The Little Antique Shop Under the Eiffel Tower (11 page)

She flashed a cheesy grin ignoring my singular use of
you
. “You’ll get used to it, Anouk. During the day I’ll be at Madame’s. She offered me the use of the room above her shop as a studio, and Henry will be searching for work, so you’ll hardly even see us.”

“Lilou, I meant…”

She gave me a hard stare. “Anouk, come on, give it a few weeks’ trial and if it’s not working he can leave. I really thought you’d be happy I’m going to pour all my energy into my business.”

She had me on an emotional tightrope and she knew it. “I’ll give you one week. And if one thing is damaged –” I gave the chaise a pointed stare for emphasis “– I’ll be livid.”

“Great!” She beamed.

“And call Papa.”

“Papa?” she said. “Why?”

“Be honest about the course you’re supposed to be doing. Tell him you’ve quit. He’s paying for it, Lilou.”

She grappled with a retort. “But he’ll do something crazy, like take away my allowance, or race here and demand I go home, and I can’t. That town, it’s stifling.”

I tilted my head. We’d had this same argument so many times and I was tired. “You know he
means
well. He only wants the best for you. For some direction in your life. The jewelry business is a great idea –
if
you stick with it. Last month it was designing vintage-look postcards, the month before it was dream catchers. You tend to get carried away, Lilou. You don’t stick at anything.”

“Little do you know! I’ve been making jewelry for months!” She put her hands on her hips, ready for battle. “Shall I bring up the past? You haven’t always been so together either, you know.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose as a headache loomed. I’d always been together. Disallowing the love mess I’d stumbled into recently my life had run smoothly, steadily. With grim determination I’d plotted my future like an author would their next novel and continually plugged away at it, hoping to get it right.

I’d always been an organized type. From my early teens I had a clear plan for my life, and had worked hard to achieve it. Sometimes I wished I was more relaxed, and not so driven, but it wasn’t in my nature. It was exasperating being the responsible older sibling when Lilou was so flighty but I did admire her for her gumption and her utter lack of giving a damn. But I could never tell her though, give an inch and she’d set sail hundreds of miles away. “I think you’re mistaken, Lilou.”

“Well…remember that time Marguerite chopped your braids off? Who was there for you when you thought your whole world was ending? Hmm?”

I gave her a wide-eyed stare. “I was eight-years-old. And there’s no way you’d remember that because you were a toddler then!”

She clucked her tongue. “OK, well what about that time you thought you were pregnant to that surfer guy from Australia and I comforted you all night long until we could head to the doctor the next day? Hmm? How quickly you forget!”

I stifled a laugh at the incredulity on her face. “That was
you
who had the pregnancy scare and he wasn’t Australian, he was from New Zealand, and
supposedly
the love of your young life! One of many, dare I mention!” Poor Henry looked crestfallen at the mention of another guy.

Her eyes narrowed as she tried to remember. “Anyway –” she pointed a finger at me “– I’ve always been there for you. And it would be nice if you would do the same.”

There was no chance I would get her to admit her folly. “You beggar belief, Lilou. If I come back from work and one thing is damaged or out of place, you’re both out no matter how much you try to sweet-talk me. And…” I paused for effect “…I’ll ring Papa and tell him
everything
.”

She gasped and shook her head. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would.” I pulled my shoulders back and did the big sister act. I’d never rat her out to our parents but she didn’t need to know that. “Get some sheets on my chaises if you’re going to spend the day watching TV and sprawling on them like that.” I gave Henry a pointed look. “And make up the spare bedroom while you’re at it; you can both sleep in there. We’ll discuss all of this properly when I get home tonight, including Papa and the course he’s paying for.”

“Merci, Anouk.”

We kissed cheeks and I left, knowing that as soon as I was out of sight music would be pumping, and the apartment would no longer be a single woman’s sanctuary. The noise I could deal with, for a week or two, but the hard part would be making Lilou see reason about her future, or lack thereof.

***

When I arrived at the shop after breakfast with Madame Dupont, Tristan was there, leaning against the façade like some kind of movie star. My breath caught at the sight of him. It wasn’t just the way his muscled physique was evident under his clothing, it was the way he held himself, almost like he was ready to pounce. There was something primal about him, and it unnerved me, because I couldn’t look away.

“Another visit so soon?” I said.

“Well, you see, I had an interesting night. There’s a painting I’m interested in. It’s rumored to be in Paris, but do you think I can find it?” He smiled and ran a hand through his hair, before continuing on quietly. “When I make enquiries all roads seem to lead back to you, but when I press people for details everyone clamps their mouths closed. It would seem that you have some great friends in Paris, Anouk. We should all be so lucky. And I know if you have the painting, then for my own safety I should leave it alone.” He grinned, making a joke about how ruffled I was when I thought he was stealing the cello from under me.

But I was genuinely shocked to hear he was asking about a painting, because I knew which one he was after. The one Joshua stole from me. It wasn’t worth bucket loads of cash when I bought it, but I had thought it would be a good investment for the future, and when the painter sadly died the value shot up. It was one of the largest portraits he’d done, and it was all red, every single brush stroke, completely unique to his other work. No one had been able to find it, including me. I’d made a ton of enquiries after Joshua took it, but to no avail.

Whoever Tristan had spoken to had kept my secrets, and for that, I was grateful, and a little fuzzy with the thought they cared enough to keep quiet about the catastrophe that had landed me in such an embarrassing mess. Still, how he knew about the painting in the first place was a concern. The quicker he forgot about it the better, but I could tell from the set of his shoulders he wouldn’t be appeased with a vague answer. How could I say Joshua had stolen it from me without looking like a fool? It had taken me years to build up my reputation as a trader of quality antiques, so the fewer people who knew about my stupidity the better. I certainly didn’t want to tell a stranger.

“Well?” he asked, his gaze trained on me.

“Well what?” I folded my arms.

“Why are they so protective of you?” That I could answer in the vaguest possible way.

“Let’s walk,” I said.

We crossed the Pont d’Léna and came to the entrance of the Trocadéro Gardens where water from the fountains streamed into the air like champagne. “The antique circuit is tight knit and we look out for one another, that’s all.” I said, hoping this would help him understand just what kind of community he had walked into. And, despite the intense competition between us, we Parisians did stick together and kept mute on personal matters. I could have hugged them all in thanks, and I wasn’t the hugging type.

He cocked his head. “Do newcomers ever get into the inner circle?”

“The French are…distrustful of newcomers. It’s inbuilt in us, to preserve our heritage. I’m French, and when I moved to Paris, it took aeons for me to find my niche. Aren’t you more the fly-by-night kind?”

“Is that what I seem like?” A fleeting look of hurt crossed his features.

“A little,” I said, truthfully. “We’ve seen your kind so many times.” If he wanted to be part of the French antique world, really part of it, privy to the most selective auctions and gossip, it would take years for him to build up their trust and be included. Somehow he’d wangled an invitation to the gala already, so he must have had some connections somewhere. “Tristan, it’s nothing personal, it’s just the way it’s always been done. It’s traditional, and sort of like a test that takes years to pass.”

I was met with silence, so continued: “Like any industry there’s always something to upset the balance, a person or entity who isn’t as honest as they first seem.” Tristan seemed earnest enough to understand there were rules in these situations and they applied to everyone differently. “So it’s reasonable to suspect you’d be the same. The painting you want…is gone. No one knows where, but it will be suspicious to everyone you even asking about it, because of the drama involved.”

“What drama?”

I swallowed hard. Why couldn’t he just take the hint and leave it be? “It’s a long story, and one best left forgotten.”

We walked, curving around clusters of people out for an early morning stroll.

Something had been bugging me, so I asked, “Why did you go to Andre’s estate that day?” If he really didn’t want to step on people’s toes, following my every move was a bad way to start. Was he following the others too? We were well trained in the art of stealth, and they’d know if he was sniffing out their clients, and their deals.

He had the grace to color. “For the scroll. I heard about it from a friend who knew Andre’s grandfather. But when I got to the door, he denied even owning such a thing. I realized you’d already made some kind of deal with him. The fire in your eyes when you saw me was a good indicator.” He laughed. “I can see why you were angry. After meeting that dubious guy at the auction, I imagine he’s stolen quite a number of things from under you. I’m not like that, Anouk. You have my word.”

Except I knew that words were just words sometimes. It would take a lot more than an empty promise for me to believe Tristan. It was ingrained in me to be careful, and the one time I wasn’t I stumbled. “Look,” I said turning to point into the distance at the structure tourists and Parisians loved. “This is one of the best places in Paris to view the Eiffel Tower from.”

He followed my gaze, but I knew he wasn’t taking in the view. He was deep in thought, his eyes glazed over. I couldn’t help thinking Tristan was a carbon copy of Joshua, with the ‘I just want to be accepted’ act. If I wasn’t so suspicious, I would have enjoyed the walk more. At face value, Tristan was charming, and sweet, with eyes so blue you could get lost inside them. Instead, I held myself stiffly and like some kind of tour guide pointed out the other sights to see from this vantage point. “Behind us is the Palais de Chaillot, and that’s the Fountain of Warsaw…” My voice petered away. Even to me it sounded forced, and I understood I was trying to veer the conversation away from the antique circuit, because I was already saying too much.

“Forgive me,” he said, his face softening as though he’d shrugged off the earlier conversation. “I hadn’t intended to make this all about me. I wanted to get to know you better, and if that takes time, as is your way, that’s fine by me.”

Did he mean romantically? My heart sped up a little at the thought, but I knew I would never understand the vagaries of a different language’s subtle nuances to trust his words. “I’m really busy, Tristan, with work, and…” My brain scrambled for more examples. “Family, and life, so…”

He threw his head back and laughed. “So no friendships?”

I was caught off guard, and wished I knew what exactly he was after. “No, no time for much else.”

“You have to eat though, right?”

“I eat at home.” Stop talking, Anouk! I sounded like some kind of flat-lining hermit. “Usually late, in front of the computer while I work.”

I eat at home. I chat with my soup bowl. I lie to myself about love.

The realization my heart was a turncoat gave me an urge to flee. My carefully constructed fort was wobbling and that’s exactly what happened when you didn’t protect yourself. It happened with Joshua because I believed in love at first sight. And that proved to be the biggest mistake I’d ever made. If only you could take a man on his word, his actions, but I knew I couldn’t. Mesmerizing eyes or not, Tristan sent alarms bells ringing. He was too similar, almost like the universe was testing me to see if I’d mess up again.

And for a brief moment of time, I wanted to say yes, let’s date, let’s have dinner, because why shouldn’t a girl be able to act impulsively? But my job, and the amount of money invested in my work, made me hesitate. I had to. Tristan wanted that painting, so maybe getting to know me was simply for information about something worth a lot of money.

“Great,” he said. “I’m a night owl too. And there’s nothing like a home-cooked meal. I’ll bring the wine.” And with that he pecked me on the cheek and sauntered off, giving me zero time to respond.

I stood there opening and closing my mouth like a fish out of water until I collected myself. Why was I attracted to men who were a mystery? I snapped my mouth closed. Who said I was attracted to him? I stumbled from the park, realizing there was no point lying to myself. There was something about Tristan, an energy, an intensity to his gaze, and if I was truthful part of me wanted to explore those feelings. Sadly, it could never happen.

Chapter Nine

Night fell across the sky like spilt ink, the moon a yellow orb illuminating the evening as I chatted with my last customer. I’d already flipped the sign to Closed and locked the door so we could chat in private. Gilles was an elderly widower who lived on Rue de l’Odéon – a famous street in the 6th where Sylvia Beach had moved her bookshop Shakespeare and Co in 1922, and published James Joyce’s
Ulysses
from. Gilles would tell me stories of how busy the street was still with people wandering up and down, trying to get a sense of what took place there, perhaps looking for the ghosts of those great people. I’d walked down there often enough myself, imagining I could see them leaning against the brickwork of their shops and chatting about books.

Gilles visited me once a week, and spent the other evenings strolling the boulevards of Paris with his little dog Casper. He had been coming to my shop for years but he had never once bought a thing, and never would. It wasn’t antiques he craved, it was people and a way to assuage the loneliness for a while. While I usually required an introduction for someone to enter my shop, the haunted look Gilles had worn made him an exception to the rule.