The Little Bookshop On the Seine (11 page)

My mouth promptly closed as someone spoke out of hearing range. When he came back to me, his voice was firmer, more businesslike. “Sorry, I have to go. You can tell me all about Picasso later.”

“It was Van Gogh…”

He spoke to someone again, whoever it was their voice garbled through in an urgent tone. “Gotta go, baby. It looks like the story might have just broken. I’ll call you as soon as I can.” With that he hung up, leaving me with just the pitter patter of rain for company. Was he really that busy, he couldn’t spare five minutes?

***

A few days later I was still reeling from the awful experience at the passport office, they’d been so belittling – I bristled every time I thought of it. Why didn’t I speak up for myself better? Their warning rants had continued on for another thirty minutes until I was mute with anger. And then there was Ridge’s abrupt hang up. He hadn’t managed to call me back, so the story must’ve have been breaking like the slowest wave on earth. I’d left a bunch of messages for him, and then vowed no more. It was hard not to take it personally. Surely he ate? And slept? Showered. He could spend a minute on the phone to me. But perhaps, like so many times, he was out of range, or something. My life was hectic here anyway, and I always had so many things vying for my attention.

Still trying to familiarize myself with the shop, I worked on stacking shelves whilst TJ manned the counter. It was a gloriously quiet moment, one where we scrambled to get as much cleared up before the next wave of tourists and book lovers swarmed in. The door gusted open and the man I had caught a glimpse of in the conservatory on my first day walked in. The one who hid in the shadows like he didn’t want to be seen. Again, his blonde-haired, blue eyed looks seemed familiar, but how could they? I didn’t know any French men, I was from smallsville.

“Who
is
that?” I asked TJ, in a whisper. For some reason I was drawn to the mysterious man who sat upstairs for hours on end and yet I had never seen him buy a book.

TJ shrugged. “Haven’t stopped to speak to him before. But every day like clockwork he’s here. He’s been here ever since I arrived.” He moved to fix a fallen stack of books. “I’m going to tidy the blue room.”

The blue room was yet another little piece of perfection in the store. It was stacked with blue bound novels. Sophie’s idea of a private joke because of the amount of times she had been asked for a book, the only clue given was that it had a blue cover. The blue room had an old locked armoire in the corner filled with the manuscripts of writers who’d left them with Sophie as a gift when their books were published. An antique roll-top desk stood proudly in front of the window. “OK,” I said distractedly.

The blonde man intrigued me. I hadn’t seen many people with such expressive features before, but instead of happiness, he face was lined with pain. I wanted to know why. He was one of many that regularly visited the store. People often came to sketch, or read, they traipsed in as if they were at a friend’s home. He was different though, it was as though he was searching for someone when his eyes scanned the counter, and always came up missing.

***

TJ strolled over, his boyish grin in place. “Hectic day. You want me to lock up?”

I yawned, which produced a chain reaction – TJ joined in, and so did Beatrice who’d wandered over, leaned her elbows on the counter and cradled her face in her hands.

“Would you mind?” I asked TJ, grateful he’d even offered. My legs were jelly-like from standing so long, and my lower back twanged each time I bent to restack shelves.

“I know men aren’t supposed to say things like this, but you don’t look so great, Sarah. Maybe an early night’s in order?” He patted my shoulder in a big brother kind of way.

I groaned and covered my face. Even at dawn when I first awoke I had shadows under my eyes, and my complexion resembled Casper the ghost. Too many late nights with only the glare of the computer screen for company. “I’m shattered,” I said, managing a small laugh. “I could sleep standing up. Though I think I may be developing some buff arms.” All that book heaving and carting of boxes was doing wonders for my tiny frame.

“I promise by week four things improve. It’s all about snatching those break times, and getting some distance between you and the shop.”

“Week four, you say?” I held onto that, hoping he was right and that somehow after a month here, I’d learn to cope better.

Beatrice chewed a nail, surveying me. “Don’t forget Sophie’ll expect the end of month reports soon.”

“Urgh, the reports. I’d forgotten.”

Beatrice smirked. “All part of the management fun.” Was I imagining it or did she gloat a little when she said that?

“Great,” I couldn’t even pretend to be chirpy. “I’ll take the till, TJ, you can start a new cash drawer.” Time to count the takings, and add everything into Sophie’s difficult computer program.

Hours later, nursing another coffee, I squinted hard at the screen. Had I made a mistake somewhere? Sighing, I rechecked the figures again. And once more, flicked through the Euros, securing them into piles with rubber bands.
Please no!
I had tripled checked, and the same figure popped up every time.

Money was missing. And not small change, either. I’d have to tell Sophie.

My stomach clenched at the thought. She’d think I was completely incapable of running her shop. Worry gnawed at me, and like the coward I was, I put off calling her until the next day.

Glumly, I gathered everything up, stowing the money in the safe, and headed to bed. No shower, no dinner, just an overwhelming need to pull the quilt cover over my head and sleep. Fatigue hit me like a brick, and I fell into a fitful slumber, jarring awake when anxiety dreams tumbled into my subconscious.

***

Mid-afternoon, I finally corralled Beatrice to man the front counter, so I could do the banking. Soon, Sophie would be starting her day in Ashford, and I’d have to call about the missing money. A quick breather would steel me for the dreaded admission that things weren’t running smoothly.

With the Parisian air against my face, and slivers of autumnal sunshine breaking through clouds, I was happier outside. How people walked along here without stopping to marvel at each and every little thing was beyond me. I crossed the Pont Neuf, and headed into the little island in the Seine, the Île de la Cité. I loved the idea that in such a bustling crowded place, there was an island like a refuge between both sides of the city, and the river flowed freely, like a fork in the road on both sides before joining in harmony once again. Quirky me found it metaphorical, somehow. In a totally whimsical way, it was like me and Ridge – parting, going about our lives until the tides changed and brought us back together again.

I hurried along, soaking up the detail of the buildings – their gray slate roofs; the wrought iron balconies, small pots filled with plants; shutters, opened to the day; and even the naked trees, their roots spilling out squid-like as though they were searching for something – it all captivated me. The age, the history of the buildings and every magnificent little feature caught my eye. A rush of sentimentality hit as I imagined Paris changing over generations, from black and white to full Technicolor.

Time raced away, and before I knew it the banking was done and I had to return and call Sophie, my stomach knotting at the thought.

“Sarah, if there’s money missing, you have to do something about it. I’ll tolerate almost anything, but not that.” Sophie’s French accent sharpened, and I cringed, glad we were on the phone and not on Skype so she couldn’t see mortification color me red.

“I’ve recounted so many times. And triple checked the sales figures. We’re four hundred Euro down. I’m so sorry, Sophie. I thought it may have been a mistake…”

My toes curled thinking someone was stealing, and most likely because I was here, and they thought they could get away with it. “It’s not your fault,” she said. “You didn’t take it, but just be aware. Watch them. We can’t have that, and the sales dropping too.”

I wanted to roll into a ball and cry. So far, the sales had plummeted significantly, and money was going missing every few days, sometimes fifty Euros, sometimes a heck of a lot more. “I’ll fix it,” I said, squaring my shoulders, determined.

“I know you will. In other news, your sales have almost tripled. Well, I’m guessing by your hastily scratched sales sheet here.”

I was the opposite of Sophie. My meager sales were handwritten in a ledger by the till. “Tripled?”

“Yes,” she said. “I’ve added a few tabs to your online shop. They can now buy romance bundles by subscription, and all sorts of things. I blogged about it for you, and almost immediately there were orders. I hope it’s OK, that I shuffled things around?”

“Of course,” I said, imagining complex charts and graphs when I returned home – my sales figures proudly in the black after Sophie had taken over. A tiny part of me was a little put out. Only because she was increasing my revenue, and I was decreasing hers, despite my efforts. Nothing was going as planned, and I felt a lot like a failure compared to the together types.

“Anyway, darling. I must dash, the girls are waiting for me at the Gingerbread Café. They’ve baked some heavenly French dessert to curb a homesickness I don’t have.”

My friends. I could picture them all squashed together on the sofas in the café, the fire crackling next to them. I double blinked at the sudden hit of jealousy I felt. Sophie was living my life, and probably better than I did. And I was here, trying my best, but failing at hers. “Tell them I said hello, and I miss them,” I swallowed a lump in my throat. Perhaps November would bring better things.

“I will,
ma cherie
.
Au revoir
.”

I turned my back to the counter, and leaned against the brickwork, taking in the glorious view outside. Being able to ogle the Eiffel Tower from any vantage point in the bookshop was enough to produce a smile. No matter what was happening inside, when I gazed at the beauty of Paris, a thrill ran through me. The shadow of the Notre Dame falling on the bank of Seine. The boats that chugged past, their passengers slightly dazed from the wind on their faces, and the weak sunlight in their eyes. The crazy way in which the French drove, with lots of gesturing, arms out of windows, the bleeping of the horn. Arches of the bridges in the distance. I loved it all, and wanted to soak it up, meandering lost laneways, snapping pictures so I’d never forget. But for now, I had to sort things here, otherwise my time in Paris would be spent squarely in the bookshop.

My email pinged. I didn’t dash for it like normal. These days, my inbox was filled with orders, staff queries about their pay, and a wealth of bookshop related messages. Reaching for my pot of tea, I poured a cup, and then settled back to read the message.

Sarah Smith,

My cell phone is in and out of reception here, as is the Wi-Fi. I’m crossing fingers that you receive this. Today we’re heading into Java, moving as the story does. I’m sorry to say, I won’t be in Paris as quickly as I’d hoped. But trust me when I say I will be there eventually. It can’t come soon enough. I miss the way you laugh, the flutter of your hands when you’re nervous, and those deep, dark soulful eyes of yours. Most of all, I miss holding you in my arms, while you drift off to sleep.

May Paris carry you in its embrace until I can.

All my love,

Ridge

I snapped the laptop closed. He sure had a way with words, my roving reporter. When he wrote love notes, or whispered sweet nothings, they were always flowery and poetic. Even with his declarations a knot of impatience settled. How much longer would Indonesia beckon? Was it safe in Java? My mind spun with worry, until I shut it off. Ridge wasn’t stupid, he’d avoid trouble. And hopefully get the goddamn story submitted and fly to Paris. I was doing it again, the waiting thing. An email was all I’d had since the hastily ended phone call. And I couldn’t help think he wasn’t living up to the book boyfriend, but then there was me who wasn’t exactly heroine material either. If this were a romance novel, he’d be in almost every chapter, sure there’d be misunderstandings, and crossed wires, a few conflicts thrown in, and lots of make-up sex. I had to remember my life wasn’t a romance novel, no matter how much I wanted it to be.

Before the day could get any worse, I summoned the staff over. If I nipped the stolen money issue in the bud it’d be one less thing to angst over.

“Guys,” I yelled out. “Can you come here for a sec?” There was a lull in customers, so it was now or never. I threw them a winning smile and went to the counter, spreadsheets at the ready. They wandered closer, some not hiding the boredom on their faces. TJ loped over, and motioned for Beatrice to join.

“Thanks,” I said, gripping onto the paperwork so they didn’t see my hands shake. It was nerve-wracking with all eyes on me. “Just quickly… there’s quite a bit of money going missing.” I gulped, they stared at me like they wanted to eat me for dinner. “I’m not pointing the finger at anyone.” Their eyes narrowed, and I fumbled. “But…but we can’t have that. It’s happening more and more often, which makes me think it’s not an accident like giving out incorrect change, or something.”

“You’re accusing
us
?” Tyler – one of the American exchange students – said, not hiding his huffiness.

“Yeah, what’re you implying? We work our asses off here, you know!” said Joey, who I’d only met a handful of times. As much as he tried to be hostile, his voice wavered, as if he was only copying Tyler’s attitude.

I blushed. Gosh, this wasn’t going well. “I know you all work hard… when you actually come in, that is, but the thing is…”

Tyler interrupted me, “What did you say?” he scoffed.

“What?” I said, miffed at how this was panning out. My book, How To Be The Boss 101, was severely letting me down here. I’d expected them to act contrite, worried even. Not hostile. Was Tyler the thief? He certainly had the opportunity to do it, working behind the counter when I hurried out for lunch.

“The way you said,
when you actually come in
. I can see a passive aggressive person at a hundred paces, and I don’t like your tone, Sarah.”