Well, c’mon, who doesn’t Google their boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend?
‘No, that’s her,’ I say, looking at the picture of them together, wearing hard hats on a construction site, and the biggest smiles you’ve ever seen.
‘He didn’t mention she was working on the same project?’
I shake my head dumbly.
‘Well, he probably didn’t know until he got there, and anyway, it’s not important, they’re over, he’s with you now . . .’
Harriet is chuntering away in the background, but it’s like everything around me has disappeared and all I can concentrate on is the photograph of them together. I pinch the screen with my fingers and zoom in, making their smiles bigger and bigger until they fill the screen. I feel vaguely sick.
‘It’s just some silly photo, it doesn’t mean anything,’ she says dismissively.
‘Yes, I know.’ I nod, handing back her phone. But it’s stirred something inside me: the fear of being betrayed, of being let down, that lurks beneath the surface like some kind of monster.
‘Golly, is that the time?’ Glancing at her watch, Harriet tuts loudly. ‘I’d better go.’
‘Already?’ I feel a beat of disappointment. Usually I’m totally fine with my own company, but today I could do with being around a friendly face. ‘You don’t have time for another coffee?’
‘I wish,’ she sighs, ‘but work’s crazy. The catalogue for Madame Dumont’s apartment is back from the printers and I need to do a final check of it. I’ve got to head down to Provence tomorrow to present it to her beneficiaries, ahead of the auction.’ She stands up to leave.
My stomach twists up at the mention of the auction. ‘Provence? But why? Aren’t they coming to Paris?’
‘No, they’re too busy.’
‘Busy?’ I can’t help but feel angry at the thought of Emmanuelle’s home being broken up and them not even bothering to show up.
‘Apparently.’ Harriet shrugs.
‘When is the auction?’
‘Sunday, but the removal people are going in today to clear out everything so it can be marked up and viewed beforehand.’ She pauses. ‘It’s very exciting, but rather sad to think of it all being sold off after all these years. I wonder why she kept it like that?’ She gazes into the middle distance for a moment, then gives a brisk little shrug of her shoulders. ‘Still, I suppose we’ll never know now.’
‘No, I guess not,’ I reply, and I feel a sudden sense of futility.
I mean, seriously, what am I doing, thinking I can solve some half-a-century-old mystery? I’m a novelist, not a real-life detective. Being fascinated by love is all very well, but let’s face it, I’m never going to find out what happened through a few love letters. It’s hopeless. I don’t even have a clue who Henry is, let alone anything else. Plus, in a few days the apartment will have been cleared out and everything auctioned off. There won’t be a mystery to solve any more, it will be all gone. Like it never even existed.
‘What about you?’ she asks, turning back to me. ‘More sightseeing?’
I snap back. ‘Actually, I was thinking of visiting some bookshops, you know how I love them. Paris has such a great literary history, I thought it might give me some inspiration for my new book.’
I say it more to remind myself than Harriet. I need to get a grip. Concentrate on the present, my present. I’ve been so wrapped up in Madame Dumont’s apartment and Henry’s letters, I haven’t given much thought to anything else. But now I need to focus on my own life and forget all that other stuff.
‘Well, in that case you must go to Shakespeare & Company,’ she suggests.
My stomach flips. ‘It still exists? I mean, I thought, what with the war . . .’
‘Yes, it’s on rue de la Bûcherie. It’s not the original bookshop – that closed during the war. This one is at a different address but it’s still completely wonderful. You’ll love it.’
I feel a surge of excitement, but I try to keep my voice calm. ‘Great, thanks, I’ll go check it out.’
‘OK, well I really must dash,’ she says, gathering up her things. ‘I’m going straight on my date after work, so I’m not sure what time I’ll be home.’ She smiles excitedly. ‘Don’t wait up for me.’
‘I won’t.’ I grin and, saying goodbye to Harriet, I set off across the cobbles. Everything I’d thought has just flown out of the window and I feel a renewed sense of determination. I can’t give up now. It’s a sign, it has to be.
And with every step I take, I feel one step closer to Henry, and one step closer to solving this mystery.
19
When I say I love bookshops, it’s a bit like saying Madonna loves attention. Just a slight understatement. What I really mean is, I lurve bookshops. I’m obsessed by them. Even addicted. I can’t walk past one without diving inside, only to emerge several hours and pounds later, weighed down with carrier bags.
From the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with a thousand treasure chests waiting to be opened, to the way the spines feel as you run your finger along them, to the sheer intoxicating smell of all those books, I love everything about them.
But most of all I love the quiet contemplation. The hours lost browsing shelves. The chance to switch off. In this fast-paced digital world I love the chance to look away from a screen and, merely by turning a page, be transported to another time and place entirely.
My favourite bookshop in the whole world is a beautiful Edwardian shop in London, boasting oak galleries, parquet floors and a gorgeous stained-glass atrium. Or at least it was until now, I reflect, as I turn a corner on the Left Bank and see a small shop tucked away, its green facade almost hidden behind shelves of books overflowing onto the cobbles. And the sign, Shakespeare & Company.
It’s love at first sight.
As I step through the doorway, everywhere I look there are rows upon rows of books. Bookcases stretch from floor to ceiling. Every inch of conceivable space is filled with an assortment of titles. It’s as if you can feel the stories seeping out of the walls and hear the cacophony of authors’ voices, past and present, all around you.
It’s busy with customers, many of them tourists flocking around the shelves dedicated to Ernest Hemingway, James Joyce and F. Scott Fitzgerald, the writers that Henry talked about in his letters to Emmanuelle. Making my way past them, I venture into the shadowy recesses. I’m not sure what I hope to discover – after all, this isn’t the original bookshop – but still I can’t quell a growing sense of anticipation.
At the back of the shop there’s a wooden staircase, and I climb upstairs above the shop to find a rabbit warren of reading rooms. Here the books aren’t for sale; instead the volumes are stacked several rows deep, spines jostling against spines, oversized hardbacks against well-read paperbacks, leather-bound classics against pulp fiction.
It’s much quieter here, away from the crowds, and I wander through the rooms. In a tiny cubby-hole a vintage typewriter sits on a desk. Absently I brush my fingertips over the keys, my imagination working overtime. I wonder if Henry used one like this? Perhaps it could even be the very same model. On the wall above are pasted photographs and scribbled notes left from visitors, torn pages from manuscripts, typewritten excerpts: I read them all for some clue, some hope that I can find a connection.
Because as crazy and implausible and as far-fetched as it sounds, I can’t help feeling there’s some trace of him here, that some part of him still remains. I just don’t know what.
‘Pardon—’
I nearly jump out of my skin. Snatching my fingers off the keys, I twirl round to see one of those hipster types with a beard and a beanie hat pulled down low over his eyes. He’s carrying an armful of books.
‘Oh sorry, I thought this was open to the public—’ I start backing out.
‘No, it’s OK, please stay.’ He speaks with a heavy French accent. ‘Be not inhospitable to strangers lest they be angels in disguise.’
I look at him questioningly and he smiles.
/> ‘It’s above the doorway downstairs, it was one of the owner’s favourite epigrams,’ he explains, then smiles. ‘Do you need help?’
‘No, thank you, I was just looking.’ I gesture to the walls. ‘It’s fascinating.’
‘So much history.’ He nods.
‘What happened to the original shop?’
‘It closed down with the outbreak of the Second World War. It was run by Sylvia Beach, an American. Apparently, she was quite a character. She published James Joyce’s Ulysses.’
‘She did? Wow.’ So that explains the crowds of tourists queuing up to buy their own copies.
‘And so many other writers visited,’ he continues, ‘Fitzgerald, Miller, Hemingway – it was the meeting place for the lost generation. At night the couches turned into beds where writers slept in exchange for stacking shelves.’
Just like Henry did. He was one of those writers, all those years ago.
‘It must have been incredible,’ he continues, shaking his head. ‘If only there was a window into the past.’
I think about the letters in my bag and for a moment I’m almost tempted to share my secret.
‘Are there any records of all the writers who stayed there before the war?’ I ask instead.
‘I don’t know but I doubt it.’ He shakes his head. ‘It’s so long ago.’
It was unlikely, but still, I feel a stab of disappointment.
‘Why? Are you looking for someone?’
‘Yes, a young American writer called Henry.’
‘A relative?’
‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘He’s—’ I pause. What is Henry to me? He’s no longer a stranger, I feel like I know him. ‘He’s a friend,’ I say, finally.
‘What’s his last name? Maybe I have heard of him?’
Until now it’s never occurred to me that Henry might have made it as a writer, that he might have been published, that he might be nestling somewhere among these shelves. But even if he is, I would have no way of knowing – he signed his letters merely H or Henry, and there was never a return address on the envelope.
‘I don’t know his last name,’ I confess, and as I say it I realise how tiny my chances are of ever finding out his identity. It’s like a needle in a haystack. Actually, make that about a zillion haystacks.
He casts me an apologetic look. ‘In that case, I’m sorry . . .’ He trails off, with a shrug of his shoulders. ‘Can I help you with anything else?’
‘No . . . no, thank you.’ I shake my head.
He smiles kindly, then turns back to stacking the shelves.
It was a long shot anyway.
Still, I can’t leave a bookshop without buying something and so for the next few hours I lose myself in the heady world of literature, browsing shelves and thumbing pages, before finally stepping back out to the street. It’s bright after the dimness of the shop and, just across the water, on the Île de la Cité I can hear the bells of Notre Dame chiming.
Standing on the cobbles I hug my purchases to my chest and pause to listen. I’ve never felt more like I was in Paris than I do at this moment. Never felt more touched by the magic of the city. I think about Henry. I feel both exhilarated and disappointed. I’ve reached a dead end, and yet after my visit to the bookshop I feel inexplicably closer to him somehow. Which doesn’t make any sense at all, I reflect, as I turn away and start walking. But then none of this makes sense, does it?
It’s still only early afternoon and I briefly consider doing some more sightseeing. This is my third day in Paris and I’ve barely seen anything. My mind flicks back to Xavier and his advice to throw away my guidebook. Maybe he’s right, maybe that’s not the way to see a city, but I still feel like I should. I can’t help it; I’m always compelled to do some sightseeing when I’m in a different country, like it’s my duty.
But then I guess most people are the same, aren’t they? Visit something famous, have your picture taken in front of it, tick it off the list. Done. Strange really, when you think about it.
Anyway, my bags of books is heavy and I’ve left Heathcliff in the apartment – after the incident at the Louvre I was worried bookshops, too, might not be dog friendly – so instead I decide to head home. I can pick up some food on the way. With Harriet out tonight on her date, it will be just me and Heathcliff.
It’s not far to the apartment, and I start weaving my way through the backstreets. I’ve grown more familiar with the neighbourhood and I’m no longer getting lost every few minutes and having to stand on street corners with my nose buried in a map. Pretty soon I’ll be like a local. Feeling rather proud of myself, I turn a corner without a moment’s hesitation. In fact, I’m feeling so confident, I might even try a bit of a new route home, I decide, overshooting my usual turning and taking a different street.
I stride out along the narrow pavements, my eyes passing the windows of the unfamiliar shops. My gaze flicks over the intricate displays. Shop-window displays in Paris are like pieces of art. Gravity-defying towers of pastel-coloured macarons fill the window of a patisserie, while a shoemaker shows off exquisitely hand-stitched sandals by suspending them on invisible wires so they float, temptingly, in front of your eyes.
Everything is so chic. So stylish. So elegant. So unlike my uninspiring local high street back home, I reflect, my attention caught by the window of a parfumerie. Jewel-coloured bottles glitter en masse and I slow down, mesmerised. Suddenly my attention is caught by a blue one. I feel a beat of recognition.
Hang on, that looks similar to the one Emmanuelle had on her dressing table.
No sooner has the thought fired through my brain than I stop dead in the street. A fellow pedestrian nearly crashes into me and I apologise profusely, before turning my attention back to the window. I peer at it closer, studying its intricate design. Actually no, it’s not similar; it’s exactly the same bottle.
Curiosity bubbles up inside me and without a moment’s hesitation I reach for the ornate brass handle. A faint chime heralds my entrance and, pushing open the heavy door, I step inside. The fragrance hits me as soon I enter – well I say hits, but it’s more of an embrace. It enfolds me in the most delicious scent, like breathing in the most wonderful bouquet of flowers.
I cast my eyes around me, marvelling at the interior. It doesn’t look like it’s changed for over a century. Old oak shelves line the walls, displaying glass vats of essential fragrances, each labelled with an old brass sign, while glass-fronted drawers reveal a dizzying number of bottles of all different shapes and sizes. At the back of the shop is a long leather-topped counter, behind which stands a stooping, white-haired gentleman, wearing wire-rimmed glasses and an apron.
The shop is empty and as I step forward he looks up and says something to me in French and I do my usual embarrassed apologising that I don’t speak the language.
Resting his large hands on the countertop, he leans towards me, his eyes shining. ‘Scent has its own language,’ he says in a low voice, as if sharing a secret.
A look flashes between us and I feel a sudden sense of intrigue.
‘It cannot be translated into words,’ he continues, reaching for one of the many bottles. Removing the glass stopper, he wafts it underneath my nose. ‘It’s an emotion.’
As the delicious musky aroma hits my nostrils my brain throws up the taste of spices, memories of India, dreams of sultry evenings and images of exotic landscapes.
‘The mystery of scent lies in the deepest forms of memory.’ He smiles, a knowing look in his eyes as he sees the expression on my face.
‘Yes,’ I nod, feeling myself transported out of this little shop in Paris and into another time, another place, another feeling.
Weaving through the shelves, the perfumer deftly chooses another bottle from the hundreds on display.
‘A scent is all about layering. Like a person, you have to unravel the layers,’ he says, spraying a little on a small strip of paper and passing it to me, but not before he’s held out a small bowl of coffee beans. ‘It refre
shes the palate,’ he explains.
I breathe in the bitter scent of espresso, then lift the strip of paper to my nose. I’m met with a delicious burst of sweet floral scent.
‘To begin with you have the top notes. These scents evaporate quickly but they are like first impressions. We also call these the headnotes.’
It’s like a fragrant mixture of citrus and jasmine, but as the intensity begins to fade, I can pick out something else.
‘These are followed by the middle notes, which are also called heart notes. It is the main body of the perfume, and the one you will be able to feel when the top notes have worn off.’
Sure enough, I can detect a spiciness and something that smells a lot like sandalwood.
‘And finally you have the base notes, this is the depth of the perfume. But you will have to wait for these to develop for at least thirty minutes,’ he adds helpfully.
Absorbed with enthusiastically sniffing the stick of paper for what new smells I can detect, and wondering why I can’t, I break off, blushing.
‘Oh, I see.’ I smile. ‘Wow, that was amazing, thank you for explaining everything.’
‘My pleasure.’ He smiles back. ‘If there is anything else I can help you with?’
‘Well actually—’ Turning, I point to the window, ‘—I noticed the blue bottle in the window, what scent is that?’
Pushing his spectacles further up his nose, he peers at the display, then nods in comprehension. ‘Oh, that is a very old bottle. The window is showing a retrospective of all our perfumes. We are celebrating our one-hundred-year anniversary and this one is from the 1930s.’
I gaze at it, the blue glass sparkling in the light. How funny to think I’m in the very same shop that Henry must have visited all those years ago. It probably looks exactly the same as it did then.
‘OK, well thank you,’ I say, and am just preparing to leave when he says something that makes me falter.
‘We used this bottle for our custom perfumes.’
Love From Paris Page 17