The Little Bookshop On The Seine. Rebecca RaisinЧитать онлайн книгу.
of keys out. “These are for the apartment, and the gold ones are for the bookshop,” he said. “Go up the stairs, third door down is Sophie’s apartment. Do you need help with your bags?”
“Thanks TJ, but I can manage.” I only wanted to shower and sleep. There’d be ample time to get to know everyone tomorrow. Though I was dead curious to find out their stories and how they found their way to Once Upon a Time, it would have to wait. “I guess I’ll see you both tomorrow?” I went to the front door, to the little gap where I’d stashed my bag and backpack – only to find my jacket in a crumpled heap on the carpet. I spun around, searching the entryway desperately, but there were only books, no bags. No!
“What is it?” TJ said. “You’ve gone lily white.”
I rubbed my hands over my face, hoping I’d wake up from a bad dream and find my things where I left them. “They’re gone! My suitcase and my backpack. My passport!” I groaned.
TJ loped over, and surveyed the empty spot where my jacket lay like an empty promise. “Are you sure someone didn’t move it?”
We both looked to Beatrice who shrugged. “This is what I meant by people taking advantage. It’s why I’m tough with the customers. Sorry, Sarah, but this just proves my point.”
A strangled hiccough escaped me. TJ rubbed my back. This was the never-ending day from hell. It was impossible to believe it was still my first day in Paris. It had been interminable. Bag snatch, check. Heck, I hoped my mother wasn’t right. Was this a sign of things to come?
“Go upstairs,” he said. “Use Sophie’s phone. You’ll have to report it all missing, I guess. Not that you have any hope of it being returned.” His voice was soft with empathy.
I frowned. Bed was still out of reach. It was my own damn stupidity, I’d have to spend the next hour on the phone. Way to go, Sarah.
With heavy legs, I stomped up the stairs fighting tears. Paris was supposed to be perfect. A magical, romantic city where I’d discover a whole new me. Maybe I wasn’t great at driving my own life outside of Ashford. I’d made a mess of things. Money, credit cards, passport – gone. That would make the coming weeks difficult when it came time to, you know, eat. And my suitcase, my precious books – gone. Clothing – gone. The only pair of shoes I’d have now were the borrowed clodhoppers on my feet, and the thought of lugging myself around on those all day in the store had me and my back at breaking point.
Why would I leave my bags right near the front door? I may as well have left a note on there saying Steal me! Back home we didn’t even lock our houses at nighttime, but I had to learn quick smart I wasn’t in Ashford any more.
Pushing open the door of Sophie’s apartment, I lifted a little. It was an elegant space, pretty and feminine and I knew I’d be comfortable. Grainy wooden floorboards were polished to a shine, a huge bed was made up with fresh white linen. A floor lamp lit the room from under its ruched vanilla shade. A bouquet of flowers scented the air sweet. Near the bed was a bookshelf that took up an entire wall; I was happy to note it was filled with romance books. I took in their titles, and anticipated making my way through them. Instead of diving into bed with a dusty well-read romance, I grabbed the phone and tried to sort out who I needed to call. My eyes were hanging out of my head by the time I hung up and fell into a deep sleep.
The next morning, I woke groggily, forcing myself awake, fighting the need for a few more hours’ shut eye. My head spun like I was hungover from lack of rest. After a quick shower I pulled on the same wrinkled clothes I’d travelled in.
My travel insurance would replace the cost of my luggage, but it would take a couple of weeks for them to courier travelers’ checks, at the earliest. At the earliest? I’d cried. Another travel fail; read the fine print.
I’d contacted the American embassy about my missing passport, and scheduled an appointment. I remembered what the elderly man on the street said, embrace the drama, so I tried to think of it all as part of the journey, and not that I was a hopeless, hapless tourist.
The bookshop was due to open, and there was no time to call Ridge or the girls – with the scattered time differences, I was sure they’d be asleep. What could I say anyway…Hey, it’s Sarah. In the first five minutes of my trip I’ve managed to lose everything you’re supposed to lock away safe! You’d be so proud! I haven’t been mugged, but the day is young! Au revoir!
Time to switch on and become bookseller Sarah. That persona, I knew well.
With a liberal spray of Sophie’s jasmine perfume, I headed downstairs, ready for another day. I was determined that I would handle things better, now that I’d had some sleep and I knew how hectic the shop floor was. Beatrice could show me the ropes, and hopefully a few more staff might materialize. There was something a little off about Beatrice, but she’d been under a huge amount of pressure in the busy shop. The back and forth with her and TJ might have been just the way they bantered. Who knew what friendships were like out of Ashford and beyond the pages of my books?
The stairs groaned underfoot as I rushed down into the maze of the bookstore. I couldn’t wait to stumble around the nooks and crannies, and find some joy between the pages. The shop was layered with dark wooden shelves, which curved and bowed with the weight of books. There were lots of little hidey holes, and I knew I’d find some treasures in amongst the disorderly piles. “Bonjour!” a sultry French voice greeted me as I made my way through the laneways.
When I stepped into the main room, the open lower level, a girl with cropped blonde hair and china blue eyes greeted me, giving me a gentle handshake. Her nails were manicured pale pink, and a spectacular diamond ring glinted under the lights. “Desole, I heard all about the theft! I wish I’d been here to welcome you as promised. This is my fault. Beatrice should have warned you not to leave anything personal lying around. It only takes a second for things to disappear, as I guess you found out.” She gave me a quick hug. “I’m Oceane. Do you need to borrow clothes? Money?”
She wore a tight knitted cobalt blue dress, and a cashmere cardigan. Her clothes screamed designer label, in a chic, classic French way. Compared to me, her outfit was downright glamorous, and I rued the fact I was wearing the same travel-wrinkled jeans and sweater.
“Thanks for the offer, but it’s OK. I had some money in my jacket which was thankfully left on the floor, and I’ll make do with these clothes, or maybe borrow some of Sophie’s until the insurance is paid.” What if I spilled coffee down the front of one of her elegant outfits? Sophie’s were just as elegant too. I cringed a little, picturing myself wearing something so form-fitting, and French, worried it would look like I was trying too hard to fit in. Oceane even walked differently, with an upright posture, poised as if she inhabited the space around her better than most.
She crossed her arms, and pulled a face as though she was annoyed at herself. “I feel responsible, I told Sophie I’d meet you and show you around. Why don’t I treat you to a shopping trip later? Then I can show you where to do the banking, and where the post office is, so we can tie that in with a wander down the Champs-Elysees?”
After the disaster that was day one, Oceane’s warmth was a godsend. “There’s no need to do that,” I protested. From my research I knew the boutiques along the Champs-Elysees were expensive, and I wouldn’t let Oceane treat me because she felt guilty. The blame lay squarely at my feet.
She smiled. “Well perhaps we’ll window shop until you’re ready.”
“Maybe,” I said, laughing, relieved that she was open and friendly.
Outside the sun was splintering the sky, the river lapped swiftly in the distance. After my shift I’d wander by the Seine and hunt out a patisserie or two. Or maybe take a book, and people-watch from one of the cafés along the avenue.
“Aside from the stolen bags, how was your first day in Paris?”