Читать книгу The Little Bookshop On The Seine - Rebecca Raisin, Rebecca Raisin - Страница 13
ОглавлениеMy mouth hung open when I gazed at the building before me. Once Upon a Time, the sign read which was pinned to the top of the building, weathered and faded. I’d seen countless photos, and Sophie had taken her laptop out the front when we Skyped to show me the façade and the view of the Seine. But seeing it in real-life – its faded sepia brick, with the murky tea-colored river across the road – was something else entirely. The way the building leaned softly, as if time and the elements had warped it.
Time slowed, while I gawped in every direction. A world of accents chattering away only just registered. There was the scent of the Seine; earthy, fathomless. The bustle of waiters at a busy bistro, glasses clinking together, the tink of cutlery on plates. Shielding my eyes from the glare of their white shirts, and silver trays held aloft, I spun, taking in the three-hundred-and-sixty degree view, like a panorama.
Cars honked and parked in spots which looked far too small, their expert drivers negotiating the tight space, without much maneuvering. Along the sidewalk were a cluster of cherry trees; naked without their perfumed blossoms. They stood tall and proud like watchmen out front. Off to the side of the shop was a little wooden house, on stilts like a letterbox, filled with picture books and marked with a hand painted sign that read “Kids’ library.” A line of children waited patiently for their turn to open the tiny glass door and select a pre-loved book. Behind them, parents snapped shots of the Notre Dame looming in the distance, or the Pont Saint-Michel to the right. Others held maps, their faces scrunched in concentration.
I laughed at the sheer craziness of it all. It was so busy! I was like a dot in the jumble of people going about the business of living.
Turning back to the bookshop, I stepped closer and peeked in the window. It was just as I imagined; dark wooden shelves wound to the ceiling, books were double stacked, the ones higher up were beige with dust. On the main floor, rickety old tables bowed with the weight of colorful new editions.
A towering pile of the latest blockbusters were displayed by the front door in an unapologetic heap. Which books would sell best here? I couldn’t wait to find out. In Ashford, romance was my biggest genre, the women in my small town kept me afloat with their purchases of sweeping love stories. Would it be the same here, in the city known for romance and passion? I hoped so. I could usually tell what genre a person favored after a quick once-over and a study of their mannerisms – it was a gift I was proud of, and I delighted in pairing up a book with its owner.
Somewhere above was Sophie’s apartment, and the thought of a quick snooze on crisp sheets was too tempting to resist. I’d say a quick hello to the staff, and then sleep. Adventures would be so much better once I’d rested. I studiously avoided gawping into the window of the fromagerie next door, out of loyalty to my friend. I’d be living on French cheese that much was certain, but I wouldn’t buy it there, lest it taste like despair.
I pushed open the door of Once Upon a Time, and got stuck in a crowd of people. “Sorry, can I just get…” No one would move an inch to let me past, I don’t think they could see me, or hear me, amid the chaos. “Excuse me,” I said, my words fluttering above unheard.
Sophie had said to find Oceane, a French girl who’d worked here for years, and she would show me to the apartment, and instruct me on exactly what I needed to do for the bookshop.
On tiptoes, I tried to find the counter. It was stifling inside with so many bodies. How did Sophie cope with so many fingers touching her books? A man in front picked one up and flipped it carelessly open. I winced when I heard the crack of its spine as it split. It took all my might not to snatch the book from his hands. I supposed it would be just as hard letting books go here as it was at home, though this might be tenfold worse, by the size of the crowds. “Umm, can you please let me past?” No response. Damn it to hell, being five foot nothing!
Off to the right there was a small nook, the right size for my suitcase, so I wheeled it in, squished my backpack on top, and draped my jacket over it. Determined, I elbowed my way to the counter, through the mass of slow-moving traffic, yelling cries of, “Sorry. Excuse me.” Golly, it was hard to breathe. Finally, I found some space near the counter, and fell against it, making a mental note to wear bright clothes, and maybe carry a megaphone next time.
A girl with fiery red curls stood serving customers, stamping the inside of their books with the famous Once Upon a Time logo.
The queue, long and snake-like, drifted right back to the dark recesses of the shop. Sophie had given me a run down on the staff, but the journey had been a long one, and my mind blanked. What were their names?
“I’m Beatrice,” the red-headed girl said without glancing up. “You must be Sarah.” Her tone was flat, almost neutral, and she had a plummy British accent.
Customers frowned as they were ignored. Where were the rest of the staff? I was momentarily distracted by a crystal vase which displayed long stemmed roses so vividly red and fragrant that I had to pause and sniff them as their scent twirled in the air. “I’ve never seen such beautiful flowers…” even the petals smelled love-red.
Beatrice gave me a half-smile. “Americans aren’t as subtle as the French with their declarations of love.”
Was that a dig? “What does…” my voice petered off. Nestled among the blooms was a tiny envelope with my name on it. Ridge. I hastily ripped it open, heart racing, and sped read it so I could get back to Beatrice and then dash upstairs for a nap.
Sarah Smith,
I can’t wait to whisper to you in French, the wind carrying my words away, as we wander in the rain through forgotten avenues of Paris.
Oceans may separate us but know you’re in my heart, now and always.
Je t’aime,
Ridge
That guy. Little fireworks exploded inside my heart that he’d think of something so sweet for my arrival in Paris. He always knew what to do and say when I most needed it. I put the card in my pocket knowing I’d re-read until the words smudged. The anticipation of Ridge arriving soon was almost too much to bear, so I blanked my expression and focused on Beatrice. The line was growing by the second. There was no sign of any other staff.
“Do you have anyone else here to help?” I asked, gazing around thinking maybe they were stacking shelves, and could be called to help.
Beatrice pulled a face. “Oceane is sick, or so she says. Convenient, since Sophie isn’t here. She was probably up all night with her latest conquest and has a cracking champagne headache. TJ floats in later, and that leaves you. Mind serving?” She spoke with a hint of annoyance, but her smile softened it.
“Sure, I’ll help,” I said, as airily as I could. I rolled up my sleeves, and went behind the counter, trying to push the vision of a nice comfortable bed away. Once we’d caught up with the queue I could escape for a few hours, and bliss out in bed, mouth hanging open as I snored my way to slumber. The flight had been too exciting to miss one single second, but I regretted now that I hadn’t forced myself to rest at least some of the journey.
Rookie travel mistake number 234.
“Oui?” I said, to the tall, thin man next in line.
“I’ve been waiting over an hour to be served,” he said, and drew his mouth into a tight line.
“Sorry,” I mumbled. Not the best start. “Let me ring these up for you.” I hastily added, trying my level best to ignore his scowl.
He blinked rapidly down his spectacles at me, and handed over three books, keeping his palm over the cover to hide the title. Lots of people did the same thing. They didn’t want to be judged on their reading habits, so as swiftly as I could, I took the bundle and bagged them, taking note of the price on the inside page. My face remained neutral, but inside I smiled. Even Paris wasn’t immune to the popularity of Fifty Shades of Grey.
“For my wife,” he said, hastily licking his lips, his eyes darting around.
“How sweet.” I took his money and made change, knowing Sophie would probably be happy one more set of the trilogy was sold. Even in sleepy Ashford, I’d been inundated with requests to swap the trilogy for other books once people had read them, and in the end, I had to turn people away, or my shop would have been full of the erotic novels. I was glad their popularity made so many people rediscover their love of reading again.
He blushed. “She just wants to see what all the fuss is about…late to the party, but still.”
I gave him a benevolent smile. They were definitely for him. “I hope she enjoys them, if not, there are plenty of other books here that I’ll be happy to recommend.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, taking the bag. “I mean…I’ll let her know that.” I tried to decipher his accent, maybe Australian? Once Upon a Time stocked mainly English books, and only had a small French section.
“Happy reading,” I said, watching him retreat fast as if he was carrying something illegal. Readers and their quirks never failed to amuse me.
Glad he’d softened about the wait, I said more confidently to the next customer, “Oui? Can I help you?” A pony-tailed mom blew escaped strands of hair from her face. She grappled with a chubby baby, who was shrieking and trying his best to escape her arms. Somehow, she managed to free a bottle from the bag over her shoulder and said, in a desperate American accent, “Can I please heat his bottle?” The baby let out a scream so loud, Beatrice scowled and covered her ears.
“Err…” Heat up a bottle? Did we even have a kitchen here?
I turned to Beatrice for guidance. She pursed her lips, before saying to me, “This is a bookshop…we sell, books. You know, things you read?”
I blanched at her sharp tone and was mortified for the mother in front of me. Traveling with a baby must have been tough. A small giggle escaped Beatrice, as if she was joking, but it certainly hadn’t come across that way.
I whispered to her, “Is there a kitchen here? Maybe she can just pop in and use the microwave?” People fidgeted in line behind, sighing, and becoming impatient with the wait.
“Afraid not.” Beatrice smiled at the woman, but it didn’t seem to reach her eyes. “It’s only for staff. Sophie’s rules.”
I blushed crimson. If this were Ashford the bottle would have been heated up, the mom given a cup of tea, and the baby snatched by someone for a cuddle. This wasn’t right, ignoring a person in need. I deflated a little, as a headache from the earlier glass of wine, and the bedlam in front of me, loomed. My new adventure paled a little.
“I’m so sorry,” I said to the woman, torn about what I could do. Behind her, the queue of people grew impatient, glancing at watches, and sighing, or outright mumbling hurry up.
“So this is when you say, ‘Next’,” Beatrice said, her voice sugary. Surely I could tell Beatrice to march to the kitchen and heat the bottle up? But the queue was growing, and in my exhausted haze, I was unsure of my footing.
“Maybe you can try the bistro a few doors down?” I bit down on my lip, hoping the young mom wouldn’t get upset.
“Yeah, thanks for nothing,” she muttered and shot Beatrice a glare.
I said sorry to the woman, as she scrunched her face in anger, and spun on her heel. Then I turned to Beatrice and said quietly, “I feel for her.”
“Why?” Beatrice knitted her brow. “This isn’t a little fairy tale village, Sarah. This is Paris, and a very busy bookshop. People here will try everything they can to take advantage. You’ll see. It might sound harsh, but we have to follow certain rules or else we’ll be overrun.”
A fairy tale little village? “I see,” I said, but didn’t really. Beatrice spoke calmly and confidently, but it was as though she was speaking down to me. Maybe I was reading too much into it, or being a touch sensitive. Of course there must have been certain rules and regulations here. Sophie was a very organized person.
Ridge’s love-red roses were almost like a hug, their half open buds like a countdown, and I only hoped when they bloomed maybe he’d be here.
The next customer approached, an athletic guy with sandy blonde hair. “I’m looking for some books about orchids.” He took a piece of paper from his pocket and read the title.
“Upstairs,” Beatrice pointed.
“Do you have that book though?” he asked.
“Only one way to find out,” Beatrice said. “Trundle upstairs and take a look.”
He frowned.
“I’ll go,” I said and brushed past her.
“Don’t make a habit of it,” she tutted. “We don’t have time for that.”
I double blinked. No time to help them find books? Just what kind of bookshop was this? “I’ll be fast,” I said, bamboozled by the ethics here. It was obviously busy, so if the other staff hadn’t arrived for whatever reason, why hadn’t she called for back-up? I couldn’t imagine telling a customer to go find his own book if he specifically asked for a title.
I had no idea which rooms housed what genres, but I did know the conservatory on the top floor was where the horticulture books were kept, because Sophie had mentioned it to me once before. It was her favorite room, and the place she sat at night to watch the Eiffel Tower sparkle under the moonlight.
I dashed up the rickety stairs, and went down a hallway, following hand painted arrows that pointed the way for each different room. Once we reached the conservatory, I quickly found the orchid section.
The guy ran a hand through his hair, slightly puffed from rushing up the stairs two at a time behind me. After a quick flick through dusty old tomes, I found a selection of books about orchids, including the one he’d asked for. “Thanks,” he said. “I’d never have found my way up here. This place is a lot bigger than it looks from the front.”
“It is,” I agreed. “And you’re welcome.”
He took the proffered books, and bounded back downstairs with a wave.
Hands on hips, I paused to catch my breath. My heart was hammering from the pace and the confusing start to my time here. The conservatory was aptly named, sunlight filtered in from a glass ceiling, which connected to the picture window which overlooked Paris. It was like being in a dream, the room luminescent with light, landing on the books in soft shards, making them almost ethereal, as they lounged in the glow of weak sunlight.
I started. In the corner, like a penumbra, a man sat hunched over a laptop. I hadn’t seen him sitting there, in the only spot the sun didn’t seem to shine. It was like he was trying to be invisible, back turned to the view outside of the Notre Dame in the distance, staring at his screen silently. I thought it better not to disturb him, but darted a quick glance as I edged out of the room. His side profile, blonde hair, blue eyes, full lips, seemed familiar somehow, but I couldn’t place him. Stretching his arms, he turned to me, catching me staring. We exchanged nods, and I rushed back into the hallway. With one last centering breath, I headed back into the fray, worried to see the line was longer, and that still only Beatrice was serving.
Evening fell, and I hadn’t managed to steal away for a nap. The customers eventually slowed to a trickle. I yawned and stretched, numbed from the unexpectedly long day, and ready to crawl into bed. My legs were jelly-like from exhaustion, and I longed for sleep.
I’d known Sophie’s bookshop was busy, a hive of activity, but I hadn’t expected high-pitched chatter, and incessant queues. It was more like book factory, wrap book, take money, point them in the direction of the nearest public toilet, make change, repeat. Some customers were surly, others awed to be in such a beautiful bookshop, and they lingered, not wanting their visit to end.
Beatrice tossed her hair, and stretched her arms high above. “I hope I didn’t come across badly,” she said, with an amiable smile. “It’s just that we have to follow protocol for things to run smoothly.”
Smoothly? That was the worst kind of chaos I’d ever stepped into. I’d wanted to ask about the lack of staff, but thought it best to tackle the big questions the next day when my brain was firing on all cylinders. I was so bone-tired, my words would probably fall out in a garbled mess. “We can chat tomorrow, properly. You can fill me in on the things I need to know,” I said.
An ebony-haired guy crept into the bookshop. He was shadow thin and fidgety. He nodded to Beatrice, and was rewarded with an eye roll from her. His black suit was crinkled and frayed at the hems, like he wore it a lot.
“Finally, he’s here.” Beatrice said, her voice sharp.
“Poor Beatrice,” he said, real concern in his voice. “Rolling her eyes to make sure her brain is still there. Find it this time, did you, dearie?”
What now? A rift among the staff? Sophie had told me that there were often petty squabbles, and I’d have to really pull them into line to make this place run efficiently. But did they snipe at each other just for the heck of it?
Beatrice crossed her arms, and said “Go write some unpublishable poetry. Oh wait…you already have.” She smirked, and tossed her red curls once more.
My shoulders slumped a few degrees south. My lofty dreams of hanging out at the bookshop chatting about favorite novels were in tatters. Where was the book lovers’ paradise I’d imagined? Us curled up on crinkly leather sofas, talking into the early hours of the morning about writers we adored, novels that changed our lives? I could fix it, I was sure of it, by injecting some fun into the monotony of day-to-day bookshop life.
“You must be TJ?” I said, holding my hand out. He had the tortured poet look perfected; mussed hair, perpetual frown, and secretive, dark eyes. His disheveled appearance was compelling, as though he lost himself in the business of living, and didn’t bother about anything else. I recognized that attribute in myself too. Many a time, I wandered from my reading cocoon, hair a bird’s nest, cheek with a thick pillow wrinkle, dazed, as my world had changed once again because of a book that had taken me on a journey, depositing me back on earth with a bang once I was done.
TJ cocked his head, and surveyed me for the longest time. “Sarah Smith. Romance reader. Book blogger. Owner of the Bookshop on the Corner. Twenty-nine. Loves metaphors. Hates mushrooms. Believes in love at first sight. Dates a roving reporter who resembles a Mills and Boon cover model, but that’s not the only reason she loves him. Yes?”
My eyebrows shot up. “Umm, yes…?”
His gave me an impish grin which made him look almost boyish. “How do I know? I’m a details man…”
“Stalker, more like,” Beatrice interjected.
He flicked a hand to dismiss her. “Thanks for your input, Beatrice.” His words poured out honeyed with sarcasm. He pasted on a smile, and took a notebook from his satchel. “Now if we’re all caught up, I have some unpublishable poetry to write. I’ll lock up, Sarah.”
I yawned. “That’s music to my ears. I haven’t slept since yesterday. Can you point me in the direction of Sophie’s apartment?”
TJ leaned over the counter, opened a drawer and took a bunch of keys out. “These are for the apartment, and the gold ones are for the bookshop,” he said. “Go up the stairs, third door down is Sophie’s apartment. Do you need help with your bags?”
“Thanks TJ, but I can manage.” I only wanted to shower and sleep. There’d be ample time to get to know everyone tomorrow. Though I was dead curious to find out their stories and how they found their way to Once Upon a Time, it would have to wait. “I guess I’ll see you both tomorrow?” I went to the front door, to the little gap where I’d stashed my bag and backpack – only to find my jacket in a crumpled heap on the carpet. I spun around, searching the entryway desperately, but there were only books, no bags. No!
“What is it?” TJ said. “You’ve gone lily white.”
I rubbed my hands over my face, hoping I’d wake up from a bad dream and find my things where I left them. “They’re gone! My suitcase and my backpack. My passport!” I groaned.
TJ loped over, and surveyed the empty spot where my jacket lay like an empty promise. “Are you sure someone didn’t move it?”
We both looked to Beatrice who shrugged. “This is what I meant by people taking advantage. It’s why I’m tough with the customers. Sorry, Sarah, but this just proves my point.”
A strangled hiccough escaped me. TJ rubbed my back. This was the never-ending day from hell. It was impossible to believe it was still my first day in Paris. It had been interminable. Bag snatch, check. Heck, I hoped my mother wasn’t right. Was this a sign of things to come?
“Go upstairs,” he said. “Use Sophie’s phone. You’ll have to report it all missing, I guess. Not that you have any hope of it being returned.” His voice was soft with empathy.
I frowned. Bed was still out of reach. It was my own damn stupidity, I’d have to spend the next hour on the phone. Way to go, Sarah.
With heavy legs, I stomped up the stairs fighting tears. Paris was supposed to be perfect. A magical, romantic city where I’d discover a whole new me. Maybe I wasn’t great at driving my own life outside of Ashford. I’d made a mess of things. Money, credit cards, passport – gone. That would make the coming weeks difficult when it came time to, you know, eat. And my suitcase, my precious books – gone. Clothing – gone. The only pair of shoes I’d have now were the borrowed clodhoppers on my feet, and the thought of lugging myself around on those all day in the store had me and my back at breaking point.
Why would I leave my bags right near the front door? I may as well have left a note on there saying Steal me! Back home we didn’t even lock our houses at nighttime, but I had to learn quick smart I wasn’t in Ashford any more.
Pushing open the door of Sophie’s apartment, I lifted a little. It was an elegant space, pretty and feminine and I knew I’d be comfortable. Grainy wooden floorboards were polished to a shine, a huge bed was made up with fresh white linen. A floor lamp lit the room from under its ruched vanilla shade. A bouquet of flowers scented the air sweet. Near the bed was a bookshelf that took up an entire wall; I was happy to note it was filled with romance books. I took in their titles, and anticipated making my way through them. Instead of diving into bed with a dusty well-read romance, I grabbed the phone and tried to sort out who I needed to call. My eyes were hanging out of my head by the time I hung up and fell into a deep sleep.
