The Little Antique Shop Under the Eiffel Tower (31 page)

My eyebrows shot up. “And where are you getting that information from? I don’t see how I’m the hypocrite! It’s about time you were honest…”

Maman teetered over, and cut in on our dance, because our clipped tones rang out as the conversation soured. “Anouk, Lilou wants you. Allow me another dance before I turn into a pumpkin.”

The midnight hour had been and gone and the exchange had left me confused. In one way I felt heartbroken for Tristan as he’d opened up, but then in the next instant he’d accused me of taking my family for granted. How dare he! He was the one who would hurt them, not me.

***

An hour later, we stumbled from a limousine that Tristan had insisted we take.

As we spilled from its luxurious seats, the driver dashed around and helped lead us to the safety of the curb. Maman and Lilou were singing Tristan’s praises, and declaring it the best night ever. I wanted to be able to join in on their merriment, but a somber cloud hovered over me. It would have been a brilliant night if it had been real. It was pure fantasy, and I wouldn’t forget that. Learning about the death of Tristan’s parents cast a pall of sadness over me, and I was torn still.

We stumbled up the stairs, everyone chatting about their favorite part:
when Tristan said this, when Tristan did that.

I unlocked the apartment and threw the keys in the bowl on the bureau.

“Wait,” I said, flinging my arms out wide to stop them stepping clumsily inside.

“What is it?” Lilou asked sleepily. Everyone was itching for bed.

“Something’s changed.” I scanned the apartment, tingles racing up my spine. Nothing was out of place on first glance. The chaise longues still had sheets draped over. Cushions in each corner. Balcony door closed tight against the bracing winds of pre-dawn. But something made the fine hairs on my neck stand to attention.

“Come on, Anouk,” Lilou wheedled. “We’re tired.”

“Someone has been here,” I said. The goons. Ben and Jerry. I was certain of it. But why? Why me?

“That’s ridiculous,” Lilou said. “Everything is still here. The paintings, the Laliques.” She pushed past me and beckoned Henry to do the same. Maman followed shortly after, struggling with the stairs after a night on high heels.

“Wait,” I said again. “Just let me look around before you touch anything.”

There was a clue on the edge of my subconscious but it was just out of reach.
Think!
I’d known the party was a ruse. I’d thought my role was keeping a close eye on Tristan but that was before his friends turned up and had my senses taut with unease.

It hit me like a brick. He’d gathered us all at the Ritz so Ben and Jerry could break in here without any threat of being caught by one of the many who now called the apartment home.

Tristan had wanted to be certain that we’d all go to his party. That was why he’d hosted it at the Ritz, knowing no one could resist such an invitation. He’d visited Maman, turning on the charm to make sure she’d come in case I didn’t tell them.

Had he made Ben and Jerry bug my apartment? They must’ve known I was onto them. Now I wondered what they would do to silence me.

Tristan knew we’d found him out; he just needed proof. All his double-talk was an effort to get me to confess. Well, two could play at that game, Monsieur Black.

“Actually,” I said. “You’re right, Lilou. Nothing is missing. It’s been a long day, that’s all.” If he was listening I had to play it cool.

Everyone heaved a sigh of relief and made their way to bathroom and bed. I tiptoed around, looking for bugs. Did they really look like they did in the movies? I smiled when I saw the small black square no bigger than a thumbnail, stuck underneath the dining room table. I left it there, careful not to touch it, and kept hunting.

In the morning, I’d see what Madame Dupont had captured on the pen footage. A heavy feeling of unease settled in my belly. I’d have to go on as if life was the same, attending fairs, flea markets, and auctions while I compiled evidence. I’d confront him myself, and let him explain. There was a part of me that needed to know if he really had ever cared about me, see the truth in his eyes when I caught him out. It was the only way I would be able to move on.

Hours later I found myself having intense dreams about him, us holding hands by the sea, smiling, absorbing sunlight like a panacea, and I wondered what my subconscious was doing to me.

Chapter Twenty-Six

It was the first time I’d seen Madame Dupont appear anything other than poised and elegant. My early morning visit had caught her by surprise. Her long hair was unwound and tumbled down her back in knotty silvery waves. Makeup-less, she was even prettier, her face soft with sleep, and her eyes bright without the thick layer of kohl she usually wore.

“He ditched the pen,” she said woefully. “I don’t know how, but he knew what it was. It ended up in a bin in the bathroom at the Ritz.”

My mouth hung open. “He knew?”

Madame Dupont nodded. “Must have and that means we don’t have any footage of him with the clowns Ben and Jerry, after you left the party.”

“Damn it! He’s always one step ahead of us.”

She wound her hair into a chignon and secured it with pins, and a silver sequin hair clip that sparkled in the soft light of dawn. “I suspect they always will be, since they’re career criminals. Though we do have one trick up our sleeves.” Her eyes twinkled.

“The bugs?”

She nodded. “You have to act normal. Don’t change the way you behave at home or they’ll know. Keep asking your maman to call your papa… Berate Lilou for reading your diary.”

“Have you bugged my apartment too?”

She laughed. “No Lilou tells me every day over coffee. Anyway so it’s business as usual, but…you drop hints about a certain auction, let’s say, The Cloutier Auction House. Because they’ve got a diamond arriving that will rival the Hope Diamond…”

I gasped. “And then we know he’ll go for that auction!”

She nodded sagely. “Drip feed them information. We don’t want to make it obvious, so pretend to lower your voice, and whisper, even though you’ll be right above the bug so they’ll hear.”

“OK, good idea.”

“Say it’s arriving under the cover of darkness on Friday, and we’ll be there waiting. It’s crucial you still do everything as normal at home.”

“Of course,” I said loftily.

She stared me down. “I mean it, Anouk, keep singing to the soup bowl and howling over those marriage announcements.”

Mon Dieu.
“Lilou again?”

“It’s sweet, you’re a sensitive soul, that’s all. Keep working, and don’t think of him as anything other than a guy who’s trying to woo you, so you don’t make any mistakes.”

I fiddled with the clasp on my handbag, my mind working fast. “I think it’s obvious to him that I know. He skirted around it last night, and even through our double talk it was clear.”

“Maybe so. But we have to try,” Madame Dupont said, giving my arm a reassuring pat. “What is it? You look like you just got caught in the rain all of sudden.”

I lifted my gaze to hers. “Why do I fall for the wrong men all the time? I guess I never really thought he was the bad guy. Deep down, I presumed it would amount to nothing. And now we know, and I…”

“You do feel something for him.” She searched my face.

“It’s crazy because really I don’t know him. But it’s visceral, and real, and I hate not being able to admit it. And he held my family enraptured last night. Like they mattered. Every single word that fell from their lips, he was really listening, but for what? Clues? Imagine if he pins the robberies on me? How stupid would I feel then? And my poor family will be mortified. They loved him too.”

Madame Dupont smiled, and plucked a tissue from a box, and gave it to me, before sitting back at her ornate dressing table, and applying layers of heavy makeup.

“It’s a challenge, all right. Why don’t we see what happens? When we catch him at The Cloutier auction, we can give him an ultimatum. He can flee, with the promise to turn legitimate. Return the jewels. You could still love a man like that, who did the right thing in the end, couldn’t you?”

“I don’t know, Madame.”

She reached over and patted my hand. “Let’s see what the week brings.”

I sat hunched, as Madame Dupont rouged her cheeks, and spritzed on perfume. I’d throw myself into work just like I always did.

***

“Is she coming home? What does she say?” My papa’s voice was hollow, as if he was tired of waiting. With the phone against my ear, I opened the lace curtains in the window of the shop. Outside, people dotted the promenade, up early for a full day of sightseeing. Paris was on display with its clear azure sky, and bright bobbing sun, which glinted off the metal of the Eiffel Tower, making me squint.

“I don’t think so, Papa.” I sighed. It was hard to tell him just how much she’d bloomed here without hurting his feelings. She’d become a different person, and we couldn’t rob her of that. “Why don’t you visit? I think it’s the only way. And you can see how much she’s changed. Perhaps you’ll have to meet her in the middle to make things work.”

He grunted and grumbled. “So then I’m admitting I’m wrong?”

“No, Papa. It’s not about who’s right or wrong, it’s about rekindling your relationship. Can’t you try? If you could see Maman, you’d know she’s happy. Perhaps she needed something different, just for once in her life, to make things about
her
for a change, to put herself first. Why shouldn’t she chase her own dreams at least for a little while?”

“Her dreams? Running off to Paris and teaching some chefs how to cook? That’s her dream?” His voice was heavy with sarcasm, but I knew he was hiding bruised feelings, as he grappled with his emotions, that Maman chose something other than him for the first time in her life. “Shouldn’t they know how to cook already, if they’re chefs?”

“Papa, you’re missing the point. Maman feels like she matters to them. She’s teaching them the real art of cooking, not the fancy Michelin-starred way, but the old way, like her maman used to cook. It’s like she’s preserving an art form and they love her for it.”

“An art form? It’s only bouillabaisse!”

I tutted. “Papa, it’s so much more than that, and you know it.”

He let out a long, weary breath. “Maybe,” he admitted. “I don’t see why she couldn’t have done that here. We have bistros too. It’s not like she couldn’t have made friends here.”

“Could she though, Papa? Not with the exhausting list of chores she had, each day blending in with the next.”

“Fine, fine. You’ve made your point. I haven’t been feeling well; sometimes I get this pain…”

“It’s probably loneliness, Papa.”

“Non, non, it’s not that. I’m working too hard – your maman has left me without a backward glance. It’s not fair or right. I get this ache, this numbness up my arm…”

I interrupted him, not wanting to let him wallow: “Really, Papa, what do you need to do every day? Eat, work, and sleep. You don’t need such exacting standards at home. The tablecloth can last a week without being laundered and ironed if you’re careful. Why do you make things so much harder?”

“I just like things ordered.”

I sighed. “Perhaps you need to think about how exhausted you feel, and then think of Maman doing that every day her whole life, and raising two girls as well.”

He muttered to himself. “She took her vows, and I took mine, and look…she’s nowhere to be found. Do you think she’s with another man?”

“No! Papa, don’t you
listen
?”

“I was simply asking, Anouk. This is very strange behavior for her. She loved those curtains. I thought she’d come back.”

He was referring to the fire. “Papa, in this case actions speak louder than words. You have to
show
her how you’re feeling. Come to Paris, show her you love her. Ask her what
she
wants.”

“I better go,” he said, brusquely. “Someone has to cook the coq au vin, and since there is only me here, I guess it’s my job.”

“Be well, Papa.” Shaking my head, I hung up, conflicted. It was ego stopping him from visiting Paris, and agreeing on a compromise with Maman. He wanted her back but his pride wouldn’t allow him to admit it to her. Instead, he’d wait, and hope Paris lost its sparkle, and she’d return to the village. He hadn’t even asked about Lilou and the damned course, so I knew he was really missing Maman.

If only he could see her here, he’d know that something long dormant inside had sprung to life, and she wasn’t going to settle anymore. Could they grow apart at this stage of their marriage? I thought about Agnes, who bought the ruby pendant for her parents’ fortieth wedding anniversary – had they suffered through times of crisis? Perhaps they worked out their frustrations on the bread dough, side by side in their boulangerie, knowing it was only a tiff, and could be fixed. Like any great recipe, all it needed was some tweaking to keep it fresh. Maybe that’s all my papa needed – someone to drag him by the heels, and into the twenty-first century, so he’d stop harping on about a woman’s place being in the home.

My phone buzzed again, and I hesitated. What if it was Tristan? Could I act the same knowing he’d bugged my apartment? Hesitantly, I answered, “Bonjour?”

“Ma chérie.” Madame Dupont’s voice was high-pitched. “A source has just called. The flea market by the Seine, you must go now. They say Henry Miller’s typewriter is there. The old man with the red beret, he has it.”

“Oui, merci, Madame. I’ll go now!”

If it truly was Henry Miller’s typewriter, I had to have it. Another American who’d fallen in love with Paris, and written here in the thirties. If it was the typewriter he wrote
Tropic of Cancer
with, then it would be a real find, and I mentally started assessing ways I could find out. Miller had been friendly with Anaïs Nin, so securing the typewriter would ease some of the pain of losing her hutch.

I locked up and with quick steps made my way down to the Seine.

Stalls were set up along the side of the right bank where gentle waves lapped in the slipstream of boats chugging by.

Flea markets in Paris were serious business. While the laden tables might appear to be full of worthless knickknacks, they often hid valuable antiques. You just had to spend the time hunting for them or have reliable sources who’d tip you off first.