The Little Antique Shop Under The Eiffel Tower

I shook my head. She didn’t understand, and she never would. Lilou was a free spirit, and so utterly different to me. Yet here she was suggesting I missed love, but it just wasn’t an issue for me. The thought of another man in my life was enough to make me recoil in horror. I just couldn’t envisage it. Didn’t need it. Didn’t miss it. I’d choose the wine option any day.

“Lingerie aside, Lilou, it really is more complicated than that and you know it. I have to work doubly, even triply hard after Joshua sold the piano from under me. My savings were tied up in that piece, and without any help from the gendarmes, what could I do, except to scramble to sell antiques at a discount so my business wouldn’t go bust. I’m still trying to get my finances stabilized and replenish the stock. And if that’s what love does to you, forget it.”

Even after all this time the memory of Joshua and what he’d done still stung. I was a fool to have believed a word that poured from his honeyed mouth. Every single sentence that fell from his lips, I listened to rapt. So exotic with his American accent and bright-eyed gaze. His declarations of love seemed so sincere and took me to a place I’d never been before.

“I don’t have time to sift through their lies.” I swished another mouthful of wine, glad for its numbing properties.

“Not all men lie,” she said giving me a pointed look.

I scoffed. “And how do you know that? Your longest relationship has been three weeks, Lilou.”

She shot me a glare. Joshua had taken a selection of antiques from the secret room, including a very rare piano, very expensive piano, promising me they were off to good homes, people he’d known forever. Payment to follow. The sale would fund our ‘grand plan’.

And the buyers were French people, he said. Trustworthy.

In that flurry of love, I had believed him. Of course I had.

It was the greatest shock when I stumbled on them at an online auction and confronted him about it. Non, non, non, he mimicked my French accent, remember your messages? The antiques are mine as you said so many times! Au revoir, Anouk. It was fun while it lasted.

Ambushed.

And fraught, the gendarmerie couldn’t help me. They said I’d gifted them to him. They had proof. Text messages that came from my cell phone, saying those exact words. Joshua was clever. He’d been ribbing me, he called it. Teasing me about ‘gifting’ my treasures and like the lovestruck idiot I was, I played along by text, waiting months for these so-called buyers to pay. By the time I realized what he’d done, he was on the arm of another woman. Antiques vanished. And those texts came back to taunt me.

The grand piano once owned by Fania Fénelon is yours! A gift from me to you. Love Anouk xxx

It was the cold, calculating way he did it that struck fear in me – the thought that a man could fake a love like ours broke something inside of me. I begged, yelled, pleaded for the gendarmes to listen to me, but they gave me a bored stare, and asked me to come back with more proof, like I should do their job for them.

Joshua and I had planned to pool our resources and were going to buy the best antiques, build a museum, so the world could clap eyes on such rare beauty, and not just people who could afford such luxuries. In order to do that, we had needed to sell some bigger pieces to fund it, and then source the most famous, the most illustrious of what France had to offer. Little did I know, he was selling them to amass his fortune… He’d played me like a piano, knowing instinctively I’d fall for it because it was a lifelong dream of mine to open a museum for cherishables.

The thing that hurt the most was that I did love him. When it all came to light I realized I had been in love with a ghost. Joshua wasn’t who he portrayed himself to be. The man I loved didn’t exist. The one who held my hand as we slept, or woke me with butterfly kisses, was a charade. So if I held myself at arm’s length from the world, that’s why, and I wasn’t going to be apologetic about it.

Sadly, Joshua was still working the antique circuit, so I ran into him often, which felt like a stab wound to the chest.

Lilou gave my hand a pat, dragging me back to the present moment. “Three weeks might be my limit with a guy, but that’s because I haven’t found anyone who makes me want more.” She lifted a shoulder. “I know what that crétin did, and the fallout that remains. I’d strangle him if I knew I could bury his body and get away with it.” Her eyes blazed at the thought. “All I’m suggesting is ease yourself back into the dating game with a few one-night stands. Pick a rugged type, one that has commitment-phobe written all over him, and go from there…”

“Lilou! I couldn’t do that. Non. I need to know more about a man before I let him sprawl all over my cotton sheets…”

She wrinkled her nose. “Oh God, because they’re some kind of special antique material? Fine, swap the sheets for a cheap supermarket brand for one night!” Her voice rose with every inflection.

A waiter hovered close by, refilling the wineglass of a woman at the table beside ours, and overfilled it as he concentrated hard on us out of the corner of his eye. Ruby red wine spilled over, staining the white tablecloth. The woman gasped, and the waiter wrenched his gaze away, apologizing profusely to her.

Lilou jerked a thumb in his direction. “Prime example: nice taut derrière, sleepy eyes, and sensual full lips. Just picture those buff arms tangled around you, the bed sheets…”

This time the waiter knocked over the woman’s wineglass. Burgundy liquid spilled quick and fast into the woman’s white-skirted lap. Lilou gave them a cursory glance. “OK, maybe not him, he’s too clumsy.” His face colored scarlet.

“Stop!” I hissed, struggling to remain composed. “I see your point and I’ll take it under advisement.”

She swallowed back half a glass of her wine. “I hate it when you say that.”

***

Lilou and I stood out front of the little antique shop, languid after lunch, and hugged our goodbyes. “See you tonight,” I said.

“Actually you won’t.” Lilou gave me an elfish grin. “I’m off to follow a musical festival around Normandy with Claude. I thought I might do a collection of jewelry based on sound. It’s a research trip.”

“What?” My big-sister instinct kicked in. “You’ve only just got back. You and Rainier were only going away for a week. It’s been three and now Rainier is gone, and there’s someone called Claude, and you’re going to follow a music festival? I thought you were doing a line of sunset-inspired jewelry? No, Lilou! You’re supposed to be studying. At least try and build up your online site so we have ammunition if Papa finds out.”

She let out a long harrumph as if I was the veritable thorn in her side. I could guess what was coming next…

“Anouk, you only live once!”

Voila!

Once Lilou had her sights set on something, she was a force to be reckoned with. Even though her life lacked direction, I had a feeling she’d always be OK by using her charm and quick wit. She was irresistible when she flashed her radiant smile. Deep down she was a minx, but I loved her so, even though she added an element of drama to my already busy life and created the worry I carried in my heart when she was off on one of her adventures. I was desperate for anyone or anything to slow her down and keep her in one spot, long enough that she’d plant roots and stay.

I dreaded another call from my papa, asking after her. I’d have to cross my fingers, and lie yet again, knowing eventually it would all come crashing down around me.

A part of me envied her; I was never that frivolous, never had been. My days revolved around work, sourcing antiques, investigating their history, traveling near and far for estate sales and auctions, hunting through bric-a-brac for gems at flea markets and vintage fairs. That didn’t leave much time for anything else. My heart and soul went into my business. I kept myself coiled tight against any uncertainty that came my way.

I shook the familiar feeling of angst away before it could settle, blackening my mood.

“When Papa phones me what do you suggest I say?”

With a groan, she said, “Tell him I’m at the library! Or at study club, or out with a lawyer…who cares.” Typical flippant Lilou style.

“He’s going to find out eventually and then we’ll both be in trouble.”

She laughed, high and loud. “What can he do?”

“He can cut off your allowance…”

Her face paled. “True, so lie good.” She kissed me goodbye, and stole away. “I’ll be back soon!” The words bubbled above, blowing toward me in the Seine-scented breeze.

I watched her retreating frame, heading off into the sunset like an actress from a movie, her long hair undulating and her step jaunty.

From the corner of my eye I sensed someone watching me. I turned, hoping it wasn’t another uninvited customer. A man sat at one of the benches along the promenade. He was wearing chinos, with a tight white T-shirt. His lips curved into a smile when we made eye contact. He was double-take gorgeous with his blond hair swept back like he’d just stepped off a windblown boat, and his aviator sunglasses reflected my own surprised gaze back.

For one brief moment, I considered Lilou’s advice: go out with a man, any man, and see what happened. He moved to stand, like he was going to approach me, and the idea suddenly seemed ridiculous. I bustled into my shop as quickly as possible and locked the door, peeking out through the lace curtain. He was still watching, an amused smirk on his face. In one swift movement he stood and waved, sending me scurrying back into the dark recesses of the shop. Mon Dieu, he knew I was spying on him!

For one unguarded minute the stranger with the athletic physique and gorgeous face had intrigued me. Perhaps I had too much wine at lunchtime. I bustled around keeping busy, and pushed any silly notions from my mind. There was work to do.

Chapter Four

In the Luxembourg Gardens tulips popped their yellow heads up as if to say hello. They were such happy flowers, and in abundance now spring had sprung. It was peak time in the park; tourists and locals alike perched on the side of fountains, reading, chatting, or staring off into space. Checkered picnic rugs were spread out, topped with baskets laden with lunchtime feasts.

Normally, I’d sit and people watch, eavesdrop, and imagine who these strangers were and what brought them to Paris, but today I didn’t have a moment to spare. I was meeting someone with some pertinent information about an upcoming auction, and I had to move fast. My sources were varied, some were a touch shady, and others were part of the traditional antique establishment. They confided in me, because they trusted me, and knew I only wanted the best for French antiques, and I paid them in return, in a multitude of ways.

Sitting under the shade of a chestnut tree was Dion. A sixty-something-year-old contact of mine who gave me information about antiques and my competitors. We’d become close over the years, and he treated me like a daughter in some ways. When he had arrived in France he had little more than the clothes he was wearing, and now he had a nice apartment, and a steady income selling certain information.

His passion, though, was refugees. He gave a ton of money to charities, and often flitted off for aide work during the winter months. Dion had no idea I knew about his charity involvement but I’d done checks on him, like he’d done on me. It was the way the circuit worked. I knew he’d come from a war-torn country, and got out just in time to save his life, but sadly most of his family were unable to leave. It was why, I think, he was always chasing deals, something to keep the loneliness at bay. Something to help him forget at least for a little while.

“Anouk.” He nodded solemnly, as was his way.

“Bonjour, Dion. What have you got for me?” We always got straight to the point; Dion wasn’t a fan of small talk.

“An arcane scroll originally from Antibes. It’s damaged because of its age, but still, it’s so rare you could name your price if you sold it on. The seller just wants it gone. He inherited a bunch of antiques from his grandfather but doesn’t hold them in any esteem. You know what the youth of today are like…”

Like Lilou, I thought with a smile. “Sure, sure. So what’s the deal? Who’s up against me?” You had to be quick in this business, or risk losing out. Everyone had their own ways and means of getting there first.

Dion shook his head, the thick black shock of hair not moving an inch, so weighed down with gel, which shone silver in the sunlight. His face was lined with fatigue. I often wondered if he pushed himself too far to the detriment of his own health in the business of gathering information. He veered away from society types, and old money, having little respect for those born with the so-called silver spoon in their mouths. “So far only Joshua is sniffing around. That guy has a nose like a bloodhound. He’s always one step ahead.”

My pulse sped up at the mention of Joshua who like a contagion seemed to spread far and wide, knocking people from their perches. Dion knew my background with Joshua because I’d asked him for help trying to get the piano back from his clutches. To no avail. Still, Dion had tried hard and his loyalty had meant a lot in such a dark time. On the antique circuit, ruthlessness was a key characteristic, and emotion and affection was kept out of it, or very well hidden, so Dion’s generosity of spirit had touched me. Around town I was known as the eccentric one because I often fell in love with a piece that had only sentimental value, and bid on objects other dealers deemed worthless.

I joined Dion on the wooden bench with a heavy sigh. “Joshua, again? I wish people weren’t so easily fooled by his charm.” But how could they not be? He was smooth, and suave and utterly beguiling. Lots of practice at wooing people to suit his needs.

Dion clasped his hands over his middle. “The problem with Joshua is that it’s all a sport to him. He’ll win, and use whatever cunning faculty he can. He will get bored eventually, and move on, Anouk. People like him always do.”

In the distance a mother and child held hands, taking tiny steps across the grass. “I hope so. Somewhere far far away.” I wished he wasn’t a shadow everywhere I went. “So any tips on how I convince the grandson to sell to me?” Already my brain was spinning with ideas. How to secure the scroll, who I could get to value it – it’d have to be an expert in the field – and then finally who I could sell it to. I knew a woman who’d have the right provisions in place, a humidity-controlled room, the right kind of display case to prevent dust, to protect the delicate parchment. Madame Benoit, who lived near the Champs-Élysées, would love such a thing. She was a fifty-something Parisian who loved collecting rare pieces.

“The grandson is training as a classical musician. He plays the cello, amongst other things. It wouldn’t be unreasonable to think he’d swap the scroll for the Mollier cello. Word is he’s a fan of Mollier, God rest his soul.”

I smiled. “The Mollier cello!” Dion had already half done the deal for me. He was like that: outwardly the tough guy, inwardly a teddy bear looking out for his closest clients. “My estimate for the cello was around ten thousand Euro. If he’d swap for the scroll, I’d be well in front. Time to visit our young musician and see what can be done.” Dion shook my hand, slipping me a folded piece of paper. Without reading it I knew it would contain the man’s phone number and address. “Let me know if you need a chauffeur,” he said.

“Oui, I will.”

Dion smiled, flashing his tobacco-stained teeth. “When you win it, don’t forget your friends, will you?” He winked.

I smiled back. “Never. And until the deal is done, here’s a little something to tide you over.” From the depths of my handbag I took a bottle of Château Lafite Rothschild, a wine from Bordeaux, and handed it to Dion. I kept my cellar, which was only really a wine rack in the corner of my shop, stocked with fine wine in order to have something tangible to give thanks.

“Château Lafite Rothschild for me? This is worth a lot of money, Anouk.” He inspected the label on the bottle. Dion knew a lot about everything, from wine to antiques, to people’s secrets.

“It’s the least I can do.” I bent to kiss his still-stunned face.

“Merci,” he said, collecting himself. “Call me if I can help with the grandson.”

I smiled and managed a quick nod. “I will, same as always.” Dion didn’t believe in lengthy phone calls – thought the government was listening in, recording every single one of us. If I called him he automatically named a place to meet, and that was that.

I had a soft spot for Dion in a paternal way. Life had been a struggle for him, and he was doing his best to climb out of a black hole, by whatever means he could. It was the way sometimes his eyes clouded, the slump to his beefy shoulders, like his sadness hovered above him and pressed him down. Sometimes I wanted to play Lilou’s trick and be the matchmaker for him, but I knew well enough not to meddle. Who was I to help him find love when I’d been so spectacularly bad at it myself?

***

“I’m so sorry for the loss of your grandfather,” I said softly after introducing myself. I tried very hard not to drop eye contact and exclaim over the sumptuous furniture surrounding me. Besides, it wasn’t fitting in the circumstances.

The young man, Andre, nodded solemnly and stared out the bay window. I was just out of Paris in the town of Rocquencourt, on the family’s lush sprawling estate. Not far from here was the Palace of Versailles, and while Andre’s estate was on a much smaller scale, from what I had seen so far it was equally as opulent as the former royal château.

Andre had the serenity of an expansive garden with a small lake but was close enough to Paris, giving him the best of both worlds. There were stables on the property, and some dog kennels. Thick hedges and fat-trunked trees, standing close together like a row of gruff watchman protecting the property, surrounded the garden.

“Merci,” he said eventually. His thin, drawn face appeared much older than Dion had thought him to be. “Were you close?” I wanted to kick myself for my nosiness, but something about him suggested he was angry, rather than grieving. It was just a feeling, the fleeting look of mutiny on his face when I mentioned his grandfather.

He let out a bitter laugh. “No we weren’t close. Unless you were a wad of rolled-up Euros, he didn’t have the time of day for you.”

“Oh,” I said lamely, unsure of what to say to such a thing.

“My grandfather was a cold man. Driven by money, and money only. Hence I have no desire to continue with his legacy of collecting things, which will never be appreciated. You’ve heard about the arcane scroll, I take it?”

I clasped my hands, feeling a wave of empathy for Andre. “I did.” It struck me he’d invited me into his house without clarifying my reason for visiting, as if he knew I was coming. Dion, again, helping grease the wheel. “I was hoping to secure the late Monsieur Mollier’s cello for you, in return for the scroll if that’s something you’d consider.”

“Mollier’s music was the soundtrack to my youth, a way to block out the real world.”

His cheeks pinked as if he’d said too much, so I hurried to reassure him. “Music has the ability to be a friend, an escape hatch when we most need one.”

“Oui,” he said, smiling.

“May I see the scroll?” I spoke quickly, not wanting to scare him off by getting too personal; instead I tried to be businesslike and brisk.

He surveyed me for the longest time. I felt he was weighing up whether he could trust me. I only hoped I could afford any counter offer he made, like the cello for the scroll, and extra funds on top, if the scroll was in good shape. Because of Joshua’s theft, my business was still teetering, so I didn’t have the high reserve of funds I used to for deals like this.

Red-haired Andre took a key from his pocket, unlocking a drawer. From the vague scent wafting out I knew it was a humidity-controlled space. I was relieved that the scroll had been well cared for in its time here.

“Anouk, please come closer, but don’t touch it. It’s whisper thin, and will have to be handled correctly by experts if it’s moved from here.” While he wasn’t keen on keeping his grandfather’s collections at least he respected the antiques, which made me soften toward him even more.

I made my way over, a hand on my throat as my pulse beat a fast rhythm. It never waned, that first flush of excitement seeing something that was hundreds of years old. It was preserved as well as it could be for its age, though damaged in places, as if it had been set alight, and someone had snuffed the flame out in time to save the body of it. It resembled a fairy-tale treasure map, with its rough black edges. But instead of sketches of geography it contained text.

“It’s a poem,” he said, smiling. Andre’s posture relaxed, and when grinning, he looked infinitely younger. What hate he must’ve held in his heart to transform his entire being when he recalled his grandfather, and how quickly it disappeared once he was distracted.

I leaned close and tried to read the tiny words, written in fancy flowery cursive that was difficult to translate. Goose bumps prickled my skin and I knew I couldn’t simply swap the cello for the scroll. The scroll was worth far too much money, and I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night if I wasn’t honest with Andre. But would I have enough funds to make the deal?

“It’s breathtaking,” I said pulling my gaze away and meeting Andre’s, whose expression was haunted once more. “A treasure.”

“I’d like to take you up on your offer,” he said abruptly. “The cello of Monsieur Mollier’s in exchange for the scroll. But only if experts transport the scroll, and you vouch for its safety in transit and with its new owner. As much as I hate what it represents, it still has historical significance, and I’d hate to see it ruined by inappropriate handling.”

“Oui, of course, I can have all of that arranged. But there is a problem,” I said, fluttering my hands. “This scroll is worth more than I thought. While it has been slightly burnt at the edges, the writing is still well preserved. I’d have to get a specialist to investigate its origins and likely author, but I know from experience and by sight it’s worth a lot of money. Much more than the cello.”

Andre moved to the plush lounges and sat, motioning for me to do the same. “I have papers from numerous scholars who’ve studied the period. You can have those too. And I’m well aware of its value, Mademoiselle LaRue, but you see, this holds only bad memories for me. My grandfather manipulated the former owner, bullied him into selling it really, for far less than it was worth. He then had the gall to brag about it. Greed is a terrible thing; it can turn men into monsters.” With a sad shrug he gazed out of the window into the distance. His grandfather sounded far too similar to Joshua for my liking. He continued, his voice soft: “This is a way to atone for what he did.”

I could understand his motivations, and thought that Andre was the kind of man the world needed more of. Someone not driven purely by money, or greed.

Quietly, he said, “I made some enquiries about who I should sell it to, and your name kept popping up. I know you’ll find the right home for it. And then it will be a chapter closed for me, and I would very much like that.”

I didn’t know what to say in the face of such generosity. “Merci, Andre, that’s very kind of you, and you have my word I’ll find it the perfect home. So, I’ll secure the Mollier, and call you once it’s done?” I was rendered silent once more by the fact people had spoken so highly of me, and that Andre was so pure of heart to make up for his grandfather’s shady deals.

“Oui.” His features softened. “Mollier was an inspiration to me. To own something as extraordinary as his very own concert cello would be an honor.”