The Little Bookshop On the Seine (15 page)

An hour later, with a full belly and on a sugar high, we walked past boutiques with windows full with mannequins wearing stunningly chic clothing. After feasting on macarons and sipping strong coffee we hadn’t mentioned Ridge again, but it was still playing on my mind. I’d come to Paris for an adventure and here I was stuck in the same position I had been back in Ashford. Waiting for something to happen to me, rather than changing things myself. I could get lost here among the crowds, I didn’t stand out, I was one of thousands, and that made it easier to blend in and enjoy it. I liked being nameless, anonymous in a busy stream of people. It helped me delight in every small thing. Back home, everyone knew every single thing that had happened to me since I was a child, the small town grapevine had a lot to answer for and was like living under a microscope at times. Here I was free.

“Sarah, I think you have a chance to reinvent yourself,” Oceane said, a little gleam in her eye. “You could try some different styles. I know what would look great on you.”

Did she sense I wanted to change? It was like she’d read my mind. Oceane had an eye for all things stylish, and I trusted her judgment but I feared her budget was significantly more generous than mine.

“I’m more of a casual dresser,” I said, wondering how I’d get away with any shred of dignity if I couldn’t afford it.

“
Oui
, but you’re here now. And I can find some outfits that suit your budget, and
you
!” Her face shone happily, and I almost flopped with relief that she knew money was scarce, and the insurance would only go so far.

“Don’t look so worried!” She gave my arm a pat. “Here, you can dress like you’re rich, if you know where to find the right boutiques.” She pulled me to a stop and swiftly looked me up and down. “Navy, and red, maybe some black and white stripes would suit you. Nautical. It’s easy when you know how. A blue blazer, a white t-shirt, and a scarlet red scarf, and voila! You’re so slim, we’ll look for some skinny leg jeans, and that way you’re still you, just more French!”

“OK,” I said laughing, her enthusiasm contagious. “Let’s see what we can find.”

With one last look at the Arc de Triomphe, Oceane pulled me into a smaller avenue, to a tiny boutique at the end of the lane. She spent the next thirty minutes tossing clothes over the top of the change room curtain, and speaking rapid-fire French to the assistant.

With a flourish she pulled back the curtain and surveyed me.

“What do you think?” she asked.

I stared at my reflection, too surprised to form words. Oceane had picked a range of garments I never would have pulled from the coat hangers, but somehow they worked. With a tight pair of dress pants, she matched up various pieces I could mix and match.

“It’s all about classics,” she said, smiling. “And finding those basics, so you can just switch a cardigan or scarf to give a whole different look.”

She’d given me a chili-red sweater, and teamed it with a polka dotted black and white scarf. With black fitted pants, and a black blazer, I still felt like me, just with a bit more
oomph
. Paired with a pair of leather ankle boots with a medium heel, I was totally comfortable, and not at all like I usually was shopping for clothes, which was gangly and awkward. In the pile of ‘yes’s on the chair were various color combinations of similar garments, with patterned scarves to swap and change. Form-fitting clothing was more my friend Missy’s thing, but on me in those classic combinations, it actually worked.

“Scarves are a French woman’s secret,” she said touching her nose. “Anything can be fancied up with another scarf, and don’t be shy when it comes to colors. Lemon yellow in summer, and plum purple in winter, burnt orange in autumn…add some gold earrings, bright red lipstick, and you don’t need to spend a fortune. Just change those basics, and every season you’re
en pointe
. You have the jeans, the dress pants, blazers, and then you simply accessorize.”

“Yes,” I said quietly, unable to drag my eyes from the girl in the mirror. Who’d have thought clothes would give me such a boost? Perhaps this is why women were addicted to shopping. There wasn’t much of a selection in Ashford, and it had never appealed to me before. What Oceane had shown me had blown my mind, and thankfully not my budget.

“OK,” she said, scooping the clothes into her arms. “I’ll have her ring these up. Get dressed and I’ll take you to the next shop. Then you’ll really have to pick that jaw up off the floor.”

I laughed, and changed back into Sophie’s clothes, which seemed elegant in their own way, but not suited to me. How did French women know this stuff? I smiled once more at the eager eyed girl in the reflection before rushing out to pay.

“We’re going to the Little Antique Shop under the Eiffel Tower. Under its
shadow
to be specific. When afternoon sunlight hits the tower it casts its zigzag pattern over Anouk’s shop.”

“An antique shop?” I asked. What did I want with antiques?

“Your outfits are sorted, but you need some
va-va-voom
. Not cheap supermarket jewelry,
non
. Not acceptable. You can find something there with history, something no one else has, see?”

“Right,” I said, glancing down at my cheap supermarket bangles, and instinctively covering them. “Is that where you bought your diamond from?”

“
Oui
. Now Anouk is rather…quirky. She believes each piece tells a story, she researches, knowing where it originated, who owned it, and how it came to her. Whatever you do, don’t touch anything. She’ll decide if she wants to sell to you, or not.”

The clack of Oceane’s high heels sounded as we hit a patch of cobblestones. The Eiffel Tower came into view, its magnificence as always taking my breath away. “Wait, what?” I asked. “She’ll decide if she wants to
sell
to me or not? Isn’t it a shop though?”

Oceane tutted as if I was dense. “It’s the French way, Sarah. Some shopkeepers are very particular about who their prized possessions go to. And Anouk is fussy, more so than most. She treasures her things, and will only part with them if you’re the right person. So don’t slouch, don’t fidget and for god’s sake don’t do that snort laugh thing you do when you’re nervous.”

I giggled. I was sure no one had noticed my unfortunate snort laugh because I’d covered it up with faux hiccoughing fits. Damn it! I couldn’t help but fidget. What if Anouk turned me away? Would that sully Oceane’s reputation with the owner? Nerves fluttered in my belly at such an unusual but utterly French predicament.

We came to the Little Antique Shop. It was pastel pink, and had a planter filled with peach roses giving off a rich, fruity scent. How were their flowers always so fragrant? A table out front housed a range of trinkets; small silver candelabra, an old typewriter, gilded photo frames. My fingers itched to pick them up and observe them closely, but I merely leaned over, gaze alighting on an old tea tin, full of fake pink peonies.

“Not too close,” Oceane hissed.

I stood ramrod straight, my eyes wide, fighting the urge to snort. What was this? How did she make any money if she wouldn’t part with her wares?

“She’s coming. Stop playing with your buttons.”

Golly. There were so many rules.

“Oceane,” Anouk greeted her in a sultry drawl. She was vivaciously dressed, forties style with a tight woolen dress, cinched at the waist with a wide belt, accentuating her curves. Her blonde hair was a mass of big curls, her face heavily made-up with smoky eyeshadow and scarlet coated lips.

“Anouk, this is Sarah, an American book worshipper.”

I bit down on my lip, laughter was so close it tasted like sunshine.

“Oh, really?” She gave me a slow once-over, like she didn’t believe it.

“Yes,” Oceane said with a touch more authority in her voice. “She’s a lot like you. Doesn’t want books to go to any old person, they have to
match
, you see.”

Anouk raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow, and continued her scrutiny. It was impossible not to squirm so I blanked my face, and thought about all the words starting with Z I knew – a technique I used when I was nervous in social situations. After all, nothing stupid can spill from my mouth when I’m deep in thought with the rhythm of words like zigzagging, zippered, erm, zucchini…

“Go!” Oceane shoved me in the ribs, and squinted at me.

“What?”

“Inside!” she whispered. “She said you could view the jewelry.”

“OK!” I tripped up the front step, which drew the ire of the diminutive French shopkeeper. With a sigh she continued to a glass counter. The shop had an aura about it, almost like I’d stepped back to nineteen-twenties Paris. Old lamp shades in muted pinks and beiges hung from hooks above, their tassels waving in the wind. On a section of wall old metal irons hung, their paints chipped and faded, exposing their flat metal underbellies. Ornate mirrors clung to walls, reflecting the contents of the shop, and my wide eyed stare. Overhead, brass pots and pans, dented with dimpled bottoms, shone fingers of gold to the floor.

“What are you searching for?” Anouk asked me, her cool stare making me bumble under my breath.

Before I could answer, Oceane spoke up. “She’s after a ring, something with a blue gem perhaps? Or a ruby. Some gold hoops, and maybe a pendant of some sort, small, delicate.”

Anouk whipped out a felt box which housed rows of antique rings. They were exquisite, from thin silver to chunky gold, and everything in between.

“This one,” Anouk said. “It suits the complexity in your eyes.”

Searching my face, she waited for a response. I nodded, enjoying the sheer solemnity of the situation, it was as though I was about to handle the crown jewels, or something priceless. With the utmost care, she took a gold ring from the display, its gem winking like a secret.

Oceane stiffened beside me. “Green?” she pointed to the gem a hint of doubt in her voice.

Anouk rolled her eyes heavenward. “It’s
olive
. Peridot aids matters of the heart.” She gazed at me like she could read my mind, and a shiver of comprehension ran through me. “You’ll see,” she said and flipped the display case closed, as if it was the only ring she would offer me.

“Try it,” she said, haughtily. “I bet it fits you perfectly.”

I slipped the dainty ring over my finger, and sure enough, it was like it was sized especially for me. On the soft flesh on my pinkie finger, it sparkled, like Oceane’s diamond, only much more subtly. I understood why Anouk was fastidious with her treasures, it was much like me with books. You wanted to be certain they found the right homes.

“That ring belonged to a woman who lived in Provence. She had an olive farm. Can you imagine the trees?”

I could envision their leaves fluttering in the wind, the breeze scented with lavender from fields beyond. This was certainly one shopping expedition I’d never forget. “Yes,” I said, casting my gaze back to my hand.

“And that’s why the ring is right for you. Come back,” she said, staring into my eyes like she was trying to read me. “You don’t need an introduction next time.”

Oceane nudged me, and tried to contain her smile. I paid swiftly, and when we were safely outside under the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, laughter finally burbled out of me.

“What did she mean about an introduction?” I asked.

Oceane had her hands on her hips and was breathing hard like she’d just run a marathon. We’d been coiled tight in the little antique shop, and the tension was eking out of us as we stood far away enough to talk.

“There are a number of French businesses where you cannot shop unless you have an introduction from someone they trust, someone who is a regular customer of theirs. She has another room out the back with her most valuable possessions, but you won’t be allowed to go there, not for a while. It’s the way things are done. There’s a piano shop on the Left Bank, and he is the same. You could be a billionaire, and they won’t sell to you without the recommendation of a friend who they know well. It’s a way to preserve our heritage.”

“I’ve never heard of anything like it.”

I’d passed some kind of test though, and the thought made me stand a little straighter. Perhaps a small part of me was becoming French, if the likes of Anouk approved of me purchasing a ring in her beautiful little shop.

Chapter Ten

After the arrival of the travelers’ checks I felt light as air, and a tiny bit French. I was even mistaken for a native at the market stalls where I bought my fruit and vegetables – managing to have the whole transaction done in sleek French and I hadn’t stumbled once. Perhaps Paris was opening up to me… however, the shop was another issue altogether.

I had snatched a few more minutes before nine am to recheck the balance in the books again, while TJ replenished the front tables. It was peaceful in the shop and I was coming to love these mornings, standing at the counter near the front door sipping on the strong black coffee TJ had got into the habit of making for us. I wasn’t looking forward to having to call Sophie again and was interrupted from bashing my head on the table when a courier arrived, setting the doorbell pinging so loud I had to lean over to switch it off.

“Sarah Smith?” he asked.

“
Oui
?”

“
Parcelle
,” he said, and propped it on the bench before scuttling outside.

TJ and I looked at each other. We weren’t expecting a delivery today.

“Well open it!” TJ said jolting me into action.

Laughing I reached for the note. The handwriting was the same loops and swirls I’d come to love in the letters he wrote me and used to leave secreted around my house so I’d find them at various times when he was away. Something to stave off loneliness. Even though I felt a rush of pleasure at seeing his handwriting I couldn’t help the little voice in my head that was still worried about our lack of connection, with almost zero communication aside from snatched conversations here and there, and the odd email, or two.

Whatever the small box contained, I only hoped it wasn’t a gift to let me down softly that he wasn’t visiting Paris any time soon. He’d promised me two weeks in Paris, no work calls, no chasing stories. I ripped it open, to find a note on top.