The Little Antique Shop Under the Eiffel Tower (20 page)

Maman had always backed up Papa, and said he knew best. Had she just been going through the motions every day, desperately unhappy this whole time? The thought was enough to make me doubt their love, and I hoped it wasn’t so.

“Maman…” For the first time in my life, I was at a loss for words.

She shrugged at my confusion and looked past me. “The only thing that man loves me for is the dish of food I place in front of him.” She mimicked placing a plate down, and then acting Papa’s part, rubbing his voluminous belly and slapping his suspenders. “I’m a servant.” Her voice was so full of regret, it brought a tear to my eye. “My life consists of menial tasks and not once does he help or ask me what
I
want.”

Outwardly Maman seemed to relish doing her home tasks from sewing curtains to baking citron tarts or pottering around their little vegetable patch. I wondered if Papa was just as shocked at her outburst as I was, if she actually told him how she was feeling. I wouldn’t have put it past her just to pick up a bag and waltz out the door in an effort to show him she was indeed invisible to him. “But he does love you, Maman. You know that surely?”

She harrumphed. “He loves me, oh yes he does, he loves me on macaron Mondays and even more on boeuf bourguignon Thursdays! But wait…he’s even more passionate about chicken fricassee Fridays!” Her palm came down hard on the table, making the cups jump and clink together. My arm shot out for a favorite crystal vase, which teetered over, water spilling out and drowning my newspaper. I righted the vase and tried my best to flick the remaining droplets off the print, but it was no use, the ink blurred.

“Did you speak to Papa about how you feel?” I broached gently. He was a man of few words but he
loved
her, I was sure of that, and no matter what, would hate to see her upset.

“Why do you think I’m here?” She narrowed her eyes, and gave me that same steely glare. “I said to him: I’m not a doormat! I won’t be swept under the carpet, non, non, non! And do you know what he said?” She put her hands on her hips. “He said, what’s for lunch! See? Do you
see
, belle fille? He only hears me when I’m talking about food!”

What a mess. Food ruled for my hardworking papa. He was a tall, broad man with a penchant for locally made wine, and lots of hearty French dishes. His life was spent outdoors as a stonemason, a physical job that left him weary come home time, and it’s how he justified such a huge appetite, though these days he mainly supervised his employees. “Maybe he didn’t hear you? I can’t imagine Papa ignoring…”

“Oh he heard me. He heard me when I took his lunch and threw it outside for the birds.
Then
he understood just fine.” She took a deep, steadying breath. “So, I’m here now, and my new life will begin in earnest. I won’t have my hands and feet chained to the kitchen anymore, unless I choose to cook.”

I admired her for taking a stand if things had gotten so bad. “OK, a mini break, just what the doctor ordered.” Maybe some time apart to cool their heels would be the thing that would help glue them back together. “What will you do?”

“I’m going to find my youth, belle. I’ll wander the streets of Paris. I’ll have lunch at some fancy bistro. Every minute of the day will be mine to do as I please.”

I stood, giving her a kiss on the cheek. My once silent apartment was full to bursting and I wondered how I’d cope. At least with Maman here I could hopefully convince Lilou to be honest with Papa or attend the course he was paying for. She’d be on her best behavior with Maman loitering and that would free me up from worrying about her for a while.

“I have to go to work. Will you be all right on your own?”

She put her feet up on my seat, and angled her face to the sun. “Parfait,” she said. “Today is the first day of the rest of my life.”

I thought of Papa sitting in the lonely little house by himself. He’d be lost without Maman, and probably not able to do any simple tasks like cook meals for himself, because she’d always handled it all. Then I smiled sadly. Perhaps it would do him good to see how much work Maman did around the house. If she wasn’t there it would mount up, and he’d appreciate her more. Still, I had to check he was OK. Once I was up the road a way, I pulled out my cell phone and called him.

“Bonjour, Anouk,” he said, without his usual boom.

“Papa, what’s going on?”

“Is she there?”

“Oui, she’s upset.”

“Did she tell you?” He grumbled something inaudible. “She threw my lunch outside! For the birds!”

I swallowed a smile. Perhaps Maman was right, he only listened when it came to food. “I know, Papa, but she feels invisible. She tried to talk to you, but you didn’t pay any attention.”

He sighed. I could picture him sitting by the kitchen window, where the phone hung on the wall like it had done for decades. “I was half-listening,” he said, as if that was enough. “She talks to herself all the time! I didn’t know she was upset with me. I still don’t know what I’ve done. We sit together breakfast, lunch, and dinner, how can that make her invisible –
she’s right across the table from me!
When’s she coming home?”

“I don’t think she is, Papa,” I said softly. “Maybe you should ring her at my apartment? Say sorry?”

“Sorry for what?” He was truly puzzled by her absence and expected her to return home without any discussion.

“Papa! She feels like a slave. Like you don’t care about her unless she’s holding a plate of food. Can you try to understand?”

He tutted. “Anouk, your maman’s job is inside the home! I make the money and she makes dinner! It’s the way it’s always been. Why should I apologize? Now I’ll have to work and come home and cook. And clean! I suppose I’ll have to go to the market for food! Tend the vegetable patch.” He let out an incredulous grunt.

Poor Papa, he was stuck in another era where men ruled the roost. He had no idea how much he was living in the dark ages. Someone,
me
most likely, was going to have to drag him into the future. “So? Most people go to work and then come home and do all of that and more. I think you should ring her and say sorry. And then I think you should try to woo her back with a little romance.”

He scoffed. “I’m sixty, Anouk, not sixteen! We’ve always lived this way; I don’t see why anything should change.”

Obstinate as expected! “Can you just think about it? Like would it kill you to stand side by side and help Maman cook at nights? Dry the odd dish or two? You could talk and
listen
to one another.”

“The world has gone mad,” he said sadly. “She’ll see sense, eventually. I’m not saying sorry, because I’ve done nothing to warrant this.”

“You’re a stubborn fool, Papa!” My patience was stretched once more. Why couldn’t he at least
try
?

“You’ll see, Anouk. She’ll get bored and come home asking for forgiveness. In the meantime, I’ll cook, clean, iron, I’ll show her how easy her life is by doing it all.”

“You do that, Papa. I have to go. Keep well, and I’ll call you soon.” With his high domestic standards, there was no way he’d be able to cook and keep house like Maman did. She worked non-stop each day, cleaning the house from top to bottom, tended the vegetable patch, and the fruit trees, and cooked three proper meals a day.

A week without Maman and he’d be more malleable to the idea of helping out more. While he still worked as a stonemason, young laborers did the heavy lifting for him these days, and Papa spent a fair chunk of the day at home, getting under Maman’s feet.

While he wasn’t into romance per se, thinking it was a young person’s game, he could still do something simple like prepare a candlelit dinner, or even just join her to pull weeds in the soft sun. He would still grumble and mutter to save his pride, but I was certain I could convince him, even if it took a week worth of phone calls. While it had been a shock seeing Maman rant and rave, I was sympathetic to her cause. With this drama unfolding at least he hadn’t asked after Lilou, a small mercy.

Chapter Seventeen

Sometimes when I arrived in the morning I would pause and stare at the front of my little antique shop, likening it to something out of a vintage poster; the façade faded pastel pink, with a warped wooden planter box full of fruity-scented peach roses.

I fumbled with my keys as Oceane from Once Upon A Time strode briskly over from the direction of the little bookshop where she worked. Her cropped blonde hair stood up, windblown from the walk. As always her classic features drew the eye. She had high cheekbones and full lips, with intense icy blue eyes. She caught the attention of men and women alike, but had no notion of it, which made her even more beguiling.

When she caught sight of me her face split into a grin. “Bonjour!”

“Bonjour,” I replied. “You look like you’re in a hurry.” Oceane never walked when she could march. She was the kind of person who’d make you dizzy if you tried to keep up with her. She was a powerhouse of energy, and with her long legs it was impossible to match her pace unless you jogged, which of course, I just didn’t do.

She shook her head, her blonde hair catching in the bright sunlight. “Non, non. I’m just wasting time before I start work.”

I unlocked the door. The shadowy shop always had the ability to loosen tension in my body, as if being surrounded by tokens from the past grounded me. The same smell greeted me, like it did every day, a mix of old and new, as antiques fought the fresh flowers for space in the dusty, musty, floral-scented air. Oceane was the perfect customer to wander in: someone newly in love, flushed and hopeful with the future…someone who reminded me it was possible. After my traitorous thoughts about Tristan and my maman’s sudden appearance and shocking declarations, my ideals were up in the air.

Oceane surveyed a display case by the cash register. Above her hung a variety of vintage parasols. A soft breeze blew in from the open door, catching them. They swung lazily back and forth. Dust motes danced from the gaggle, raining down on Oceane, making her sneeze. She craned her neck upward and laughed, touching the point of a pale ginger parasol made from fine cotton. “They don’t make them like that anymore,” she said.

“No, they don’t.” Above, they swayed like they wanted attention, a moment of adoration for their ruffled former loveliness, one an ivory antique lace discolored over the years to eggshell leaving it swollen as if it’d absorbed memories like pollen floating through the air. Another ruby satin, whisper thin, like parchment, so delicate I wondered if it would disintegrate if it was ever opened again.

“We should bring them back in fashion,” she said with a gleam in her eye. If Oceane paraded around town with something unique, it wouldn’t be long until her posse of friends followed suit. “I’ll take the green one.” The parasol in question was made from thick brocade, its green like the flesh of an avocado. Emerald beads dangled from the edges. If anyone could make that work as a fashion statement, Oceane could.

“Why don’t you come for dinner one night next week?” Oceane asked. “Bring that new man of yours.” Her eyes twinkled mischievously.

“How do you know about him?” Paris was a big city, but sometimes too small for its own good.

“The May Gala – everyone’s talking about it. You wrapped in the arms of some delectable stranger for the entire evening…”

I hadn’t much thought about the gossip. Foolish of me. “It’s really nothing. I’m happily and
totally
single.” Imagine if he was the thief, and my Parisian counterparts knew I was dating him. I would never live it down.

She tilted her head. “I don’t believe you.”

I pasted on a smile. “It’s true. We’re acquaintances nothing more.” My heart dropped saying the words, but perhaps I had to get used to it being so.

“I detect there’s more you’re not telling me.”

Because my worries were of such a criminal nature how could I say?
Oh, it’s nothing, the guy I’ve half fallen for might be a jewel thief, no big deal…

“It’s…” I weighed up an answer that would be believable. “It’s just, he’s leaving soon, I’m sure, so I’ve decided that it’s not worth pursuing. Long-distance love is too complicated.”

She frowned. “But it’s doable. You travel for work. And how romantic would the reunions be?”

I thought of the log cabin, and how much I’d liked the idea. Little did I know it had been make-believe. I hadn’t been wrong when I thought it was fairy tale-esque. “Yeah, for the lovey-dovey type. Nope. I have my business to think about. I couldn’t get away, even if he was the one. Which he isn’t.” There. I almost convinced myself with my no-nonsense tone.

But Oceane gave me a sideways stare. “Well if you say so. In that case, what about dinner soon? A girls’ night out?”

I smiled, touched. I’d expected Oceane to try and match me up with someone else, or throw some clichés at me about fish in the sea. “A girls’ night out would be fabulous,” I said, and meant it. I couldn’t think of the last time I’d socialized with a group of women that wasn’t linked to work.

“Consider it done. I’ll text you when and where. And thanks for the gorgeous antique.”

We kissed cheeks and Oceane stepped out with her parasol, which she opened and strolled along like she was back in twenties’ Paris, catching the attention of passersby before giving me a backwards wave.

And finally I had a moment to myself to focus on the matter at hand. This morning, and reading about the Postcard Bandit seemed like a lifetime ago. I booted up the laptop and searched for more information on the stolen jewels, seeing if I could read between the lines, and find something that linked Tristan.

Scrolling through various new bulletins, the content was almost identical. Their hypothesis was the thief was highly trained in security, knew how to override complex alarm systems and blank CCTV footage in the blink of an eye. They knew the thief got in and out within sixty seconds, and reset the alarms so no one was any the wiser until it was too late, the jewels gone, and not a sniff of the perpetrator.

Sixty seconds.

It took me longer than that to apply my lipstick. Not to mention my false eyelashes…