‘You need another pair of hands to help, Anais. Get to it,’ Margaret says in her usual brusque way.
‘NOAJDAJLDK!’ Manon says, her voice raspy but strong as if she’s using every ounce of lung capacity to talk.
‘What? Conserve your energy, Manon.’
Margaret says, ‘Is she asking for someone?’
‘Who would she ask for? The backpackers are all at work.’ I give the bookshelf another shove. Nothing. ‘I’m going to need assistance. Someone with muscles. A dependable, solid?—’
‘Noajkh.’
‘Noah!’ Margaret shrieks. ‘Who’s Noah?’
‘The next-door neighbour! Margaret, you keep talking to her and I’ll get Noah.’ I move my mobile phone closer to Manon so she can hear my agent and dash outside into the drizzly day.
I race to The Lost Generation Wine Bar, as fast as my out-of-shape romance writer body can take me, and bang on Noah’s door. What if he’s not here? My heart gallops as I screen my hands against the darkened glass to peek in. I let out a shuddery breath when I see his purposeful strides coming towards me.
When he opens the door a crack, I say, ‘Noah, we’ve got an emergency! Manon is stuck under a heavy bookshelf and I can’t lift it off.’
Thankfully, Noah understands the urgency and follows my quick steps. He doesn’t seem to be holding a grudge about my unleashing on him the other day when I went a little off script. Still, best he knows I’m not going to allow a man to boss me about.
We rush back to find Margaret telling Manon all about a new author of hers who’s single and has an upcoming book tour in Paris and would love a native French friend to help guide him during his stay. ‘Margaret! Now is clearly not the time for matchmaking!’
Noah assesses the situation and in a matter of moments lifts the shelf from Manon’s frame as easily as if it’s made of ply. I really must work on my upper body strength. Either that, or Noah is deceptively strong. While he’s got that robust alpine man swagger, I didn’t think a man who owns a bar would be that athletic, what with being in close proximity to wine, whisky and cocktails serving and imbibing. Am I buying into the stereotype? He probably spends his days off trekking up mountains, hunkering in humble cabins with no electricity just to prove he can, like Hemingway used to do with his first wife Hadley. Again, probably a stereotype but I am a writer and that’s where my mind goes.
I put Noah out of my mind and focus on Manon, who sits up, her face darkened with dust. ‘You’re alive to tell the tale!’ I drop to my knees and pull her in tight. She yelps.
Noah inspects the shelf as if it might offer up a clue as to why it fell over. He’s bent at the waist like he’s Poirot or something.
‘I’m alive – just. I might claim compensation. I haven’t decided yet.’
‘You’d make me, your favourite cousin, pay compensation?’ The patient looks remarkably well despite a heavy piece of furniture having landed smack bang atop her. Still, injuries can be internal and that is a worrying thought. ‘We should get you to the hospital to get checked.’
Manon scoots to the side of the room and leans against the wall. She’s clutching her midsection, which is a concern. ‘No, I don’t need to go to hospital. It’s not that serious.’
‘I’m sure she’s fine,’ Noah says breezily.
And really, how would he know? ‘Are you medically trained, Noah?’ I narrow my eyes. ‘With X-Ray vision?’
A frown mars his brow. ‘Well, no. It’s just that the bookshelf itself is?—’
‘—made from solid wood and must have fallen on her with some velocity!’ I butt in. ‘For all we know, my poor cousin could be internally bleeding, or worse.’
Manon’s eyes widen.
‘She might fall asleep and never wake up again.’ I twist my mouth into an apologetic pucker. ‘Sorry to speak so bluntly, Manon. Yourmamanwould kill me if you died on my watch.’
She gasps. ‘You’re more concerned about mymamanthan me waking up dead?’
I nod gravely. ‘She’s rather intimidating.’ Let’s just say, Aunt Josephine would give Margaret a run for her money. My school holiday visits were always fun with Manon by my side, but Aunt Josephine ran a tight ship, and I behaved because I was terrifiedof getting into trouble, and also because my younger cousindid not.
‘Maman is the reason I have so many issues. Do you know she threatened me every Christmas that Père Noël wouldn’t be coming to deliver presents because of my behaviour, and instead I’d be paid a visit by Père Fouettard, who would whack me instead? What kind of a mother does that?’ Manon shakes her head at the memory. When we were children, all French parents threatened such a thing. Fairytales about ‘Father Whipper’ were enough to keep most of us well behaved as we imagined this old, stooped stranger arriving to dole out punishment instead of the jovial Père Noël, who’d deliver our presents while we slept.
‘Well, it didn’t stop you, did it? You still wouldn’t do as told.’
‘Where’s the fun in that.’ There’s a wicked gleam in her eye as if she’s right back there baiting her poor mother. ‘You just need to understand how to handle her, and playing by the rules is not the right way. Help me up, would you?’ I lift her up and she wipes her hands on her black jeans. ‘I only hope… I’ll recover in time for the festive season.’ She hugs herself tight and I get the first inkling all is not what it seems.
‘That’s, like, seven weeks away, Manon.’ My shoulders relax. If she’s exaggerating, she’s healthy. ‘You’re fine. You probably pulled the bookshelf on top of yourself so you didn’t have to help me sort the kitchen cupboards today.’ There is all sorts of detritus in the cupboards: canned food that goes back decades, mismatched crockery and broken appliances that need to be relegated to the scrap heap. All that, and I still haven’t found a French press, but have managed to buy one at a local market so at least our mornings start with the required jolt of caffeine.
