Rebecca Raisin - The Little Antique Shop Under The Eiffel Tower

I smirked. “Good idea,” I said, voice heavy with sarcasm. “Here’s the phone.” I lifted the receiver. “Give him a call and explain that to him.”

She had the grace to color, the apples of her cheeks pinking up, only making her more beautiful. “Well…maybe we can leave it a few more weeks, Anouk? Just until I really build up my sales.” Papa was set in his ways, and neither of us wanted to answer to him, gruff as he was. “Forget it for now,” she said. “I saw the most magnificent sunset in Marseille. I’m going to create a whole range of orange jewelry in ode to it. Let’s go to lunch and I can tell you everything. I’ve left Claude at your apartment so we don’t have to rush.” She leaned over the counter to grab my handbag, and in one swift movement took my elbow and barreled me out of the door. I halted and fumbled for my keys.

“Claude’s at my apartment?”

“Yeah, you’ve made a very valid point, and I was thinking of it, even before your spiel. You’re totally right – I can’t support myself with what little Papa gives me, and what little income I make with my jewelry, so I’ve given up my apartment in favor of staying with you – to save money on rent. I knew you’d be supportive of my decision…” She frowned at my expression of abject horror.

“Lilou…”

“What? You said yourself I had to figure out my expenses and set some long-term goals. That’s exactly what I’ve done! I’ll miss my apartment but sacrifices have to be made. Living with you will be one huge sacrifice but I’m planning for the future – just like you wanted. And how happy will Papa and Maman be knowing you’re keeping a close eye on little old me?”

I took a steadying breath, disarmed by her cunning, clever ways. Living with her would be a lesson in patience, tolerance, and cleanliness, to say the least. “It’s just…I like my own space, as you well know.”

She swung to face me. “Claude and I will use it as a landing base, that’s all. Don’t worry, you’ll still have your freedom.”

With the shop locked and the sign flicked to Closed, we let the debate drop and meandered away. In France we were accustomed to having long lunches, and sometimes ducking home for a nap before recommencing work. It was a way to relax and recharge. There was no race to get to the weekend because each day was a good day, with its own rhythms.

“Hang on, who’s Claude?” I asked.

“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.