Chapter 23
23
Outside, Henri motions to his car parked half up a curb.
‘Am I seeing things or is there more damage than just last week?’ I ask, trying to hide the shock in my voice.
‘Oh, that.’ He waves away a body-sized dent on the rear quarter panel. ‘People bounce when they’re relaxed. There’s a lot to be said for not seeing it coming, I guess.’
My pulse increases. It does look like the outline of someone’s derriere !
‘Entirely their fault, by the way. But I didn’t swap numbers. Look at it, it’s not exactly pristine.’
‘It’s not at all pristine.’
‘Accidents happen.’
‘How often do they happen, would you say?’
‘Rarely.’
‘I’m not sure I’m safe with you.’
‘Stop, I can’t handle all these compliments.’
I give him my patient mothering smile. The one that gives me a headache. ‘It’s just that a quick drive to my parents’ apartment is one thing, driving around Paris for hours is almost asking for my life to be taken. I don’t want to die in a fiery ball of junked metal.’
‘Press the eject button on the dash if you need to.’
What! ‘There’s an—’ His face dissolves into a grin. ‘Not amusing.’ His mirth is contagious though, and I find my own stupid turncoat lips smiling in return.
‘It’s only that when I’m driving, I’m easily distracted. There’s something about the hum of the engine and the buzz of zooming up the boulevards. I find it thrilling.’
‘Henri, this is a Peugeot, not a McLaren. You know what’s also thrilling? Driving the speed limit.’
‘I’ll try my best.’
‘Can I give you one piece of driving advice that has never steered me wrong?’
‘If you must.’
‘When you’re talking, you don’t need to give your full attention to the passenger. The general rule of thumb is to always keep your eyes on the road.’
‘But the road is just one long trail of black bitumen.’
‘ Merde .’ I make the sign of the cross, even though I’m not religious.
‘Your chariot awaits. Where to first?’ He opens the door for me, which I find rather sweet. Inside, I put on my seat belt, making sure to tighten it as far as it will go while still being able to breathe, before I finally bring up the email Valérie sent with directions.
‘First stop, Librairie Galignani on the rue de Rivoli, opposite the Jardin des Tuileries.’
My soul briefly leaves my body when Henri spins the wheels and roars out, before bunny hopping. I’m nauseous already. He turns to me. ‘What are we picking up there?’
‘Remember the rule about keeping your eyes on the road?’
‘ Oui, oui .’
I use my invisible brakes, but they’re useless. I take a deep breath and wish I’d been a regular church attendee. ‘We’re picking up an order of…’ Wait, we’ve already got copies of this book, I’ve seen a heap of them around the shop. ‘ Lunch in Paris by Elizabeth Bard.’ I check the rest of the list – all books we already have! This whole mission is a farce.
‘Oh, I’ve read that one. Great book.’
We get to our first destination, alive. Henri slows the car and we go sailing past the bookshop. ‘What are you doing? You’ve just gone right past it.’
He huffs. ‘You were supposed to jump out! Now I’ll have to circle this huge block again.’
‘What!’ Is he insane? ‘Jump out of a moving car?’
‘A slowly moving car. It’s not like you’d need to somersault onto the pavement or anything.’
‘How do you know that for sure? How many moving vehicles have you dived from?’
He grumbles as we hit a red light. ‘This is going to take all day if you expect me to find a place to stop and park at each and every bookshop.’
‘Just find a spot. It can’t be that hard. That way I have a chance of keeping all my appendages intact.’
He lets out a scoff, a rather maddening sound. ‘Appendages intact! Exiting a vehicle going less than ten miles an hour isn’t exactly dangerous!’
‘This is probably a stupid question, going by the standard of your driving, but do you know any of the road rules for driving in France?’
‘Coco, there are rules and there is common sense.’
‘ Non , there are rules and those rules should be followed.’
‘You’re quite the stickler. ’
‘Is that supposed to be offensive?’
‘ Oui! ’
‘Well, I relish being a stickler. It’s kept me alive this long.’
I’m not sure what Valérie’s end game with this faux mission is but I have an inkling it’s backfiring. I expect she presumes being stuck in the car together all day will make us realise we’re wildly in love. But instead we’re probably going to return injured or dead, and if I am the one who gets the unfortunate job of jumping out of a moving vehicle, the odds of me being the deceased person are too high for my liking.
Henri screeches as the bookshop comes into view again. ‘Are you ready? Un, deux, trois… ’ He counts as if I’m about to skydive.
‘Henri, I’m not jumping! I’m not an adrenaline junkie!’
He lets out a string of expletives. ‘We’ve missed it again !’
I can’t help but laugh as he drags his fingers down his face like he wants to peel it off. ‘Third time lucky?’ I ask. ‘When you come to a stop , when the car is still , I will alight.’ How can I make it any clearer?
‘Argh!’
Around we go again.
I text Valérie:
Coco
This fool can’t follow instructions. How desperate are you for these books considering we’ve got them all in stock in the shop?
We’re at a red light when my phone pings with a reply:
Valérie
There is a such a thing as being too clever you know, Coco. Fine, abort the book-buying mission but you’re not to come back until you’ve shared lunch at La Fontaine de Mars on Rue St. Dominique. I’ll make reservations for 12.30. You’ll have to find something to do while you wait. ;)
Do I tell Henri what’s really going on? I don’t want him to think badly of Valérie, or like she wasted his time in some ridiculous plotting with me, of all people.
My mind spins with excuses, but none seem very believable. I’ll blame the fictional customer! ‘ La vache! Valérie has texted. Bad news, the customer has cancelled their order.’
‘They were all for one person?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Right, so back to base then?’
‘ Non , Valérie insists we have lunch at La Fontaine de Mars at twelve-thirty.’
‘Why?’
‘To show her appreciation for your time.’
‘That’s hours from now. That’s more of a waste of my time than just going back to the bookshop.’
‘Do you want to tell her?’
He shakes his head. ‘What should we do in the meantime then?’
‘Take a wander through Jardin des Tuileries?’
‘Sure.’ Henri finds a parking space that’s far too tight but insists it’s not. I hold my breath while he manoeuvres the Peugeot, managing to tap the cars in front and behind. ‘You’re going to get arrested.’
He guffaws. ‘It’s the way of things. There’s no room so you have to make room. ’
‘Your theory isn’t sound.’
‘Of course it is. Why do you think I drive such a beat-up car?’
‘ Drive is a stretch, wouldn’t you say? Criminal negligence is more accurate.’
We exit the car and he takes a moment to lock the doors. ‘You really think it’s at risk of being stolen?’
‘Something tells me you don’t appreciate the battle scars my Peugeot proudly wears.’
I laugh. ‘Your poor Peugeot.’
We enter the garden, which is fragrant with thousands of blooms. Henri tells me he’s spent the last year visiting all the gardens across Paris. This surprises me because Henri doesn’t seem the meandering, interested-in-nature type. ‘Are you a big bird fan or…?’
‘ Huge bird fan.’ He laughs. ‘At first, it was for the fresh air, a way to clear my head. The sort of get-lost-among-people remedy that Parisians need. It helped get perspective on my life. The more I walked, the better I felt. I learned the history of each garden, felt an affinity for those who’d come before. As you probably know, so many literary greats walked these same paths, so I felt less alone, and if that’s not the silliest thing I’ve ever said, I don’t know what is.’
So he doesn’t like sharing his vulnerabilities, I get that. ‘It’s not silly at all. Did you need perspective after your breakup?’
‘You heard? Ah. From the book club members?’
I grimace at my mistake. ‘They didn’t say much. They’re more concerned about your happiness than anything else.’
He gives me a soft smile. ‘It’s impossible to keep a secret in the book club.’
I laugh. ‘I’m sure there are a few. Did your walks help?’
‘Very much.’ He slips his hands in his pockets as we walk through the garden.
‘It must have been hard though, the ending of your marriage after so long.’
He considers it. ‘I’m not sad my marriage is over, I’m angry. Angry at myself for letting it drag on so long. Angry at all that time wasted. Angry that she has no care or concern for our young child.’
Ah! It makes sense now. I didn’t see Henri as the puppy dog type, waiting on the sidelines for her to return. ‘You stayed in the marriage because of your child.’
He nods. ‘ Oui . When she had the baby I thought she’d change, want to make a go of things, but she didn’t and so nothing has been right since then.’
Is Henri one of those fathers who swoops in every second weekend to care for their baby? Most single dads I’ve met along the way expect praise for the sporadic weekends they do have their children, as if picking them up on a Saturday morning and returning them the following day is sharing the load with the mother. And forget sharing the mental load that comes with being a parent. I’m making assumptions, but it’s hard not to when you’re me and don’t even have the luxury of sharing the care with a part-time dad.
‘Is it worth holding on to that anger though?’ I ask, surveying him. ‘How does it serve you?’
He lets out a bitter laugh. ‘It doesn’t serve me at all, it just makes me miserable. My writing has suffered terribly. It all feels so pointless.’
‘It sounds like you’ve had too many things happen all at once.’
He shakes his head as if shaking away his confession. When he looks back at me, his eyes are soft again, and he’s lost the edge to his jaw. ‘It’s not all doom and gloom, is it? It’s springtime in Paris.’ There’s something in the way he says it, an energy as if he is going to let the past go now that the dark winter is over and spring perfumes the air.
‘Did you have a set time to mourn your marriage, Henri?’ It’s something I would do.
He smiles and this time it reaches his eyes. ‘Maybe unconsciously? Suddenly I don’t feel quite so despondent any more.’
‘When Paris blooms in springtime, it’s hard not to be swept away and enjoy every small moment.’
‘And you, Coco, what is the real story behind your arrival?’
‘You really don’t want to hear all about that! We’re happy to be back in Paris.’ Well, one of us is but I keep that to myself. ‘And I love working at the bookshop.’
‘And your daughter, how is she handling being away from her dad?’
‘Oh, her dad died. Sadly he was crushed and killed by a herd of bulls while he was running away from his responsibilities. Terrible stuff.’
His eyebrows shoot up.
‘But we’re fine.’ We’re clearly not fine. Eloise hates it here but I don’t want to delve into that again, not today, because part of me worries my daughter really is never going to settle in Paris.
‘I know all about you, Coco, single maman. ’
‘I prefer the term solo.’
‘Solo maman , an editor, recently relocated from London. Lives with her parents in Montparnasse. Has a phobia about driving.’
‘Only your driving. You are quite the proficient eavesdropper.’
He laughs. ‘It’s the reporter in me, always listening, ear out for a story.’ Mon Dieu, he wouldn’t tell my story, would he?
My new rule is don’t trust men, but my rules haven’t really worked, have they? I’ve held myself so tightly against hurt and it found me anyway. What’s the harm in being honest? At least I’ll know what kind of person he is if he shares my secrets and breaks my confidences.
‘Do you want the truth?’ I’m done holding on to that sense of shame since the thefts were exposed.
‘ Non , I only want lies.’
I shake my head. ‘Lies, it is. I was co-owner of London Field Publishing…’ I tell him the whole sorry story, leaving nothing out, including that Alexander has now hard launched his relationship with my editorial assistant and I am hiding out in Paris, humiliated.
Henri’s lips quiver. ‘Hard launched?’ I love that he’s skipped past all the criminalities and landed there.
He loses the fight against keeping his composure and soon we’re both laughing. ‘I’m still miffed he didn’t soft launch first. Surely there’s a method to these things?’
‘Wow, Coco. Thank God that’s all lies.’ He bumps my hip and a thrill races through me. Is it his proximity or the fact that he didn’t narrow his eyes suspiciously when I told him about the thefts and the way in which Alexander orchestrated it all to stay under the radar? ‘Shall we have him killed? I have connections to the underworld, you know.’
‘In the UK?’
‘Especially in the UK.’
‘I’ll think about it. But I’d like a public apology first.’
‘Broken legs it is.’
My own spontaneous laughter catches me unawares. It feels good. ‘Maybe broken hands, that would make it harder for him to steal from the next person.’
‘Much more sensible. In all seriousness, I’m sorry you lost your publishing business. But I’m not sorry you’re here.’ He blushes. ‘I mean… it’s been good having a new face in the bookshop, even if you are argumentative.’
‘ Moi? I think you’re getting us two mixed up.’
‘I suppose that’s a possibility.’
‘You are a terrible liar.’
He grins. ‘Will you start another publishing house?’
With a shake of my head, I say, ‘I don’t have the heart for it. And I doubt any authors would come near me.’
‘People have short memories. You need to shout louder about your innocence.’
I throw my hands into the air. ‘I’m not really a shouter.’
‘You might have to be in this instance. If he’s hard launching a distraction, you have to go bigger. Go bolder.’
Henri’s probably right. Why do I still feel so frozen when it comes to Alexander? It’s like I’ve allowed him to take my power away. ‘Once we’re settled here I will.’
We lapse into a comfortable silence, and I ponder everything I’ve learned about Henri. Maybe he’s not such a bad person after all. Aside from his atrocious driving.
I check my watch; the hours have flown by. ‘Almost time for lunch.’
We’re shown to a table for two at La Fontaine de Mars. It’s an authentic French bistro that’s been in business since 1908 and serves traditional French fare like confit duck and gratin dauphinoise. While it’s always been a popular bistro, that popularity heightened after the Obamas dined here.
We sit across from each other, silent, as the waiter returns with a bottle of wine and pours. We peruse the menu. ‘What are you thinking of?’
‘The same as you, I’d expect.’
I freeze. Is this when he tells me he’s going to order for us? Alexander tried that carry on with me early on and didn’t get very far. I’m not sure what kind of power play that is, but I stopped that before it became a thing.
When I twig, I say, ‘The confit duck?’
‘ Oui. They do it better than any other bistro in Paris.’
We place our order, and soon a basket of sliced baguette is placed on the table.
‘I was thinking about your writing…’ I take a sip of wine, rolling it around my mouth.
‘And?’
‘You’re in a rut.’
‘I’m in a deep rut and my shovel is broken.’
I grin. ‘What do you mostly write about?’
‘Current events, literary Paris, lifestyle. It’s fairly broad, but it’s also tedious. How many literary festivals can I write about without rehashing the same old stuff?’
‘Have you ever thought about personalising your articles, putting a bit of your own life into them? Just an idea, but I used to read a weekly lifestyle column in London and she’d write quite honestly about the events, the pretensions and the tedium. Without naming names, she’d highlight the pretentious sorts she encountered and all the behind-the-scenes shenanigans. You’re witty and acerbic, sometimes very much so.’ I lift a brow. ‘I wonder if that would work? Make your articles fun so writing becomes fun? Just a thought. ’
He surveys me over the rim of his wine glass. ‘Your authors must really miss you, Coco. Do you always puzzle over a problem until you find a solution?’
‘Have you seen my life?’ I laugh. ‘I’ve had a lot of experience with writers who faced similar issues. Like a prolific romance writer who felt she’d done every storyline already and wasn’t finding any joy in her work any more.’
‘What did you suggest?’
‘A pivot to cosy crime with romantic elements. She took to writing murder a little too well.’
‘You’re lovely.’ He blinks as if surprised the compliment slipped out. ‘I mean, it’s lovely the way you think of others, puzzling over a solution, including me. I appreciate it, Coco. And I’ll give it some thought. Perhaps you’re right. It’s not just a block, it’s also boredom.’
‘It’s about finding your passion for words once more.’ And really, I should take my own advice, figuring out how I’m going to follow my passion for editing and earn a decent wage for us to be able to find our own place in Paris.
‘ Merci, Coco.’