The Little Antique Shop Under the Eiffel Tower (19 page)

Padding through the kitchen, my patience was taut like a rubber band about to snap, as I picked up dirty plates and set them by the sink, tossed empty bottles into a bag, wiped down the wineglass-ringed bench. Grabbing a notepad, I scrawled a message, highlighting tasks for them to do with a threat about immediate eviction if they didn’t. I felt like the wicked stepsister. The killjoy, as Lilou dubbed me. Guilt, and Lilou went hand in hand, and I envied her the younger sister status, her ability to float through life without any responsibility.

With a sigh, I scrunched my eyes closed to walk past the rest of the mess, and took the newspaper and a coffee to the balcony. Golden rays of sun beat down in the tranquil light of dawn. Paris was silent bar the faint echoes of birds, somewhere off in the distance as they chirped to one another about the coming day. Soon, the boulevards would come alive: car doors slamming shut, shutters banging open, children ambling to school, as the town woke together as if timed. But for now, it was just me and the birds and I relished the peace.

After a sip of café noisette, a rich espresso with a splash of milk, I flicked open the paper. More bad news.

The Postcard Bandit Strikes Again!

Overnight the Dopellier Auction House was robbed, the Postcard Bandit claiming responsibility once more. Gendarmes say the bandit is getting more brazen. The postcard inscription taunted gendarmes about their lack of evidence, and was signed with a letter T. A first they say, as previous postcards have had no hint of the author. Investigators say the thefts are likely to escalate as he gains notoriety. Anyone with information is urged to contact their local station.

I went on to read the rest of the article, a heavy sensation settling in my belly.

It couldn’t be? It just couldn’t. I’d already jumped to conclusions with Madame Dupont before, it was silly to even think of it again. But gulping back sudden anxiety I had to admit it was possible. And with my track record for dating bad guys, it was more than plausible.

Signed with the letter T?

Tristan Black?

It couldn’t be him. But he’d canceled our date the night before simply because of…work. Not to go and rob an auction house! It’s not like he’d been in Sorrento for the first spate of thefts. He would have caught my eye for sure. And then I remembered, our first chance meeting…

I closed my eyes and tried to recall the conversation.
I’ve just been to Italy and nothing there compares to what I’ve seen here today… It’s been a revelation
. Color flooded my cheeks. I’d thought he been flirting with me, but what if he was comparing the jewelry from both countries? He had been to Italy! Had he been playing me like a song this entire time, and I’d hummed along, just as he’d expected? It did seem suspicious he’d arrived in Paris just as a robbery happened.

But wouldn’t it be obvious it was him? Thieves would be more thief-like… Cagey, narrow-eyed, with a pencil mustache and a bag of loot on their shoulder even.

I tried to calm my erratic heartbeat and focus. Was Tristan capable of such a thing? I didn’t know him well enough but this kind of thievery would have to be meticulously planned, and executed. Was he a cunning cat burglar? Or was I making excuses, because deep down I felt something for him already, and I was scared to get hurt? Was that what all the talk was at the gala? Escaping with me somewhere secluded…? Somewhere no one would find us? I gulped back worry.

What were the facts and what did I know about him? For one thing, he was new to the Paris antique world. No one on the circuit knew him, yet he’d been invited to prestigious events including the May Gala. He had been in Italy when the first thefts occurred. Then he canceled our date on the very night a museum was robbed…

My mind whirled. It was almost too farfetched, like something out of a Hollywood blockbuster movie, and yet, he’d waltzed in with his story set, winning me over with the saving bid on the cello… Did he have me lined up from the very get-go? Why would he bid or even attend auctions? Surely the criminal would prefer to stay in the shadows?

I laughed at my stupidity.

He was hiding in plain sight!

Of course he’d bid on things so they didn’t suspect it was him, the overconfident newcomer. And that’s why he flirted with me.
No,
they’d say,
he’s very friendly with eccentric Anouk.
All done to blend in and to make it seem like he was one of us, when in fact he was doing reconnaissance! Was I the most gullible person around? He went straight for the only woman at the auction, and I played right into his hands…

I blew out my cheeks, cradling my head to stop the throbbing. I’d go to the gendarmes! Tell them everything. But what exactly was that? They’d laugh me out the door –
he’s been to Italy!
Half the circuit traveled to Italy to attend auctions. The Parisian gendarmes knew me well and would fob me off just like before.

Sipping my coffee, I mulled over the possibilities. There had to be a way to get him to talk. It would only be a matter of time before he slipped up, especially if I asked the right questions, in an innocent, guileless way. He wouldn’t have a clue I suspected him. But then what? Get him locked up? When I thought of him cooking in my kitchen, the way he pervaded my senses, could I do that? He saved me from a mugger, throwing himself into the fray without a second thought!

But.

Justice should prevail. For the sake of our prized antiques I’d catch him out. A perverse thrill ran through me. Espionage – who would have thought I’d be caught up in something like this? It wouldn’t hurt to grill him softly by the playing the ingénue. A slow smirk settled across my face. No longer would men make a mockery of me! Leaning back in my chair, I played out the scene in my mind, only to be interrupted by the loud yawns of Lilou who walked out to meet me on the balcony with Henry’s arms wrapped around her middle, squid-like. “Bonjour,” she said sleepily.

“You’re up early.” Of all the mornings for her to be awake!

“Henry’s going for a job interview.”

The headline screamed from the page, catching Henry’s attention, so I snapped it closed.

Lilou pulled the paper from my hands. “Actually, he’ll need this.”

I snatched it back. “There’s a shop downstairs that sells newspapers.” Annoyance flashed through me. My peace had been interrupted, first with the mess in my beloved apartment and now with my vow to catch a thief. There was a lot to consider this sunny morning.

“Anouk.” Lilou put her hands on her hips and tried to stare me down. “It’s only a newspaper.”

“Exactly, and for a Euro you can be the proud owner of your very own.”

She gave me a cheeky grin and stole my coffee, raising it in the air as if she was toasting, before taking a deep drink. “Delicious.”

I crossed my arms and glared at her. “It’s time we had that talk. You know the one where you start doing as I say or I
will
call Papa and tell him everything…” The words had no sooner left my lips when the front door swung open and the sound of my maman’s raised voice carried out to the balcony. Maman? She usually avoided Paris like so many in her little village did. The constant motion in the city made her dizzy.

I stood at the balcony threshold, as Maman stormed through the living room.

“Anouk! Lilou!” She threw her handbag on the chaise. “ANOUK! LILOU!” she shrieked, gazing wildly around the room.

“Out here, Maman!” I said. Huffing, she followed my voice, oblivious to the fact we had all watched her spectacular entrance.

“Oh God, they must’ve found out about the course,” Lilou hissed. “Lie, lie, lie and I’ll make it up to you.”

But how? Papa would be furious. “I’ll try but this is your last chance
and
you have to clean up!” I whispered back. Henry shuffled his feet and shoved his hands deep in his pockets, giving me an innocuous smile.

Wide-eyed Lilou nodded. “Anything, yes.”

Maman joined us outside, her face rosy red with exertion.

“Maman,” I said, suddenly fearful when Papa wasn’t following a few steps behind like normal. “What is it? Where’s Papa? Is he OK?”

She snatched the coffee cup from Lilou, which gave me an enormous amount of pleasure, and drank it in one gulp, smacking her lips, and saying belligerently, “
Your papa
? Your papa is fine! Just like always.” Lilou visibly relaxed, enjoying the reprieve.

She sat heavily, resting her hands on her belly.

“OK-K-K. So where is he?” I asked. Maman didn’t travel alone. And she didn’t drive. She relied on Papa for transport and on the odd occasion when they deigned to visit Paris they caught the train. They lived in a small village by the coast, and preferred the routine of their quiet, orderly lives. We usually visited them and not the other way around.

My maman pursed her lips, and breathed heavily like she was trying to stop herself from exploding. “He’s at home! Feet up, TV blaring, with a big plate of croissants in front of him.” She wrinkled her nose, disgusted by the thought, but the picture she painted sounded just like Papa. There was nothing new with that scenario.

“What’s wrong with that?” I asked, as I busied myself pouring more coffee. “You never travel without each other. What’s going on?

She huffed. “I’ll tell you what’s going on…I’ve left the fool, that’s what!”

My jaw fell open. “You’ve…left him? As in left him at home, or
left
left him
.”

With a tut she threw her hands in the air. “Where do you get these phrases from, Anouk? I didn’t scrimp and save for school for you to speak like a simpleton! ‘Left left him’, if that’s the only vocabulary you have!”

I blanched. My maman was usually poised, reserved, the quiet one in our family. This screeching woman was a million miles away from that. I struggled to comprehend what had angered her enough to walk out. I’d always looked up to my parents, put their love on a pedestal, because it had lasted so long, and was strong, or so I’d thought.

“You’ve obviously had a shock, Maman. We’re here to listen…” Lilou said, her voice syrupy, earning herself an arm rub from Maman. I shot Lilou a glare. She volleyed back a smirk. Even as adults we sometimes fell into habits from childhood.

“Get me a vin rouge,” she said to Lilou. “And then I can tell you.”

“Maman! It’s not even nine yet!” I said, scandalized.

“Excusez-moi?” She threw me a challenging glare. “Who is the parent here?”

I bit my tongue. “Well…you don’t normally drink alcohol.”

She snorted. “I don’t normally do anything, and
that
my belle fille is going to change.”

I tugged Lilou’s arm and dragged her into the kitchen. We hissed back and forth finally coming up with a plan.

“Make sure she hasn’t had some kind of nervous breakdown,” Lilou whispered.

Could she have? “Oui, now go, so I can talk quietly to her and make her see it’s not the time to drink red wine!”

“If she wants wine, give her wine. It’s her life.” She shrugged as if it was perfectly acceptable to drink wine at breakfast time.

I shook my head. “Go!”

She shepherded Henry to the bistro downstairs but came back a minute later, with her hand out. Sighing, I threw some crumpled Euros at her. “Just go, and let me speak to Maman!”

Lilou laughed. “OK, OK. But don’t try and fix everything for her. Just listen.”

I held in a sigh. “What would you know?”

Maman bellowed for me, so I hastily shut the door on Lilou’s smug face.

I raced back outside to Maman who’d kept up a one-way conversation, muttering and cursing even though no one was listening. Where had my diminutive mother gone? She wasn’t one to use bad language – the only thing I’d ever heard her mutter under her breath was a song.

“Forty years! Forty long years I’ve given that man and for what? Make lunch, make dinner, make the midnight snack! My soup is too hot, my soup is too cold! My soup isn’t salty enough!”

I sat quickly and picked up the coffee cup, and handed it over to her again, hoping the caffeine would calm her down, not hype her up anymore. And prayed she’d forget about drinking wine! My maman was usually so staid, alcohol didn’t figure into her life, unless it was one glass with dinner.

“He does love his food just so. But he’s always been that way, Maman,” I said softly. My papa was finicky when it came to meals. Everything had to be laid out on a blindingly white tablecloth, the cutlery shined, his plate warmed, and Maman would serve it up to him like a waitress, asking if it was the right temperature, whether it needed more pepper, if he’d like vin rouge, or vin blanc. I could totally understand if she felt unappreciated but I’d always thought she enjoyed the process.

Maman was always found with her nose pressed in a recipe book, hunting for new ideas. When I phoned home every Sunday, she peppered me with questions about the latest spring menus in bistros around Paris, or would ask me to hunt for hard-to-source ingredients and post them to her.

“I shouldn’t have wasted my life with him.” Her eyes pooled – she was sincerely hurt. I could count on one hand the amount of times I’d seen my maman cry, and I’d never have guessed it would be over my papa.

She’d never uttered a bad word about him, even on those occasions when he deserved it. So fiercely loyal, often telling us to listen to his wisdom, when we thought he was anything but wise. I waited for her to continue, noting the worry lines between her eyes, the gray pallor of her skin.

“Start from the beginning, Maman, and tell me what’s made you so unhappy. It’s not just the soup, is it?”

“The soup, the cutlery, the washing up! It’s all of it!” She leaned back sending an exaggerated sigh to the heavens. “I won’t be a doormat any longer for that selfish excuse for a man!” If their love was built on wobbly foundations, what hope did the rest of us have? A part of me deflated. I hadn’t seen this coming, and I felt like the most self-absorbed daughter.

My papa was traditional, and believed women should settle down, have babies, keep house. It was like talking to a rock when we tried to explain things had changed, and no one thought like that anymore. He didn’t leave his little village often, and had no real idea how much the world had progressed, because he didn’t listen to any opinion other than his own. He was set in his ways, which is why I let Lilou have some freedom here. It had been stifling living under his rule as a teenager; as an adult it would be much worse.