Manon nods. ‘I must read this erotica… to make sure it’s appropriate for our guests.’ She winks, garnering a shake of the head from me. Trust Manon to get stuck on that part.
‘Actually, you make a good point. It’s not exactly child friendly. Perhaps we need a separate book area for children? We can set up some shelves and toys in a corner of the guest suite.’
‘Ah –oui! When I cleaned out the cupboards in the laundry I found a box of toys. Not that old by the looks of it. An abacus, a xylophone, a train set, some board games. I’ll take a closer look at them and see if they’re in good enough condition for the children’s area.’
‘Parfait. And we can buy some picture books. Why don’t we trawl round some bookshops today to find stock for the library? I want it to be an eclectic mix so there’s a curated selection to suit every taste. We can buy second-hand books, which won’t hurt the budget too much.’
Manon returns to her phone. ‘Delta of Venus, by Anaïs Nin. I’ll start with that.’
‘Oui,and we can hunt for not only her novels but biographies about her, with all the juicy details. Have you got that list of suite names?’ Manon gives me a nod. ‘Great. We can look for the books we named the suites after. Whatever we can’t find we’ll order online, but won’t the fun part be searching for books to make the library grand?’
‘I’ll get ready now while you think about where you’re taking me for lunch. I’ll need stamina for all this book shopping.’
The cold wind whips my hair back as we wander along the streets of Paris, book shopping. Is there anything more fun? We’ve been to Shakespeare and Co., where Manon got remonstrated for taking a selfie beside the sign announcing that photos are prohibited. Then it was off to The Red Wheelbarrow Bookshop, before continuing to the flea markets where we found untold treasures at a fraction of the cost of new.
Now we’re strolling along Les Bouquinistes, the booksellers along the bank of the Seine, looking for French language novels.
The tiny green book boxes run up and down the length of the river Seine and sell a variety of vintage novels, postcards and prints. We rummage through and find a copy ofDelta of Venusby Anaïs Nin, andTheHunchback of Notre Dameby Victor Hugo. We make our purchases and head back in the direction of the hotel, arms laden with over-full carry bags and books.
‘Let’s go to the Rue Mouffetard Market,’ Manon says. ‘Forfromage.’
‘My hands are full of books, there’s no way I can fit cheese in.’
‘I’ll find a way.Fromageis life.’
The bustling street market in a picturesque location is famous for selling the best and freshest produce and has beenaround for the longest time. Hemingway wrote about it inA Moveable Feast. He lived close by with his wife Hadley for a while at 74 Rue du Cardinal-Lemoine. And George Orwell stayed for a spell at 6 Rue du Pot de Fer. There’s a lot of literary history surrounding the area that leads out from the market. I always get a little thrill at the thought of walking where they once did. Of picking up a ripe, juicy plum and inhaling the perfume, did they stop and take it all in too, a memory, a snapshot for their own writing about Paris?
The market is busy. Vendors display fat, juicy, plump olives, deep purple artichokes; the spoils are rich. Roasted chestnuts scent the air. There’s a stand with oozy gooey raclette, melted cheese piled onto a plate ready to be eaten with a chunk of baguette.
Christmas bunting shivers in the wind. Children clutching hot chocolate shriek and laugh, dodging in and out of the crowds.
‘Fromage?’ Manon asks. ‘Orsaucisson?’
‘Why not both?’
Manon orders thinly slicedsaucissonwith fennel and garlic and a thick wedge of aged Comte.
While Manon flirts with the vendor in the hopes of free samples, I move along to a flower stall. There’s no excess funds for such frivolous purchases but the fragrant blooms are beautiful. Ideally, I’d like to start staging some areas for photographs for the website. I pick up a bouquet of soft pink peonies, whose petals fold in like a secret. As I’m debating with myself over spending ten euros for flowers, there’s a tap on my shoulder. I turn to find Noah standing there, holding a large zucchini. It’s rather phallic and laughter bursts out of me.
His eyebrows pull together but a smile tugs at his lips. ‘I’m happy to see you, Anais.’
I flick my gaze to his long, thick zucchini and say, ‘I can see that.’
I bite my lip but when he computes, laughter burbles from us both. ‘It’s for balls.’
My mouth falls open.
‘Ah – deep-fried zucchini balls.’
‘I, uh – see.’
There’s an awkwardness between us, and I’m not sure if it’s because of the pendulous zucchini or my drunken behaviour at the death metal evening. Probably both.
‘So…?’ I say, scrambling to think of something, anything, to say.
‘Delta of Venus,’ he says, pointing to the books in my arms. ‘I wouldn’t have figured you for a fan of erotica.’
Just when we get on solid ground, he says something jarring. ‘Oh, why’s that? Do I come across as a prude to you?’
