The Little Antique Shop Under the Eiffel Tower (10 page)

“We’re going to Marché Dauphine on Rue des Rosiers. I have to see a man with a pink bow tie, with a red carnation.”

Tristan raised his eyebrows. “Very
Alice in Wonderland
. I’m surprised you’re taking me. I thought you kept your antique sources a secret.”

I hailed a taxi; the flea market was in the Saint-Ouen and too far to walk. “Ah, there’s the thing, you don’t know the code word, so without that, you won’t get very far.” I winked, enjoying myself for some inexplicable reason. He could hunt around Marché Dauphine all day long and not be shown the special antiques. There was a strict system in place, and unless you knew the right source, you’d never find the gold.

A taxi pulled up with a screech of brakes.

“Perhaps I should blindfold you just in case.” I hunted in my handbag. “Except I don’t have any ribbon. It’s your lucky day.”

The taxi dropped us on the Rue des Rosiers. The street was bustling with daytime shoppers. Bistros were busy with waiters scurrying outside, trays topped with wineglasses held aloft, as people sat on cane chairs facing the street. It was a hectic quarter and I liked the feeling you could be swept away in it all, and carried along, stopping to shop, or to eat and drink.

“Do you find many valuables here?” he asked, taking in the expansive arcade that was home to hundreds of bric-a-brac shops upstairs and downstairs, and along one big uneven cobblestoned alley.

“Sometimes. You have to know someone usually, who knows someone, you know.”

He laughed. “I do know.”

“But there’s a wealth of glorious cherishables here, whether they’re worth money or not. Beauty abounds.”

“Cherishables?”

“Cherishables,” I agreed. “Lovely little finds that have tiny value but lots of heart. Tea tins, picture frames, old perfume bottles. Half the fun is finding them, and the other half imagining where they came from.”

“That’s why you don’t mind me tagging along… The chances I’d find anything
you
want would be impossible in a place this size. And I don’t know someone who knows someone, at least I don’t think I do.”

I gave him a cheery smile. “Exactly.”

Inside the market a strong smell of another era permeated the air. The wonderful aroma of antiques. “Don’t you love that scent?” I asked.

He made a show of breathing in deeply. “I could live on that and that alone.”

“Very amusing. Can you see anyone wearing a pink bow tie?” We wandered along, surveying each vendor for a pink bow tie, and checking out laden tables full of odd and ends. Mismatched antique linens, embroidered with someone’s initials. Cutlery sets with crazed ivory handles.

“No, but look at this,” Tristan said, taking a brooch from a stack of costume jewelry. “I think it’s a genuine opal.”

It would be highly unusual for a vendor not to know the worth of something. There was always someone to show it to, opinions to be gathered. But the opal had sat discarded in a pile of cheap beaded necklaces and plastic earrings.

Tristan inspected it closer. “It’s transparent; there’s no layering on the side. From what I can tell, it’s real. And for something so large, it would be valuable.” He handed me the brooch.

“You’re right, it does look genuine.” Synthetic opals were hard to spot, but there were a few markers that set them apart from the real thing, and this opal didn’t have any of those. “A bargain at one Euro.” I pointed to the price on the box. “I didn’t know you were an expert on jewelry.” I rubbed the smoothness of the opal between my fingers. The blue rivulets in the gem were the color of Tristan’s eyes. It was magnetic, such a find, and felt cool to the touch, like something that had been taken from the depths of the earth.

“I dabble in this and that so it pays to know a little bit.”

“Hmm,” I said, not quite believing him. His line sounded rehearsed. Although maybe he was another Dion, hands in pies all over the place, to garner a living. Tristan’s more fruitful by the look of things.

Tristan told the vendor the brooch was real. I found it surprising he’d be so honest. I expected he’d keep the opal’s authenticity a secret and grab himself a bargain. Wonders would never cease. The vendor frowned. “Not possible, I check myself.” He snatched it back and scrutinized it up close. “Not for sale!” he said, making us laugh.

“Well, there you go,” I said. “Maybe it’s easy to find treasure here if you know what you’re doing.”

We continued on, checking out stacks of vinyl records, crystal glassware, tiger-head ceramic sugar pots, faded pink ballet shoes. But I had an important customer arriving later, so I couldn’t dillydally as long as I hoped. She was a loyal friend of the little antique shop, who was driving from Toulouse especially to find a gift for her daughter’s wedding trousseau. Trousseaus were out of fashion these days, so it was a thrill to be able to help furnish one again. She was looking for linen, and bedding and the other things that would help her daughter make a home with her new husband.

Someone whistled for attention, and I followed the piercing sound. Upstairs stood a man with a pink bow tie and a red carnation in his pocket. His wild black curls stood out at every angle. He gestured to me to meet him in his shop.

“That’s our man,” I said making my way to the stairs.

“Is this really how Parisians source their antiques? It’s a very unusual way of doing business.” Tristan’s footfalls were light on the steel steps.

“Ah,” I said, “you don’t understand. These are sentimental pieces. No one would bother about them, except me or someone who owns one of the little bric-a-brac shops. It’s what makes it fun.”

The pink bow tie man greeted me in French. I told him Rachelle sent me, and he fussed about searching for my prize. Finally he unearthed it and passed it to me, triumphant. I gasped. It was a 1950s’ Hermès Kelly bag. They were still wildly popular, and vintage ones especially. “Where did you get it?” I asked him, checking for imperfections. The black leather was in good condition, the padlock and key fob still worked – only the gilded metal had tarnished. The inside lining still held the faint trace of perfume, something spicy, oriental.

“I got it from a young man who bought it for his future fiancé as an engagement present. He was going to propose to her in Monaco.”

I frowned. “And yet…”

The man lifted his palms. “She left him before he could. But –” the man held up a finger “– the very next day he met the love of his life, a more…practical girl. So he swapped the Kelly bag for a TV, and that’s how it came to me.”

I swallowed back laughter. “He swapped it for a TV?”

He nodded. “A plasma TV, secondhand but still in very good condition.”

Men and technology. I didn’t want Tristan to see how I went about business negotiations, and just as I went to tell him to leave me be he said, “I’m going downstairs.” He took his cell phone from his pocket. “I have to return a call.”

“Great,” I said. When he’d retreated I started my spiel. “So, what do you want for it?”

Pink bow tie man crossed his arms, and gazed heavenward as if he didn’t already have a figure in mind. “It’s so rare, and in immaculate condition –”

“I think the handle has been replaced.” I pointed to the leather handle, which was suspiciously darker than the rest of the bag. If anything it should have been lighter from the previous owner’s touch. “And the lining has smudges of lipstick on it, and maybe nail polish. I’d have to get it professionally cleaned.”

He continued: “It’s not often the padlock and key fob still work for a 1950s’ edition.”

“I’ll give you a hundred for it.”

His mouth fell open. “Three hundred!” He made a show of being offended, and I returned with a casual shrug as if I couldn’t care less what happened to the bag. It was a farce by both of us and we knew it.

“Two hundred and that’s my final offer.” I studied my fingernails intently.

With a few grunts and groans about going out of business he said, “Deal.”

We shook and I passed over the money. It was a fantastic buy and I’d sell the Kelly bag in a matter of hours once it was cleaned and made beautiful again, just as it deserved. I thanked him once more, and waved goodbye, clattering back down the steps in my high heels.

Tristan was standing near the exit deep in conversation and didn’t hear me approach. I overheard one-sided snippets of his conversation, but he spoke low and fast like he was giving directions. “It’s too
late
now. You told me it was the only way we’d get…”

I tapped him on the shoulder and he blanched and ended the phone call.

“Problem?” I asked, pointing to the phone he’d hung up so abruptly.

“No.” He double blinked. “Sorry. A call from America about some…investments.”

“Right.”

“Shall we?”

Whoever called had ruined the mood. Tristan’s expression was dark as he strode purposefully ahead, leaving me no choice but to take huge strides to keep up with him.

“I have to get back to the shop,” I said, glancing at my watch, thankful I had a reason to slip away.

His shoulders relaxed, and he donned a smile. “Sorry, I was a million miles away after that phone call. Can’t you stay?”

“No, sorry, I have a client coming. But another day, maybe. Are you OK to get back to the 7th?”

“I think I’ll manage.” With one step forward, he kissed the apple of my cheek, taking me by surprise. It was customary to kiss cheeks with friends and even acquaintances but it sent shivers down the length of me. I mumbled something and walked off, hoping I wouldn’t stumble in my heels. Minutes later I realized that I hadn’t used my opportunity to the fullest. What had I found out about him? Absolutely nothing, except that he could spot a genuine opal. I’d been too starry-eyed by the wares and his take on them to question him.

Chapter Eight

The laptop screen blurred. I’d been at it since 4 a.m. because sleep had eluded me. I was scrolling through various popular online auction sites. If you spent enough time searching you’d be rewarded with some beauties. Antiques being sold that needed rejuvenation, or unique items I knew I had buyers for. People online wanted quick sales, and the ‘junk’ cleared out. I’d found countless treasures bidding at online auctions over the last couple of years, but it took time to sift through so many pages.

I got up to replenish the coffee pot when front door handle wiggled and Lilou burst in. “Ma chérie!” She rushed to me, dropping her bags to the floor, and squeezed me tight. “It’s so good to see you.”

Trying to breathe through the tresses of her silky hair, I pulled myself back, attempting to recover from such a surprise. “You too.”

A scraggly stranger stood behind her and I hurriedly gathered my robe tighter.

“This is Henry!”

I gave him a polite nod. “Bonjour.” I guessed Claude had lost his shine.

She gave Henry a quick smooch. “Don’t be shy. Make yourself at home.”

Henry yawned and stretched in reply. His hair stuck up at odd angles, and his clothes were creased. Perhaps they had been sleeping under the stars, a necessity if their money had run out.

“Lilou, it’s nice to meet your new friend…” I laughed nervously as he threw himself and his dirty boots on my Louis XVI French chaise longue. “That chaise, the distressed pink velvet you see…” I spun back to Lilou. “Perhaps take Henry to the bistro downstairs until he finds his way to wherever it is he’s going.” I coughed into my hand while discreetly surveying him sprawled happily as though he was settling in for the duration.

She grinned, and tossed her long mane of hair. “Oh, he’s not going anywhere.” They exchanged a glance, the sweet early love goggle-eyes. “He’s a couch surfer!”

My mouth fell open. “A what?” Apprehensive, I pictured him standing on the chaise, arms out wide, while he rode a metaphorical wave. The idea sent shivers down my spine.

“A couch surfer, Anouk,” she said with a tut. “A person who goes from couch to couch as they travel the world. It’s a way to travel stress free, even if you’re almost penniless! I told Henry he could stay here. It’s the least I could do after couch surfing my way around Normandy with him. Don’t worry, we’ll cover the chaise with a bed sheet. You won’t even know he’s here.”

I covered my face with my hands. Lilou was crashing her way into my life, and now so were her boyfriends. My solitude would be lost for good. And my sanity. “Lilou, this is too much.”

She rolled her eyes dramatically. “Don’t be such a killjoy. Henry
saved my life
!”

I glanced at him, with his lazy smile, and ruffled appearance. What was she thinking? Allowing some vagabond in here? He could be a serial killer, a thief, a Trump supporter…

“And how did he manage that?” I asked.

“Well, remember Claude?”

“He didn’t last long,” I said. Claude, the boyfriend who’d replaced Rainier. And I could guess had been sent on his merry way as my fickle sister moved on, like clockwork when his spell was over.

She inhaled dramatically, as though she needed a huge breath to get the story told. “We had a fight because he wanted me to visit his parents and I said no, because really, that’s way too serious after a few weeks, and I want to concentrate on my career as a jewelry designer.” She was off on a quickly spoken monologue and it took all my concentration to keep up. “And my money invariably ran out… Luckily that’s when I ran into Henry, who showed me how to travel with virtually no money. It’s been incredible! Why should seeing the world be reserved for those with excess cash? This way we can all be pilgrims!”

It took me a good thirty seconds to work through her monstrously long explanation and make sense of it. “Pilgrims?” Flashes of Lilou in strangers’ houses raced through my mind, scaring me silly. Perhaps it was much better if she lived with me so I could keep her safe. She was young and naïve about the world.

“Pilgrims! All of us! So Henry can stay and I can make jewelry and when we have the urge to travel, we’ll couch surf!”

“It’s a very nice idea,” I said, choosing my words carefully but ending up sounding stern like my maman. “And …” Henry had taken his boots off and left a trail of sand on the chaise. “However, I work from home at nights, and that peace and quiet is crucial, especially if I’m on the phone to clients…” Henry let out a yawn so loud it would’ve woken the dead. “When you informed me you were moving in a few weeks ago, before you flitted off following a music festival, I thought you meant just
you
. Couch surfing is a great idea in theory, but my apartment, it’s not really made for so many…people.” I had time to get used to the idea of suddenly living with my sister, but another person, a couch surfer at that? I didn’t think I could cope.