‘What are you reading?’ he asks, nodding at my book on the bar, none too subtly telling me he wants to move on.
‘It’s about freeing ourselves of fear, by finding compassion,’ I answer, opening to the pages I’ve bookmarked.
‘Sacré Coeur,’ he says, scrutinising for a time the small, gold-trimmed bookmark, which I collected after it dropped from Fran’s book in the library bar this afternoon.
‘Do you know it?’
He pauses, his eyes hazy, I imagine from a memory passing through. ‘It’s where I first kissed the girl.’
I say nothing for a moment, allowing him to revisit the memory.
‘I’ve never been back.’
‘It might be helpful to return, confront past heartaches head on,’ I suggest, and he throws back the last of his whisky. ‘We all have a habit of letting memories and emotions grow legs. You may find, when you revisit them, that things aren’t as bad as you’ve believed them to be.’
He doesn’t reply and yet I can tell he is considering the idea.
‘You may find acceptance there, and an ability to let go,’ I say, Marleen’s advice ringing in my ears. ‘After that, who knows how the future might look.’
I can’t be sure when the man leaves if he has any intention of going to Sacré Coeur or not, but as he departs, the distant memory I have of Fran mentioning a kiss at Sacré Coeur springs to the forefront of my mind. It’s a one in a million chance, but frantically I dig in my handbag for my phone and type out the briefest of messages:
Stop what you’re doing and go to Sacré Coeur. I’ll explain later. E x
21.
CARLY
‘Are you sure you’re not coming with us?’ Daisy asks, her arm interlocked with Joe’s. ‘Everyone tells me it’s the best gay club in Paris.’
‘I’m sure,’ I say, perfectly content sitting on the steps opposite the bookshop, the sun beginning to set.
‘But what are you going to do until the meet and greet later?’ Daisy asks.
‘I’ve all of Paris to explore,’ I say, knowing she wouldn’t get the real reason: that I’d like to sit here all night, imagining how to create my own Shakespeare and Company back home.
‘Let her do what she wants,’ says Joe, giving me a look that suggests he gets it, bibliophile to bibliophile, that he might even prefer to stay with me rather than go clubbing.
‘Fine, you do you,’ she trills, swinging Joe around and pulling him towards the Metro.
I sit on the steps for a while, watching my fellow travellers peel themselves away from the shop and ontowards their choice of early evening activity, and I message Dad a photo of the shop exterior. As I sit, Dad and I messaging a little back and forth, I think of all the inspiring details I’ve seen so far on the trip: the formal but feminine feel of the Bloomsbury hotel library, access to the garden in the Paris book bar, and the intimacy of Shakespeare and Company. And I think too about the wish I wrote and pinned to theMirror of Loveboard, ‘A dream bookshop and romantic hero of my own’. Intuitively I know that although Marleen’s offer of being her assistant is interesting, an opportunity I would have bitten her hand off for just a few days ago, something has settled in me, and I know after years of searching, I’m a bookseller at heart.
‘Hey,’ says Flynn, when he spots me. ‘What you doing?’
‘Just thinking,’ I answer, not quite ready to share my epiphany.
‘Do you fancy a stroll?’
I pause, wanting to linger longer, but wanting also to see if the guy I met back in Edinburgh is somewhere beneath the starched façade.
‘Sure,’ I say, and he reaches out a hand to pull me up.
‘Thanks,’ I say, a little self-consciously, his hand feeling familiar and warm in mine.
Flynn, not noticing my awkwardness, leads the way and we walk slowly down a narrow street with a beautiful limestone church.
‘Hard to beat wandering at dusk in Paris,’ he says, and I delight inwardly at how inadvertently romantic he sounds.
The small street opens into a wider, tree-linedboulevard and we wander past café after café until we reach the Jardin du Luxembourg, which is lush and green and dreamy, and a literal breath of fresh air after the pollution of the busy streets.
