‘Well, I guess we knew they were a longshot. I had a thought, and I could be totally off base, but could our mystery author have published under her husband’s name? We know that happened a lot back then, women writing under a man’s name, or a nom de plume, because of gender bias, but could that be why the royalties still went to him even after she left the marriage?’It would explain why she so vehemently wanted to drop her pseudonym, which wasn’t really a pen name; it washisname when she escaped from her husband.’
Noah slaps his forehead and yells, ‘Oui!’ He draws the attention of the librarian, who smiles. ‘That would explain it. It fits with why she never wanted to publish a book ever again, if she indeed wrote under his name and maybe he took all the credit for her hard work?’
‘Shall we look through the archives here? Make a list of names of men who were prolific and then suddenly stopped publishing around 1924?’
He gives me a quick nod. ‘I’m sure we’re on the right track.’
We split up and spend the next few hours going through the archives and make a solid list of potential writers. It saddens me that so many more men were published back then than women. And perhaps in order to get their words in print, they had to make sacrifices, like allow their husband to take the credit.
When we meet back at the table, we make a plan to investigate our long list of names further and meet up again later as soon as we happen on anything that feels like it might be him.
As we’re packing our papers away, Noah says, ‘Would you like to go to the Christmas market with me tomorrow afternoon before the bar opens?’
‘Sure, I’d love to.’ I’m not sure if Noah’s just being a friendly neighbour or there’s more to it on his part, but I decide in the interest of not reverting to a bland and boring life to say yes, to whatever comes my way. We’ve bonded over our shared heartbreak and now we’re bonding over the mysterious writer from suite nineteen. Whatever is in store for the future will only happen if I open myself up to possibilities. Even just the thought of a ‘one day’ romance is enough to send tingles down my body. The more I get to know Noah, the more I like him, even though he’s a mansplainer of the finest order.
33
11 DECEMBER
I’m meeting Noah at the Tuileries Marché de Noël, across from the Louvre. Every year at Christmas, the garden is transformed into a Christmas market with pop-up wooden chalets, serving festive fare and warm drinks. There’s an ice-skating rink and a Ferris wheel, as well as stalls selling gifts and plenty of places to sit and take in the ambiance.
The nutty smell of roasted chestnuts is enough to make my mouth water, so I hope eating is part of the plan when Noah finally arrives.
I catch sight of him at a kiosk, chattering away. I take a moment to survey him. He really is the whole package, a man who drinks words like they’re life-affirming; and let’s be honest, to us bookworms, they are. He also has thatje ne sais quoi,a certain appeal that can’t be explained. If I were writing a hero like him, the heroine would be at a crossroads right now. Facing the dilemma of the wholewill they, won’t theything, but this is not a romantic comedy. This is not fiction. Am I actually falling for the guy? Am I the heroine here?
Noah turns away from the kiosk and catches me daydreaming, gazing adoringly at him like he’s the deliciouscrème pâtissière in the centre of a profiterole. I squint and pretend to look straight through him, acting oh so surprised when he gets to me. ‘Noah! Sorry, I was a million miles away.’
His lips twitch as if he doesn’t believe me, so I press on. ‘There’ssucha glare off the white of the rink. Makes it hard to see, doesn’t it?’ Why don’t I stop talking?
‘These are for you. If the size is wrong you can exchange them.’ Maybe the glare really is harsh because Noah is holding two pairs of ice skates, which can only mean…?
‘Ah…’
‘Let’s skate!’
I scrunch my nose. ‘But the markets, the roasted chest?—’
‘We’ll work up a good appetite burning off some energy.’
‘I don’t know how to skate.’ OK, it’s more like I can’t skate and stand upright at the same time.
Noah’s busy unlacing his boots so I reluctantly follow suit. This is going to be a disaster. I despise exercise at the best of times but add in some public humiliation and possibly a broken ankle when I fall, and I think we might have the trifecta of embarrassment.
‘Why don’t I watch? I can get us somevin chaud?’
‘Let me help.’ Noah drops to his knees and unlaces my boots, as if we’re the best of friends and this is totally natural, which it is not. It feels wildly intimate as he wiggles off my boots and replaces them with skates, looking up at me every now and then as if to check he’s being gentle enough. My heart bongoes against my ribs and I remind myself to remain at least outwardly calm. I give him a toothy smile to express my absolute feelings of ease and he frowns. Perhaps that smile needs some work.
‘Ah – are you OK?’
‘Oui, just a little cold.’
‘I can help with that. May I?’ He gestures to my jean-clad legs.
I nod.
He runs his hands up and down my calves, trying to warm them. ‘You’ll be OK when you’re on the ice, you’ll warm up then.’
Not if I faceplant.
