‘Oui, s’il vous plaît,’ I answer, and Elsa clasps her hands at the sight of perfectly formed Belgian waffles and Chantilly cream on the gold trolley, which feels entirely decadent at four in the afternoon.
‘This reminds me of when I used to take you for hot chocolate after dance lessons,’ Elsa says to us both, having taken Mum when she was little in London, and Jude and me after our weekly ballet lessons in the Dean Village. We’d sit at a high bar in the Italian ice cream parlour, still in our leotards, dangling our legs while drinking hot chocolate and eating almond cookies.
As Mum and Elsa move on to plans for the evening – Elsa opting to stay in the hotel to read, Mum heading to the Pompidou Centre – I take in my surroundings and fellow travellers, enjoying the decadent hot chocolate.
In the corner of the bar closest to the door, I spot Flynn, sitting with a woman, elegant in a black turtleneck and trousers, her blond hair swept up in a chignon.
‘What have you planned?’ I hear Mum ask.
‘Shakespeare and Company,’ I reply absently, my eyes still on Flynn and the beautiful woman beside him.
I don’t quite pick up Mum’s response, distracted as I am by the arrival of Ginny, who interrupts Flynn and the woman to tell him something.
I spot Flynn’s look of consternation before he stands, fixing the button of his suit jacket. He places his hand on the woman’s arm then kisses her gently on the cheek, before leaving with a purposeful gait.
It feels like a dream as I round the street corner, opposite Notre-Dame, and catch my first sight of the iconic dark green façade of Shakespeare and Company.
‘How excited are you, babe?’ Daisy says, as I link her arm in excitement.
‘I genuinely feel a bit light-headed,’ I reply, having wanted to visit this bookshop since I first saw it inJulie & Juliaas a teenager.
‘You know, for someone who says she doesn’t have a life passion, you sure do seem obsessive about bookshops,’ she says, both of us watching Joe up ahead, helping Frank out of the wheelchair the hotel provided for him after his fall.
‘I guess they’re part of who I am,’ I say, thinking about who I might have been if I’d grown up somewhere other than the bookshop.
I swear I hold my breath as I step over the threshold and into the cosy, rustic warmth of the shop.
‘Oh my God,’ I swoon, not knowing where to look first, every nook and cranny stuffed full of books.
‘Take your time,’ says Daisy, going on ahead of me, over the orange and cream tiles of the entrance and through towards the back.
I wander aimlessly, trying to absorb every detail – the shabby natural shelves, the worn ladders, the delicate glass light fittings dangling like bells overhead – following the flow through to the back to a red wooden staircase.
Slowly I mount the stairs, reading the words painted on the red treads:I wish I could show you when you are lonely or in darkness, the astonishing light of your own being.As I climb, something rises up in me that tells me Daisy might be right, that bookshops might just be my life passion after all, and not just any bookshop, but our bookshop.
At the top of the stairs, I enter a room, fully lined with books, with a large window with a Juliet balcony and a cushioned bench and daybed.
Looking around the room and out towards the glimpse of Notre-Dame through the trees, I think about all the author event programmes, social media campaigns and mood-boards on my laptop at home for the bookshop, things I’ve put together over the years for Dad, hoping he might action them at some point. It occurs to me that maybe I wasn’t making them for Dad after all; maybe I was making them for me, in the hope that one day I might take over the bookshop and transform it into my very own dream space, a space that could be as magical and beguiling as this one.
‘It’s the writers’ room,’ Nicolas says, entering, pulling me out of my daydream.
‘It’s gorgeous,’ I reply.
‘Everyone from F. Scott Fitzgerald to Henry Miller has been here,’ he says, taking a seat on the bench. ‘It feels as if part of them is absorbed in the fabric of the building, don’t you think?’
‘I know what you mean,’ I reply, turning where I stand, tingles pulsing through my body. I wonder how I can recreate just a tenth of this back home.
He pats the cushion beside him. ‘Why don’t you sit for a while, drink it all in, feel the history in your bones.’
I sit beside him, both of us quiet, absorbing the atmosphere, watching fellow travellers and other customers drift in and out.
‘Beautiful, no?’ he says, turning and gazing deeply into my eyes, his own eyes mesmeric in the soft light. I can’t be certain if he’s referring to the room, or me.
The conversation I had with Mum and Elsa on the train pops into my mind and, wanting to let go, I allow myself to be drawn in, to lean a little closer, wondering if he might be part of the dream too. As I do, a voice says, ‘Nicolas? Nicolas Dubois?’
‘Oui?’ he replies, turning his attention to the enquirer.
‘I’m such a fan of your work,’ the woman gushes, rummaging in her handbag for a notepad and pen. ‘That piece you wrote about the shortlist for the Prix Goncourt inLe Mondewas perfection. I read it over and over.’
