Chapter 18
18
It’s the day of the book club meet and instead of treating it as any other day, I drink too much caffeine so that I’m jittery as I sidestep customers in my efforts to get the space ready. I’ve set up in a quiet area at the back, near Henri’s chair, much to his chagrin.
‘Why are you setting up near me? I’m trying to work and you’re making an awful racket.’
‘It’s quieter here. Customers are less likely to interrupt during the meeting, that’s why.’
On Thursdays, Valérie keeps the bookshop open late, mostly for the bar, which has a gaggle of regulars who meet here for après- work drinks and for tourists meandering after dinner near the Eiffel Tower.
‘But book club is always held at the front of the shop, by the windows. This is my space.’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise you paid rent to work here.’
‘I don’t pay – oh. Very funny.’
‘Henri, please, I’ve got a million things to cross off my list before this evening and I haven’t scheduled listening to you complain.’
‘Not this again.’
I slide an ottoman into the middle of a semi-circle of chairs. ‘Not what again?’ I’m only half listening as I mentally configure the space and where I’ll put the finger food platters and the cups and drinks. Valérie supplies coffee, tea, juice and water, but apparently most members buy drinks from the bar – which tracks with most book clubs I’ve been to, where wine consumption is just as important as reading.
‘You’re acting like I’m a bully, when I’m no such thing.’
Hands on hips, I survey the placement of the ottoman. It’s central enough, without being in the way. I lay a bunch of book club leaflets on it for customers who wander by today and might like to return and join in later.
‘Well…?’
I stifle a sigh. ‘Well, what?’
‘We can be friends, you know.’
‘I sense there’s a but…’
His lips quirk into a half smile. ‘And if there was?’
‘Then I would be right about you. Again .’
He presses his lips together so hard the edges turn white. I can’t help it; I laugh. ‘So just to win the point, you will forgo the “but”?’
He remains mute but struggles against a smile.
‘Fine.’ I let out a breath. ‘I will happily be your friend if you stop bossing me around. This might come as a shock to you, but you’re not actually employed here, therefore, you cannot give me orders.’
‘More’s the pity.’
I tilt my head and give him a long look.
‘What do you do here all day?’ It feels more like his laptop is a prop. It’s open but the screensaver jumps around while he stares off into space. There’s no clacking of keys or sliding of the mouse. Is it his heartbreak that makes him so morose? For that, I can give him some grace. If the story about his wife is true, it would be a bitter pill to swallow.
‘I write.’
‘I’m no expert but usually words don’t fall on a page by using the power of your mind alone, so are you actually working?’ I mimic typing. ‘I don’t see a lot of this.’
He grins. ‘So you spend all day watching me, do you?’
I blush. ‘I’m very observant, that’s all.’
‘I do work.’
‘You’re not going to make this so-called friendship easy, are you, Henri?’
‘Fine. I attempt to work.’
‘On?’
‘I’m currently trying to write about the upcoming Festival du Livre Paris that will be held at Grand Palais éphémère, but I don’t have the energy to string another tedious sentence together today.’
His shoulders sag as if the weight of his word count is a physical thing, pushing against his athletic frame. It’s strange. I feel the press of sadness at the reminder of the literary festival too. This coming April, I was scheduled to attend the event. I’d hazard a guess that my invitation will be revoked and security told to not allow me entry in case I steal the silverware.
In the spirit of him opening up, I share a titbit. ‘In my former life as an editor, I happen to know a few remedies for writer’s block. Vacuuming or cleaning the bath are at the top of the list.’
He laughs. ‘Is this a cunning ploy to get me to do the vacuuming around here?’
‘That depends.’ I grin. ‘If you’re amenable or not. I mean, it would be for the greater good, the sake of your article.’
His eyebrows pull together. ‘So doing a chore more odious than the work itself is the way forward?’
I nod. ‘Works every time. A reset. Or you could clean your apartment top to bottom. Walk around the Champ de Mars until your legs ache, and you’ll be dreaming of this perfectly soft leathery chair to sink into, the excuse of work, as you pull your computer onto your lap.’
‘But what if the well is dry? What if I have lost the spark forever?’
Dare I say it? ‘Sex is third on the list.’
‘Is sex so boring too that it’ll drive me back to writing?’
I can feel my cheeks pink. Why does my mind suddenly picture Henri naked entwined in crisp white sheets! I blink and blink to remove the vision but it’s stuck, frozen in place. A strange warmth races through me. Who turned the temperature up? Henri’s frowning, probably because I’m glitching. I cough and clear my throat, scrambling for a response. ‘I want it noted, I did not make the list.’ I’m blushing furiously, and really, how does one blush furiously? It’s nonsensical, and yet I can feel it, almost as if I’m radiating supreme pinkness. My writers always cackle about number three on “the list” and it’s all in good fun, but Henri’s blindsided me here. ‘I suppose the, erm… intimacy is more a circuit breaker than a chore. But I wouldn’t know.’
His eyes go wide. ‘You’ve never had sex?’
My forehead wrinkles. ‘No, I mean I’ve never had to use sex as a cure for writer’s block because I’m not a writer!’
‘Oh!’ He laughs again, although I’m not sure what at. My body feels weighted. Woozy. It’s all that coffee I practically inhaled.
‘…Any other remedies? ’
Thankfully, the other suggestions are not sexually oriented or I might pass out. ‘Weeding the garden and having a closet clear out.’
‘I’m beginning to see the appeal of writing.’
There’s such a forlorn air about him at times. I dither with whether to pry. Knowing Henri, he’ll probably take it as an affront. Curiosity gets the better of me and I blurt, ‘How long have you been struggling with work?’
He runs a hand through his shock of dark blonde hair. ‘A little over a year. I have good days and bad days. It’s not so much a block as it’s a total disregard for the job, which is more of a concern.’
The timeline fits with his wife leaving. Here we have it, another lost soul with a broken heart. ‘What was the catalyst for it?’ I’m definitely prying, but it’s not for my sake – it’s for the sake of his word count and because he’s in a bind.
‘I can’t quite put my finger on a definite reason.’ He surveys me with slight suspicion. ‘There’s a certain ennui when I go to type. I can still churn articles out, meet my quotas, but the excitement for it has gone.’
‘Ah, it’s more of a mid-life?—’
‘Don’t you dare say it.’
‘Confusion?’ I quickly add with a smirk.
He shakes his head but a smile plays at his lips. ‘ Oui, an existential… confusion. Life made so much sense until it didn’t. And isn’t that so depressing, to question the point of it all when you’re my age?’
I take a moment to consider it. ‘Wouldn’t it be stranger if you didn’t question it? You’re obviously going through a time of uncertainty, and that has led you here. But nothing lasts, not even the bad times.’
‘I’ll have to remember that. Not even the bad times .’ He scrubs his face with a hand as if wanting to wipe away all the angst, the heaviness of the conversation. ‘Sorry, I’m not usually so morose.’
My eyebrows shoot up, provoking a gale of laughter from us. While he might not be morose all the time, he’s not exactly the bubbly sort. Henri wears a sort of weariness in the set of his jaw, in the depths of his dark blue eyes, but the closer I look, the more I see his posturing as a de fence, rather than offence. Are we all the same here in The Bookshop for the Broken Hearted, putting on a front as we trudge along, hoping the pain, the sadness, the hurt subsides and a happier day dawns? God forbid that we open up and honestly share our troubles. Maybe Henri and I are more alike than I first thought.
An awkward silence hangs between us, so I say, ‘I better get back to work.’
‘Of course.’ He glances at his watch and curses as if he’s late for something. ‘ Merde! I must go. See you at book club.’ He closes the laptop and packs away his things in a courier bag and departs.
‘Au revoir.’ After he leaves, I check the time on my phone. As expected, Henri has a pattern of leaving the bookshop at the same time every day. Around 4p.m., give or take a few minutes. Where does he go? Does he have to go to the office to file his stories? Or check-in, debrief?
I move his chair into the semi-circle, hoping I haven’t broken some cardinal rule about moving it.
Valérie wanders over, feather duster in hand. ‘Is Henri coming back to book club this evening?’
‘ Oui.’
Her forehead creases as if she’s concerned about him. She has a pensive look in her eyes.
‘What’s the story with his wife?’ Usually everyone’s heartbreak stories are off limits, but I sense it’s not the same with Henri. The book club girls have already opened up about it, so it can’t exactly be top secret.
Valérie puckers her mouth in distaste. ‘Horrible woman. Shrewd, cold and calculating. They were on-again, off-again for the longest time like a bad habit he couldn’t quit. They were terribly unsuited. Coco, I’m breaking my privilege here so please keep that between us. He finally got rid of her and now we’re left to help him pick up the pieces.’
‘Lips are sealed.’ Good for him. Who could put up with a fickle partner like that? ‘It’s just so at odds with the Henri I see. He’s not the pushover, puppy dog type at all.’
‘Love does strange things to people. Henri had his reasons for holding on.’
‘What reasons?’
An illness? A promise? A family? Perhaps there are children involved. What else could it be? Maybe it’s as simple as keeping his wedding vows sacrosanct.
‘Oh, this and that.’
I hug myself tight, feeling strangely sad for Henri and his dysfunctional marriage. ‘Will he eventually soften and take her back, do you think?’ Not that it’s any of my business, but it interests me from a human condition standpoint.
Valérie considers it for the longest time. ‘Hard to say. They’ve divorced but she’s the type that would love the show of marrying the same man twice. All we can do is hope the bookshop works its magic. He deserves the kind of love that’s found in the books. He’s a good man. And I can personally relate to what he’s going through.’
Is her own broken heart the reason she set up the bookshop in the first place? Why she’s prone to flights of fancy about potions and passages being the tonic?
‘What do you relate to specifically?’
‘Now, ma chérie , you’ve been here all of five minutes and you want me to give up all my secrets?’
‘If you don’t mind.’
Laughter burbles from her. ‘And you’ve shared all of your secrets with me?’ She arches a lofty brow.
‘ Touché .’
‘All in good time.’
‘That’s not very specific.’
‘Everyone has a history and Henri needs to close the book on his and start over. Just like you’re starting over, Coco.’
I shake my head. ‘You’re not great at subtlety, Valérie.’
A guffaw escapes her. Am I missing something? ‘Fine, I’ll be brutally honest with you, if you think you can take it?’
‘Sure.’
‘I see the sparks between you and Henri. I can’t help but feel that you’d be perfect for each other. I’m not a matchmaker, even though I can help mend broken hearts. And I’m telling you that if you let that guard down, you might be happily surprised at what comes your way.’
‘Ah, not this again.’
Valérie sighs and continues. ‘You’re both stubborn and stuck in a rut. Without intervention, you’ll spend the next few years bickering while quietly admiring one another from afar and get nowhere in the game of love.’
Does she not see that we’re totally mismatched? That we can barely hold a conversation without it devolving into an argument? He might be able to hide his prickliness every now and then but that doesn’t change the fact the guy is practically a cactus. If I’m honest with myself, Henri is quite the enigma and I find it hard not to be swept away by the idea of him, but that’s exactly why I can’t act on these burgeoning feelings. I cannot start up with another man who’ll break my heart and my trust again. It’s way too soon to open that Pandora’s box. Besides, I barely know anything about him, other than he’s almost too good looking and has a big chip on his shoulder. And I’m not going to share any of that with Valérie.
‘I don’t understand the science behind this? Just because we’re both stubborn doesn’t mean we’re soulmates.’ There’s no hope for her; she’s an incurable romantic and I fear that simply because we’re single and in the same vicinity, it’s enough for her to assume love will blossom. ‘How do you calculate such a thing?’ Next she’ll be pulling out tarot cards or something. I get she wants her friend to find happiness, but at what cost?
‘There’s nothing so sterile as science involved. It’s a sense, a premonition. A change in the atmosphere when you’re together. Like the first day you walked in here, time froze like a caesura, and when I looked for the cause, there you were, sunlight streaming behind you, giving you an almost ethereal glow. Soon after, Henri wandered in and bang, I sensed the coup de foudre . An obvious sign that you two were meant to meet. I don’t usually match people – it’s not part of the service. But that day… it was fate showing me the way.’
I don’t mention I also felt that way when I first laid eyes on Henri. It’s out of the realms of reality and I blame it on my hasty escape from London. ‘This is whimsical, even for you, Valérie.’
The word nerd in me likes the idea of a caesura to indicate a weighted pause so that even the most unaware would pick up on the special moment. I think back to that fateful day when I flew into his arms, as if Cupid shoved me fair in the back towards him. And then running into him again by the Eiffel Tower, I’d felt so stupid , having needed to be rescued.
‘Lovebirds with damaged wings are always hesitant.’ Why does she have to make so much sense sometimes? I’m damaged, Henri is damaged. But that’s the thing with love: every time you open your heart to a person, you’re at risk for what inevitably comes next – the end. Another rivulet of golden threads. A smile that’s a little wobblier. A sleep plagued with If Onlys . But it does go the distance for some lucky couples; my parents are a prime example of that. So why not me?
‘It’s not the right time for me.’
‘“Under love’s heavy burden do I sink.”’
‘Are you quoting Shakespeare to me now?’
‘ Oui , Romeo and Juliet. Don’t let your past determine your future, Coco. You’re much too special for that.’
I’m momentarily struck by it. Have I let the mistakes of the past change the course of my life because I’ve been so determined not to be made a fool of again? Not to be abandoned ? Did I hit the pause button on my own private life after that first overwhelming upset when I was pregnant, until I finally let someone in, only for it to happen all over again? Even my daughter is worried I’ll end up a lonely old woman, eating my body weight in fromage and glugging too much wine. What’s the worst that could happen if I let go completely? What if I did fall in love again? Would that be so bad?
‘I’m going to leave you to ponder that, Coco.’
‘Book club preparations. I better get back to it.’ While I finish prepping, sorting the catering, the drinks and accoutrements, my mind goes to Henri and all the ways I can talk myself out of the idea of him. He doesn’t exactly seem interested in me; that long ago day when Valérie was imagining our wedding, he practically ran out of the bookshop, down the laneway and into oncoming traffic to get away.
I simply don’t have enough data about Henri to formulate a conclusion either way. So the next plan of action is to get into the heart of Henri and see how it ticks.