The Little Bookshop On The Seine. Rebecca Raisin
“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