Chapter 21
CARLY
‘Are you sure you’re not coming with us?’ Daisy asks, her arm interlocked with Joe’s. ‘Everyone tells me it’s the best gay club in Paris.’
‘I’m sure,’ I say, perfectly content sitting on the steps opposite the bookshop, the sun beginning to set.
‘But what are you going to do until the meet and greet later?’ Daisy asks.
‘I’ve all of Paris to explore,’ I say, knowing she wouldn’t get the real reason: that I’d like to sit here all night, imagining how to create my own Shakespeare and Company back home.
‘Let her do what she wants,’ says Joe, giving me a look that suggests he gets it, bibliophile to bibliophile, that he might even prefer to stay with me rather than go clubbing.
‘Fine, you do you,’ she trills, swinging Joe around and pulling him towards the Metro.
I sit on the steps for a while, watching my fellow travellers peel themselves away from the shop and on towards their choice of early evening activity, and I message Dad a photo of the shop exterior.
As I sit, Dad and I messaging a little back and forth, I think of all the inspiring details I’ve seen so far on the trip: the formal but feminine feel of the Bloomsbury hotel library, access to the garden in the Paris book bar, and the intimacy of Shakespeare and Company.
And I think too about the wish I wrote and pinned to the Mirror of Love board, ‘A dream bookshop and romantic hero of my own’.
Intuitively I know that although Marleen’s offer of being her assistant is interesting, an opportunity I would have bitten her hand off for just a few days ago, something has settled in me, and I know after years of searching, I’m a bookseller at heart.
‘Hey,’ says Flynn, when he spots me. ‘What you doing?’
‘Just thinking,’ I answer, not quite ready to share my epiphany.
‘Do you fancy a stroll?’
I pause, wanting to linger longer, but wanting also to see if the guy I met back in Edinburgh is somewhere beneath the starched facade.
‘Sure,’ I say, and he reaches out a hand to pull me up.
‘Thanks,’ I say, a little self-consciously, his hand feeling familiar and warm in mine.
Flynn, not noticing my awkwardness, leads the way and we walk slowly down a narrow street with a beautiful limestone church.
‘Hard to beat wandering at dusk in Paris,’ he says, and I delight inwardly at how inadvertently romantic he sounds.
The small street opens into a wider, tree-lined boulevard and we wander past café after café until we reach the Jardin du Luxembourg, which is lush and green and dreamy, and a literal breath of fresh air after the pollution of the busy streets.
‘You know Paris well,’ I say, realising Flynn’s navigated his way to the gardens from Shakespeare and Company without once looking at his phone for directions.
‘I studied here for a year,’ he explains.
‘Nicolas mentioned. French and English, right?’ I ask, always impressed by students who venture away from home. ‘What made you make those choices?’
‘I grew up in a house full of books, so English was an easy decision, and my dad thought having a second language was important – “a gateway to the world” – it’s the one piece of advice he gave that’s actually been useful.’
‘My dad said something similar; he’s always felt I should find somewhere beyond Edinburgh.’
‘And did you?’
‘No,’ I answer, hoping that he won’t judge me for it.
‘Why would you? It’s such a beautiful place, with so much going on. It’s one of my favourite places in the world.’
‘You grew up there?’
‘We moved up from London when I was five. Dad had it in his head that life would be better in Scotland.’ He kicks at a stray leaf. ‘Strange that he should then leave Mum and me alone.’
I want to delve deeper, but a message on his phone distracts him and, when he indicates that he needs to reply, I sit on a bench and admire the Luxembourg Palace, lit up in the fading light.
I watch as Flynn paces around the hexagonal pond with its cherubic fountain, running a hand through his blond hair.
‘Sorry, work stuff,’ he says, tucking his phone into his inside pocket, and I get up to stroll with him some more.
‘Why did you tell Mum and me that you’d run a book festival before?’ I ask, cautiously, the question taking me by surprise.
Flynn does a double take, his brow narrowing. ‘I don’t think I did, did I?’
‘Mum said “you must have a lot of experience . . .”’
‘Which I do, just not with book festivals,’ he reassures me.
‘Like I said, I took it on when a colleague left unexpectedly. He kind of dropped us all in it. If I gave the wrong impression, then I’m sorry.
I was pretty stressed when we met, and shocked that I’d stumbled on a solution.
Maybe I didn’t communicate as well as I should have. ’
I keep my eyes on the broad path ahead, digesting his words.
‘How did you know about Mum’s back catalogue and how qualified she was for the event?’
‘Like I said, my mum read a lot of her books, and there was merchandise all over the shop. It didn’t take much to figure out how many she’d written, both here and abroad.’
‘But all that chat about how readers would respond, and her being the cherry on top of the cake . . .’
‘None of it rocket science, and none of it dishonest, if that’s what’s worrying you.’
Our eyes meet, his scanning mine to see if he’s said enough, mine scanning his for any hint of duplicity.
‘I promise,’ he says with a smile, putting up his hands in surrender. ‘If I overegged the pudding, it was only with the best of intentions. I couldn’t believe my luck when I met you, and your mum.’
‘I’m sorry for doubting you,’ I say, kicking myself for being suspicious, relieved it was a simple misunderstanding.
We walk quietly for a while, the sun lowering, the warmth of the day being replaced by a fresh evening breeze.
‘Shakespeare and Company was pretty special,’ Flynn says, as we exit the park.
‘The stuff of dreams,’ I swoon. ‘It really brought home to me just how much I love books and bookshops, and how important good booksellers are, you know? Being able to recommend a book that a person can really connect to, or which transforms someone in some way, changes their way of thinking. It’s important. ’
He turns to watch me as we walk, a look of admiration or amusement on his face, I can’t be sure which – a look that causes me to blush.
‘Cool that your family owns one then,’ he smiles.
‘I wish it were that simple,’ I sigh, and he encourages me with his eyes to say more.
‘For years I’ve been wondering what to do with my life, publishing, photography, yoga, but nothing has felt right, I’ve never found that burning passion until . . .’ I stop, worried that I might sound ridiculous, a dreamer.
‘Go on,’ he urges.
‘As soon as I walked up the stairs of Shakespeare and Company, I knew – this is it. I have to transform Hendersons into something as iconic as Shakespeare. The thing that I’ve been searching for has been right there, under my nose, all along.’
I pause, waiting for him to dismiss the idea, to say it’s a little fanciful.
‘And the problem is?’ he asks.
‘There’s three,’ I answer, amazed that there’s no trace of ridicule.
‘The first is my dad, who’s stuck in his ways – you’ve seen the shop, it hardly screams destination bookshop.
And the second is, my dad! He thinks I should be doing something beyond Edinburgh and the bookshop, and the third is money – we haven’t got any.
How does someone like me afford to restyle, rebrand and restock an entire bookshop? ’
We turn on to a swanky, narrow street with well-kept apartment blocks. Flynn holds his gaze straight ahead, his chin lifted slightly, and I begin to see what Daisy meant, what I saw back at home, how handsome he is.
‘I’m sorry there isn’t the cash at the moment,’ he says, turning to face me, his eyes shining in the light of the Paris streetlamps. ‘It’s such a great location and beautiful space, it could be something incredible.’
‘Right?’ I say, thrilled that he understands. ‘Maybe I need to work on my dad, figure out how to get him out of his funk.’
‘Good luck with that!’ he scoffs, the light going out of his eyes. ‘In my experience, dads aren’t made for changing.’
There’s something about Flynn’s comment that is so sad and telling that it leaves me at a loss as to how to respond.
‘I don’t know my biological dad, and my adoptive dad’s an arsehole,’ he says eventually, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jacket. ‘Self-absorbed doesn’t come close.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, not knowing what else there is to say, given how much I adore my own dad.
‘What you gonna do?’ he dismisses, though I sense his hurt.
We turn on to a broad green esplanade and I see the gold dome of the H?tel des Invalides at the far end of the walkway.
‘What’s the story?’ I ask tentatively.
‘Wish I knew,’ he shrugs. ‘Barely sees my mother, rarely talks to me. He spends most of his time travelling or at his flat in London. It’s his way or the highway.’
As Flynn talks, we follow another tree-lined street leading to my first sight of the Eiffel Tower which, twinkling against the darkening sky, catches my breath.
‘Because of how my dad is, my mum needs my support; she has some health difficulties. Work wants me in London more, my mother needs me in Edinburgh. I’m torn between the two.’
‘What do you want?’ I ask, turning into the Champ de Mars, the huge park, lined with box trees, in front of the Eiffel Tower.
‘Good question,’ he laughs dryly, but there’s a tenderness, a vulnerability in his eyes that catches me off guard.
‘My family say I’m too defensive, that it gets in the way of me making lasting connections, of getting closer to what I want,’ I say, surprised at sharing something so personal with someone I barely know.
He stops and turns to me, the light of the tower shimmering in his eyes. ‘What do you want, Carly, other than your beautiful bookshop?’
There’s something in the way he asks that suggests he knows something about me that I don’t necessarily know myself.
‘Another good question,’ I laugh nervously, wanting to tell him that I’d like to be completely free of inhibitions and worries, to live up to the spirit of my name – to let go and find love, but somehow the words don’t form.
The Eiffel Tower glows warmly in the night sky, the moon rising, but Flynn’s eyes are set on mine.
‘All this not knowing,’ he says, his gaze growing more intense.
‘I guess we’ll figure it out eventually, most people do,’ I say quietly, my eyes now flickering between his eyes and lips.
He draws me closer.
‘I think I might be starting to,’ he replies, his hand brushing the hair off my face, and I wonder if he’s going to kiss me.