The Little Antique Shop Under The Eiffel Tower

“My boyfriend!” She zoomed on, pinning my arm so I had no choice but to keep pace.

We zigzagged through throngs of people who were enjoying the spectacle of a lively Parisian spring day.

“What? What happened to Rainier?” I asked, trying to catch my breath as she propelled me forward.

Before Lilou had vanished three weeks ago, she’d been smitten with a gorgeous Frenchman whose broody nature intrigued her. Rainier was a wine-maker from Haut-Médoc who was taking a year to explore his native country to broaden his horizons, sipping Bordeaux along the way – an oenophile if I ever met one, as he supped, and swished, lamenting about the complexities of wine like he was reciting poetry. I thought he was perfect for her, mysterious enough to keep her guessing, and therefore interested.

“Oh,” she hesitated, no doubt trying to formulate a lie to soften the fact she’d ditched him like an apple core. “We just weren’t compatible. C’est la vie.”

“C’est la vie again?” I couldn’t hide the rebuke in my voice. It was one thing to take flight every time something shinier came along, but she’d left a trail of broken hearts in her wake, and I knew only too well what that felt like. I couldn’t tell her how to care – she wouldn’t listen anyway – but it grated that she could be so frivolous with other people’s feelings. I blamed it on her youth, and hoped she’d grow out of it. There was a six-year age gap between us but sometimes it felt like twenty.

I mused. “I liked Rainier. He was soft on the inside.”

She ignored me and winked at two young guys sitting on the grass nearby. Lilou was an incorrigible flirt who winked, waved, and whispered her way around Paris, just for fun.

Turning away from the guys, she said, “I could have set you and Rainier up. You should have told me!”

I gasped, and broke into a fit of giggles at the ridiculous idea. “Not for me, for you!”

We strolled along the fringes of the Champs de Mars. The 800-meter-long green space was once used as a market garden centuries ago. Once upon a time locals grew abundant crops to harvest and plied their wares. Now it was a verdant park for people to picnic on and gaze at the Eiffel Tower.

“Well you haven’t met Claude yet. And…” she paused for effect “…his brother Didier lives in Paris, and just so happens to be an art critic. Art. He likes art. You like art!”

As if that was enough to jump into bed with someone, which is what she constantly nagged me to do. I shook my head in a vigorous no.

“Don’t do that thing you do, not again, please.” It was her mission to set me with up with a man, any man, the only prerequisite seemed to be that he was breathing. So far she’d introduced me to a sixty-year-old count with a handlebar moustache, a dreadlocked guitarist who spoke in tongues, and the last and most explosive no: a magician who kept threatening to make my clothing disappear. I shuddered at the thought of such paramours.

We walked in silence, enjoying the hazy sunlight on our faces. Twenty minutes later we arrived at one of our favorite restaurants, Mille, near Les Invalides. Inside the various buildings that made up Hôtel National des Invalides there were museums and monuments pertaining to the French military, and deep within its walls lay Napoléon Bonaparte’s tomb. It was a hallowed place and steeped with history, a popular spot for tourists who could wander most of the expanse for free.

Mille served traditional French food, and a selection of fine wines, perfect for a slow lunch, and it was a good vantage point for people watching, which was one of my favorite things to do.

The maître d’ recognized us and hurried over, motioning to a table by the window. We thanked him, taking proffered menus. Lilou ordered white wine without consulting me, and fluttered her lashes at the poor smitten man, as was her way. “Vin blanc, OK?” she asked, leaning her head on her hand, giving me a lazy smile.

“Well you’ve ordered it now, haven’t you?” I furrowed my brow, trying to appear disapproving, but failing.

“Oui, I have.” She laughed, and it lit up her blue eyes. We were similar in appearance, but Lilou had a playfulness to her that made her radiant, which I had never had, even in my teens. While our facial features were alike, our style was markedly different. I tended to wear vintage clothing, forties style, and Lilou was very a la mode, and kept up with the latest fashion trends even on her limited budget. Her hair was always loose, and shiny, like a shampoo model, and mine was curled or coiffed. She favored natural makeup, and I preferred the dramatic smoky-eyed, scarlet-lipped look. Though many a time she’d pilfer my wardrobe for scarves or dresses – a younger sister’s rite of passage.

Perusing the menu I decided on the dish of the day – let it be a surprise – and Lilou went for the beef fillet with béarnaise sauce and potato dauphinoise. For such a lithe specimen of a girl she could eat as heartily as any man. She’d have entrée first and finish the meal with a rich dessert, of which I would steal a bite, and then she’d order yet another bottle of wine. I had her measure, and knew without doubt I’d pay for the lunch, and its accoutrements. It was nice to be able to shut off for a few hours, with someone who knew me inside out.

I enjoyed our sisterly time together, and the fact we could be ourselves and relax into the afternoon. I wondered if that might change if we lived together. The thought of Lilou wreaking havoc inside my pristine apartment, where everything was just so, was enough to make me rue my choice not to say no to her – but how could I? Parisian apartments were expensive, and I knew she couldn’t keep up paying for hers for any length of time. I calmed myself, promising there’d be rules she’d have to adhere to. She would be on her best behavior surely?

We ordered our meals, and the waiter filled our wineglasses. I sat back feeling my limbs loosen with the first sip of crisp white wine.

“As I was saying,” she said, giving her hair a customary flick, “I know my match-making choices haven’t been ideal but this Didier…” She pretended to pull her collar out as if she was hot, and waggled her eyebrows suggestively. “Whoa! Seriously, you have to meet him.”

I clucked my tongue like my maman would do when Lilou was being too Lilou. “No thank you. Your choices have been downright hideous.” I gave her a withering stare. “A magician? A sixty-year-old count? You might think I’m mature but I’m only twenty-eight for God’s sake. I don’t think we need to reach for the fringes of society just yet. And certainly not a man old enough to be my papa!”

She leaned forward and whispered, “Some women find silver foxes very attractive, I’ll have you know.”

It was like speaking another language with Lilou. “Silver foxes?”

“Oui,” she said. “Silver foxes, you know, a man with a sprinkling of gray, a little mature but a whole lot of sex appeal.” She slapped her hand on the table and let out a roar of delight.

“Hush, Lilou. Mon Dieu!” All eyes were cast toward us.

“What?” She blew out her cheeks. “You can’t nurse a broken heart forever. Six months is enough grieving time, too much time for a man like him. You need to have a passionate affair!”

I shriveled in my seat, hoping no one could understand her fast-talking sentences. “I’m not grieving –” I scoffed “– far from it. I don’t have time for it, that’s all.” Lilou knew the intimate details about Joshua because the petit espion had found my diary and read every single word. If not for that she’d know zero, because who would tell the world a horror story like that? “And if I did have time for a relationship, I wouldn’t reserve it for the type of men you’re suggesting. A silver fox, I mean…?”

Laughter burbled from her. “You said you wanted someone extraordinary! Gray is the new black, non?”

I arched a brow. “I don’t think so, Lilou.” Really, she was so adamant about the most ridiculous things.

Tugging her dress down as she sat back in her chair, she said, “Sister of mine, I hate to say it, but you are only twenty-eight. Not eighty-eight. Why can’t you have a little fun while you’re waiting for Mr. Right? Even Madame Dupont beds more men than you do, and she is almost eighty.”

Madame Dupont took Lilou into her confidence when it came to matters of the boudoir. Lilou was a good secret keeper when she wantedto be, and Madame Dupont trusted her. They recognized something in one another: a spark of similarity, of lives lived the same, only half a century apart.

I struggled not to roll my eyes at Lilou’s disappointed expression. “For some of us, it’s not all about sex you know. There’s more to intimacy than that.”

She sighed. “What do you want – flowers, chocolates? A sonnet or two? Your name written in the sky?” She pretended to yawn as if she was bored. “A cookie-cutter romance? No, Anouk, no. You need to dust off your lingerie, and throw yourself at the first available debonair man, and let nature take its course. High octane, a helluva lot of adventure, and boom, you’ll never remember what’s-his-name.”

It was impossible not to laugh. Dust off my lingerie? “Thanks for your input, Lilou, but I don’t think that’s very sage advice. Throw myself at just anyone as if I’ve been sex starved or something! What’s the rush? What if Monsieur First Available is a raving sociopath? He could be married, or a misfit, or a gambler. What if he had a hairy back? A passion for flat-pack furniture?” I suppressed a giggle at Lilou’s darkening expression. “What’s wrong with taking time to get to know someone and then later expressing love with little gifts, especially a poem?”

“It’s just so last century.” She raised her hands up. “And let’s be real, can we? You’re not going to meet anyone stuck at work or holed up in your apartment, are you? I can see your tombstone already.” She gazed over my shoulder, and scrunched her face up as if she was crying, with a faux sob she said, “Here lies Anouk LaRue. Born. Worked. Died. She leaves behind her beloved little antique shop, who’ll miss her dearly.” For effect she buried her face in her hands and faux wept, once again drawing attention from curious onlookers. If only they knew.

“There’s nothing wrong with the amount I work. It’s called,” I enunciated slowly, “being responsible. Setting myself up for the future. A man would complicate all of that. When the time is right, I’ll date again, but at the moment, the thought makes me want to scream. I just simply do not have a minute of the day left to worry about another person. You make it seem like we need men to survive! We don’t!”

She took her hands from her face. “No time? You spend an age reading the newspaper. You play around on your laptop every evening! How much time do you need for love? Joshua was a nasty excuse for a boyfriend – I get that. Pure evil, and enough to break the steeliest of hearts, but so what? That was a million years ago, and it’s time to forget it. If you hide away it means he’s still winning. We don’t need men? We don’t need wine either, but how much sweeter is life with it?”

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.