The Little Bookshop On The Seine. Rebecca Raisin
“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.