Chapter 26
26
By the time Thursday comes around I’m excited about the next session of book club – the informal, reading meet-up – this time I’m ready for it. Nothing can get under my skin, not after the meeting with the principal and the subsequent silent treatment from Eloise.
I’m happy to get out of my own head and forget for a while. I’m considering moving her to a new school, but my maman keeps talking me out of it, telling me it’s not right to teach her to run away from her problems. I’m going to see how the next couple of weeks go, and if there are any more incidents then I’ll pull her out. It’s not running away if it’s not safe there, and the school can’t assure me she’s safe. Kids are wily, and now Léa and the two girls know they’re being watched on CCTV I’m guessing they’ll make an effort to misbehave out of sight.
I’ve just finished setting up the book club area when Henri arrives downstairs. I give him a wave from my perch in the book loft. I haven’t seen him all week, and honestly, the bookshop was a little less fun without him here. Probably no one to tell me I’m doing everything wrong made the days go much slower. The week has been quiet, actually, so it gave me time to pitch some ideas to Valérie about how to get more bodies inside, not just for the bar area. She’s agreed I can start up a writing club and I’m also going to offer the space for book launches. I’ll have to grovel to a few publishing pals, but I’m ready for that now. I take one last look around the book loft, and feeling satisfied, I go downstairs to welcome Henri.
‘Bonjour, Henri. Where have you been all week?’
He takes his usual seat and waves to Valérie. ‘Vacuuming. Cleaning my apartment from top to bottom, like you suggested.’
‘Ah, the cure to writer’s block! Did it work?’
‘ Non .’
‘Time for third on the list then?’ I blush as soon as the words leave my mouth.
He grins and it lights up his whole face. ‘Remind me what was third on the list again…?’
I bite down on my lip. The damn man, is he flirting with me? ‘Was it… a long soak in the bath?’
‘No, that wasn’t it.’ His eyes twinkle.
‘Was it…?’
‘Ah!’ He holds up a finger. ‘You suggested sex would cure it? Didn’t you?’
My legs go like jelly, as this feels almost like a proposition, and right now that sounds like an enjoyable way to spend a lazy day. What! It’s looking at the sparkle in his eyes, the challenge he presents that’s doing this to me. Normally, I’d blush and fumble and sidestep this interaction; hell, I’d probably run a mile, but the new me is throwing off those shackles. Because why not. I’m sick of being the staid one. ‘I believe I did offer up sex…’ He startles. I leave the sentence hanging for a moment and enjoy watching the apples of his cheeks pink with warmth. ‘…As a potential cure. ’
He shakes his shirt as if he’s suddenly hot and he goes to speak and stops himself. ‘Perhaps… sex is the answer to my troubles?’
I want the ground to swallow me whole. Is he implying…
‘Why don’t I write about sex! You’re a genius, Coco.’
‘Er… write about it how?’
‘After our walk the other day I felt like you shook something loose. Something that has been holding me back for so long. Why do we mire ourselves in all the bad things after heartbreak or divorce? Why do we allow ourselves to wallow for so long, as if the pain becomes a new appendage, dragging along like a lame leg? I’m going to write about what comes after. Finding joy in the small things. Like sex. Like walking. Reading. Joining a book club, even.’
‘Maybe not this book club.’ I’m still hyper focused on the sex thing while he laughs as if I’m really funny, but again I’m a couple of steps behind.
‘I’ve been writing from the point of view of a man who lost his way, which is fine, but dull, so dull even I couldn’t stand to read my writing. I need to inject energy back into my work and my life.’
‘I’ll help however I can.’
‘Dinner?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Would you like to go out for dinner one evening?’
‘Is this for research for your article?’ I’m slightly dubious as to his motivations.
He cocks his head as if amused. ‘Purely for fun.’
‘OK, just so long as it’s not for sex.’ What! My brain is scrambling. Someone hit the reset button! ‘Ah – not that I’m opposed to sex, it’s more that I don’t want my performance to be judged for an article.’ There, that should clear it up.
He gives me a look I can’t quite decipher and his mouth opens and closes like a fish. The man is struggling, probably with the worry about his word count now that he has a solution in mind.
‘I’ll bring your coffee. Are you staying for book club?’
‘ Oui . I’ll head up there now.’
Ziggy and Lucy arrive and I follow them upstairs with a tray of drinks.
Ziggy throws herself on a daybed while Lucy swishes her floral dress as if waiting for a compliment. ‘Lovely dress,’ I say.
‘ Merci, ’ she says.
Both women chat to Henri.
Soon the book doctor Isidore arrives followed by American Agnes and Nikolina. No sign of the double denim-wearing Allegra. She might be a victim of the pop-in syndrome they mentioned. Agnes chats to Ziggy as if they’re the best of friends. Isidore surveys the tiny nails on her tiny hands while Lucy shares photos of her new foster cat with Nikolina. Henri sits close to me, arms folded, as he gazes outside to the Eiffel Tower in the distance.
There’s no sign of the former resentments, not a raised voice, or a glare, or a muttering under a breath from any of the book club members. They are the same people yet are acting completely different. They’re calm, too calm.
‘What’s going on here?’ I eventually ask.
All eyes turn to me. Am I misreading this or are they suddenly wearing guilty expressions? When they throw fleeting looks towards Henri, the jig is up. Henri’s given them all instructions to play nice. It’s sweet of him and I’m really not used to a man having my best interests at heart.
‘Henri has warned you all to be nice to me so I don’t run away screaming, hasn’t he? ’
Agnes lets out a long breath as if relieved the secret is out. ‘Yes! We’re to be docile and not argumentative. But honestly, I don’t know if I can be that person, Coco. I’ll try but the arguing is what keeps me young.’
Ziggy nods her head as if she agrees with Agnes. ‘Me too. Arguing with Agnes keeps me sharp. Without that, I might turn soft.’
What?
‘We might get loud,’ Nikolina says. ‘But that’s just so we’re heard. There’s a lot of love and respect here.’
‘Speaking of love,’ Lucy waggles her brow, ‘Ziggy may have found the cure to her broken heart.’
‘Oh?’ I say. ‘Did Valérie help?’
‘Of course,’ Ziggy says as if I’m dense. ‘She gave me a passage by Rumi: “Your heart knows the way; run in that direction.” At first I took it to mean literally running away, from the embarrassment after my online relationship fizzled out in such a humiliating way. Like, people didn’t believe I could be so heartbroken about a guy I never met in person.’
‘And they’re stupid,’ Lucy says, siding with her friend. ‘These days with video calls and the way technology is, it’s almost like meeting in real life.’
‘ Oui. ’ Ziggy shoots her a grateful smile. ‘Anyway, so I felt like Valérie’s passage was inspiring me to run in the opposite direction of my mistakes, in order to protect the heart at all costs. I’d put the idea of love on the backburner and got on with life. When out of the blue the other day, this guy approaches me at a café and asks me to help him translate one of the poems from Un Baiser D’adieu. ’
Could it be, the Australian customer who wanted to woo the woman who sat beside him at the same café every day? The ‘Tolstoy but make it fun’ guy? It couldn’t be. That would be a strange coincidence. Especially since I sold him that very book!
‘And…?’ Agnes probes. ‘What’s so earth shattering about that?’
‘Well, I’ve been sitting at the same café for weeks at the same time of day and he’s always there. I’ve been trying to work up the courage to talk to him but I just couldn’t.’
‘That’s not like you,’ Agnes says, her voice gentle.
‘I know, I just felt like I couldn’t handle another rejection, you know? Anyway, this guy attempts to speak French but he’s hopeless, and he asks me to help him translate one of the poems. He’s heard me chatting on my phone, he says, so he knows I speak English as well as French.’
Is this bookshop really magical? How can this be? I helped him. I just didn’t know he was smitten with Ziggy!
‘And then we picked the same book for book club, it felt like a great big neon sign, like Cupid pointing the way.’
‘Where’s he from?’ I ask, needing confirmation.
‘Australia.’ Her face falls. ‘He’s going back home soon.’
It is him!
‘“ Your heart knows the way…” ’ Lucy says.
‘“… Run in that direction .”’ Nikolina gives her the nod of approval. ‘Valérie’s passage was pointing to the future, not the past!’
Ziggy lets out a nervous laugh. ‘I mean, I could go for a holiday to Australia.’
‘Valérie’s passages are always inspiring,’ Isidore says. ‘You should go.’
A gentle breeze blows in from the window, fluttering the pages of the books in the Madeline library, almost like even the air around us is in agreeance.
‘I’ll think about it,’ Ziggy says. ‘Now, are we reading? Because I’ll have to translate these poems for my Australian boy and I’d like to get your take on their meanings first.’
‘Why don’t you just buy him the English translation?’ ever-practical Agnes says.
Ziggy pulls a face that reminds me of my daughter, with the ‘duh’ implied. ‘Where’s the romance in that?’
‘Oh,’ Agnes says. ‘I’m so out of practice.’
‘You’re married aren’t you?’ Lucy asks.
Agnes nods. ‘Fifty years next month, so we’re not exactly in the honeymoon period any more.’
Ziggy gets a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. ‘If you read a bit of spice it might give you ideas…’
‘Are you talking about sex, Ziggy?’
Ziggy falters. ‘Ah… I’m talking about intimacy. Romance. Finding inspiration in the books you read.’
‘My husband would die.’
‘From sex?’ Ziggy’s eyebrows pull together as if she’s actually concerned about such an outcome.
Agnes shakes her head, exasperated. ‘From me being too forward.’
‘How is that?—’
I sense the start of trouble, so I quickly redirect the chat.
I take my trusty clipboard and read from a cue card.
‘Welcome, all. I’m mindful of the time and giving ourselves enough after to chat about what we’ve read as long as we don’t share any spoilers for those who haven’t finished the poetry book… Who has finished it?’
Everyone’s hands shoot up except Ziggy. ‘Sorry but I’ve been busy with my handsome Australian. I’ll finish it today though so we can chat about it early if everyone wants to?’
‘Sure.’
‘Let’s read!’ Everyone finds a spot on either a daybed, hammock or bean bag. I’m dithering where to sit when Henri pats the space next to him on a chaise longue. I get a small thrill at the offer and join him. The seat cushion isn’t as buoyant as I thought and we roll into each other, our bodies touching. It should be no surprise he smells delectable. He’s really the whole package, and usually that would be a red flag. An avoid-at-all-costs situation, because just who is he trying to attract being gorgeous, and caring about his appearance and his cologne? But perhaps not all hot men are bad boys? The jury is still out.
‘Sorry,’ I say, trying to disentangle myself, but I only make it worse as we sink deeper into the cushions.
‘Perhaps it’s easier to stay like this?’ he asks.
‘But we’re a tangle of limbs.’
‘Is that so bad?’
‘No, you’re not offensive to look at, I guess.’
‘Lucky me.’
‘Welcome.’
‘You’re not offensive to look at either, in case you were wondering.’
‘ Merci .’
‘We should read.’ He motions with his free hand, the one not stuck around me, that we’re being watched. I’ll never live this down when it’s obviously a chaise longue malfunction.
‘We better.’ I can’t help stealing glances at him as we read. What is this? There’s something about the man that makes me lose all reason. Either he’s driving me to distraction when we argue or making me woozy with desire at times like this. It seems like everyone is falling in love in Paris, and it’s making me yearn for the same.
Bad idea, Coco.
Too soon, my alarm beeps, signalling the end of the reading session. It takes some effort to remove myself from Henri. When I do, I fix my hair and smile as I try to get my thoughts in order. For some reason I can only think of Henri and how I felt with his body pressed against me. Am I that lonely that the simple touch of a man sends me spiralling? Or is it because it’s that man?
I call the group to order, ignoring Henri’s gaze. Well, trying to.
‘I’ll start us off. I found Un Baiser D’adieu, a revelation. Heart searing, heart-soaring. Relatable, on so many levels, the human condition so clearly flawed, but so special nonetheless. I don’t think I’ve openly wept reading poetry before like I did with this – maybe it’s because I related to the mother-daughter relationship and the struggles that ensued with the last poem in the book…’ What I can’t say is that when I read that one at home I cried buckets, with my daughter beside me, the only time last week she wasn’t glaring at me, and that’s only because she was fast asleep.
Henri cocks his head and surveys me. ‘ Oui , I related to the ups and downs of their relationship too in the last poem. Families are often full of dramatics, but theirs didn’t feel dysfunctional. It felt more like they were preparing for battle, as if readying themselves to fight this unnamed thing, the intruder into their lives, but it’s left vague for the reader to figure out. What do you suppose they were waiting for?’
‘They’re expecting the father to come back,’ Agnes says, her tone brooking no argument. ‘It’s obvious. There’s many a reference his departure is causing stress, financial worries, and they lose their house. It makes sense they need him back but they’re nervous about it because he’s got a drinking problem.’
Ziggy vehemently shakes her head. ‘ Non , I got the sense they were relieved he’d left and even amid their struggle, anything was better than having him in the house, his volatile nature, his cruel words.’
The book doctor pulls a cushion onto her lap. ‘They were afraid of death. They hint at this ever-present malignant blackness.’
‘That’s just a poet trying to be fancy, trying to confuse,’ Nikolina says. ‘They can’t just say Mon Dieu I hate my mother. My boring life. My horrible dad. Look, it was readable, but would I dive into another poetry book? Probably not. I prefer sinking into a thriller, a whodunnit. I did find the poem about the dog and the puppies moving. There was a childlike innocence to it.’
‘The title says it all, doesn’t it? A Kiss Goodbye . I loved it,’ Henri says, awe in his voice. ‘I would never have picked that up, so I’m thankful to whoever suggested it.’
‘It was me.’ Ziggy puts up a hand.
Did Ziggy suggest it too? I never actually checked the other suggestions, just threw the tote bag back behind the bar and left for the night.
‘I suggested it too,’ says Isidore.
‘Likewise,’ I say, miffed. ‘Isn’t that odd? I’ve never encountered that at any book club I’ve been to before.’
They shrug as if it’s nothing. Maybe, like me, they’ve seen the many stacks of it around the bookshop and were intrigued. But they’re not making eye contact and are acting rather sketchy. Come to think of it, there’s much talk on TikTok about the author. No one knows who they are, which is strange since Gen Z on TikTok are responsible for its meteoric rise. This group is nosy, that’s one thing I’ve learned, so why don’t they care?
‘Ziggy.’ If her name is Obsessive Fan Girl, surely she’ll have the inside scoop. ‘What’s the story with the author? Do you know? From what I’ve seen there’s no social media for them. I don’t even know if the author is male, female or nonbinary.’
Ziggy opens her palms. ‘Haven’t heard. Why?’
‘Well, aren’t you interested?’
‘Not really. I’m sure the author has their reasons.’
‘Probably a recluse,’ Nikolina says.
I’m not convinced. I’m not sure why. Is it that this slim volume of poetry is everywhere? Not only here in the bookshop but all over social media. And that’s not unusual when a great book takes off, but what is unusual is the author is a mystery. A mononymous name, no author photo, no author biography. Nothing.
‘Poets are a different breed,’ Agnes says. ‘They probably didn’t expect worldwide fame.’
Another thought hits. What if the poems are based on real life? And the person they were running from (if they were running from a person, that is) is an actual danger to them? Or it’s the very opposite!
‘Actually,’ I say, ‘we’re reading these like they’re based on real life but there’s a very real possibility that they’re fictional.’ And here I am getting carried away with it all.
Agnes grunts. ‘You’re right. That’s the power of them; they felt so real. ’
Lucy holds the poetry book, her eyes still glassy with tears. ‘Lucy? Your thoughts?’
‘I found it heartbreaking. Even after I read the more uplifting poems I couldn’t shake off my despair from the sad ones. It’s a beautiful book but has to be read in the right mood. As for what they were waiting for, I don’t know. I don’t want to know.’ She clutches her heart. ‘They’d run away and whatever they ran from, caught them in the end. They tried to hide but it was of no use.’
‘I wish I liked it as much as the rest of you,’ Nikolina says.
‘That’s the beauty of reading,’ Isidore says. ‘Even if you didn’t love it, Nikolina, you must admit it provoked a reaction. It touched you, therefore, it’s done the job intended.’
‘That’s a great explanation. On that note, what makes a good book? Is it that you were moved or does it have to be more than that? Do you have to love every single page or is it enough to enjoy moments that made you think, reflect, cry, rage?’
The group gets into a heated discussion and this time I just let them go, listening in and enjoying the banter, the arguments, the occasional literary put down. Even Agnes reluctantly agrees the small book of poetry is one of those books she will read again when the time calls for it, it having made her homesick for her own adult daughters who live in Wisconsin, so very far away.
‘Why did you move to Paris?’ I ask, imagining a world where oceans separate me and Eloise and shuddering at the thought.
‘My husband wanted to,’ she says. ‘He’s a historian and was offered a position here many moons ago sorting the archives at the Musee D’Orsay. His dream job.’
‘And you? Did you relish the idea of living in Paris?’
‘Not at first. But one must do the right thing in a marriage. We made a vow, after all.’
‘Ah, I see.’
‘He’s retired now, but he still goes off every day, as if he’s still working.’
‘Where does he go?’
‘That, my dear, is the greatest mystery of all. I enjoy my solitude and we live very separate lives.’ While she sounds upbeat, it doesn’t ring true. Does Agnes need the book club, the bookshop, a lot more than she lets on? Her married life sounds rather lonely.