to the bookshop, even I can’t disagree with that. But how? Word of mouth about the eccentric bookseller?
‘My cat died. Scout, named after the character from To Kill a Mockingbird . She was a rescue, and my first ever pet.’ Lucy shrugs as if it’s just one of those things. ‘Poor Scout had had a rough life. She was battle scarred and wary but she slowly began to trust me and then she suddenly died.’
‘At least she found out what it meant to be loved and cared for in her final months,’ Ziggy says, giving Lucy’s hand a squeeze.
‘ Oui. Valérie did a potion and passage for me and it pointed me in the direction my life should take after that loss. Now I foster rescue cats until they find their forever home. It seems a fitting tribute to Scout.’
‘That’s a lovely thing to do.’
‘And it led me to finding love with the vet from the rescue centre. I wasn’t exactly looking for love, but it found me.’ Lucy’s expression brightens. ‘Valérie told me I’d find my missing puzzle piece, and I did.’
‘She did,’ Ziggy confirms. ‘He’s a really nice guy even if he doesn’t read fiction.’
Lucy gives me an apologetic smile. ‘He’s a nonfiction nerd. A history buff.’
‘He sounds interesting.’ But it’s not as if Valérie had a hand in her meeting the vet at the rescue centre. It’s just dumb luck.
‘So… book club in two days,’ Ziggy says. ‘Finally, the gang are back together.’
‘How many of you are there?’ I’m not exactly sure who the core group is, except for American Agnes, Lucy, Ziggy and the book doctor Isidore, who I’ve yet to meet. Hopefully not Henri.
‘There’s six regulars and usually a handful of drop-ins.’
‘Though, strangely enough, the drop-ins never seem to come back.’ Lucy gives Ziggy a pointed look, which she ignores.
‘Are there any men in the group?’ I ask as subtly as anything .
‘As much as we aim for diversity, we only have one,’ Lucy says.
‘The rest are probably intimidated by strong women.’
I laugh. One. Surely it’s not him. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Henri.’
La vache! ‘And how does he behave in a group setting?’
Lucy cocks her head as if curious about my question. ‘Behave! You make him sound like a naughty child!’
‘ Everyone loves Henri.’ Ziggy rolls her eyes. ‘It can be quite nauseating at times.’
I’m sure shock is evident in my eyes. ‘They do? But isn’t he belligerent and bossy, the very epitome of toxic masculinity?’
Lucy reels. ‘What, no! Have you met Henri?’
We must be speaking of two different Henris! I point to his regular chair in the back. ‘The Henri who sits there, mumbling and staring?’
‘ Oui! Far too handsome for his own good. But he’s also sworn off love, the poor heartsick man.’
Ziggy lowers her voice to a whisper. ‘His wife did a runner. Up and vanished one day leaving only a brief note. “This time I’m not coming back.”’
‘Cruel, vindictive woman, she was. Not a reader,’ Lucy adds, as if that explains it.
‘ Oui , and therein lies the problem. How can anyone make a life with someone who doesn’t worship books?’
Lucy nods her head in agreeance. ‘It can never work.’
‘Where did she go?’ I survey my nails as if I’m only half listening.
‘Ran off. She was always running off though. A month here and there. An aspiring actress who needed to be on the move for her career, but when it would inevitably fizzle out she’d come back to him. This time, Henri’s put his foot down and divorced her. It’s been well over a year. She’s recently hooked up with some two-bit reality show celebrity who looks like he fell in a pot of orange paint. It’s been all over the gossip sites, but we haven’t shown Henri.’
‘Really?’ How awful for Henri. He must have really loved her to put up with that sort of thing.
‘Oui!’
I turn to Henri’s wrinkled leather chair at the back of the bookshop, away from most of the noise and the bright sunlight. These women see a different Henri to the man I’ve been getting to know. I recall our last conversation, where he mentioned a woman telling him the way he spoke to me by the Eiffel Tower that day was bang out of order; so if not his wife, who was that woman? And why do I care?