‘You look more like the Grinch than a Christmas elf.’
‘Hmm?’ Sacha said absentmindedly. ‘You were the one who suggested I grow a beard.’
Joseph’s smile was wide as he clapped Sacha on the shoulder. ‘I’m not talking about your beard, although it is rather pitiful, given how many weeks it’s been. I’m talking about your face. Where’s your Christmas spirit?’
Sacha glanced critically around the stand which he and Joseph had transformed during the week. Everywhere he looked were candles, colourful fabrics, pine boughs and the vintage decorations Joseph had collected over the years. To one side stood the street organ that had cost them hours of work and, at the back, after the forest of lights and textures, was the Belle Époque centrepiece that was admittedly impressive, but probably still not worth the effort Joseph had put into restoring it.
‘Not enough Christmas spirit?’
‘You know what I mean. Something’s bothering you.’
He waved away Joseph’s concern. ‘It’s going to be a busy day.’
It had already been a busy day, hanging pine and holly and working out how to string up all the lights without overloading the precarious wiring in the old arcade. The market was an eclectic mix of retro and antiques, books, clothes, furniture and bric-a-brac, the prices varying wildly. It was an environment that filled him with nostalgia, especially when the older traders spoke to him as though he was still the teenager that Joseph had first brought here.
‘Oula! C’est magnifique! Vraiment!’
‘Bonjour, Mireille!’ Joseph turned with a smile to greet their neighbour from the next stand with kisses on the cheek.
‘Bonjour, Joseph. Sacha! So lovely to see you, chéri.’
A gust of wind rushed through the arcade, bringing a hint of moisture suggesting sleet – typical. Joseph pulled up his red hood, lined with fur that might have been real.
‘And where is your costume, Sacha?’ Mireille asked.
‘I’ll put it on, soon,’ he mumbled.
‘I know what you two need!’ Mireille said suddenly and disappeared back to her own stand. ‘I went to the Bois de Vincennes on Thursday and collected lots,’ she continued, as she bustled in. ‘Hang it right here!’
Sacha took the little bunch of narrow leaves and pale berries before he realised what it was. Le gui. No, mistletoe was definitely not what he needed.
‘Oho! The Grinch disapproves of mistletoe,’ said Joseph. ‘Or is it the thought of kissing that’s making you frown? Or not kissing?’
Sacha’s gaze shot up. ‘Why would you think that?’ he blurted out. He cleared his throat. ‘It’s nothing.’
‘You saw her again on Sunday, didn’t you? Your eyes were too shifty when I asked you what happened.’
‘My eyes were not shifty.’ If he had said something, Sacha could only imagine how much his friend would have talked about her during their evenings spent in the workshop, ruining Sacha’s efforts not to think about her.
He blamed the necessity of public transport that week for the amount of time he’d spent trying not to think about her. Between trips to the workshop, Nadia’s place and his own apartment, it was a lot of wondering. And now he was wondering what the Asquith-Lewis heiress would have made of all this. She was familiar with the world of antiques trading, but not like this.
But wondering didn’t matter. He’d never see her again, and it wouldn’t bother him. Perhaps he’d think of her when he caught glimpses of the Sacré-Cœur as he cycled past – if he ever found his bike – but nothing more.
Sacha hung the mistletoe begrudgingly and pulled on his costume just before the market opened, doing up the row of brass buttons. He wore an embroidered green waistcoat and a pointed felt hat, borrowed from a friend with a vintage clothing stand in the Marché Dauphine. The waistcoat wasn’t a genuine antique; it had been used for a film, which made it valuable, but not too valuable to borrow for a weekend. The felt hat was misshapen and could have been genuinely old.
With the combination of the richly embroidered waistcoat and the gnome hat, all he needed was a pair of spectacles and to lose a few inches and then he could be mistaken for a festive Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec. He only hoped no one mistook him for the Père Fouettard, Saint Nick’s evil sidekick. With his hair and beard, it was a distinct possibility.
Why had Joseph had his knee surgery just before Christmas?
Thoughts of Ren even followed him on his lunchtime pilgrimage to the second-hand books in the Marché Dauphine. Although he picked up his usual – something in Arabic – he also walked out with an old canvas-bound tome called English Romantic Poetry. As soon as he’d picked it up, the book had fallen open to a dog-eared page and the words had pounced on him:
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes
With all the references to the ‘tender light’ of night, of smiles and innocence, Byron could have written it for Ren, so now he had the stupid book to remind him of her even more – and to hide from Joseph in case his friend asked questions.
‘Don’t freak out, okay? I did warn you.’
‘You did,’ Ren agreed faintly, clutching Malou’s arm. ‘And I’m trying not to.’
‘Look, it’ll be okay as long as we don’t get separated. If we do, stay where you are and call me. Don’t leave any of the markets without me. And repeat after me: casse-toi!’
‘Casse-toi,’ Ren repeated carefully.
‘No, with more… punch. Casse-toi!’
‘Casse-toi!’ she tried again, drawing looks from the passing crowds in the market. It was Saturday morning and Malou had dragged her to the legendary Paris flea market. Despite the overwhelming chaos of the crowds and the piles of stuff, Ren was glad of the distraction.
Her week hadn’t improved from the moment she’d dropped the piece of paper. She’d made the mistake of giving Grandmama her new mobile number and, before she knew it, she was ignoring several messages a day, each more agitated than the last. The worst one had come through last night: tickets to a matinée performance of The Nutcracker tomorrow – three tickets, along with instructions to make sure her boyfriend wore a suit. She’d been trying not to panic ever since.
‘Bien,’ Malou said, approving Ren’s rude French.
‘What does it mean?’ she asked.
‘Oh, it’s kind of like “go away”. You might need it for some of the more persistent sellers on the fringes. And if that doesn’t work, there’s always “va te faire foutre”.’
‘Va te faire foutre!’ Ren practised, with plenty of punch this time. More heads turned. ‘What, is that one “fuck off”?’
‘C’est ça – that’s it,’ her friend said. ‘But I think I might freak out if I lose you in the crowds, so hopefully you won’t need them.’
‘I am capable of finding my way out of a market.’ Malou gave her a doubtful look. ‘Okay,’ Ren admitted, ‘this is way more than a market and I’m lost already even though the métro is only back there somewhere. Wait. Or was it that way?’
She gazed at the milling crowds, the squat shops with tin roofs, announcing their wares with simple signs in dated lettering. The Marché aux Puces de Saint-Ouen, the Paris flea market – or markets, more correctly – was a wild place where everyone mixed and customers could buy anything from cigarette machines from the 1950s to upholstered Louis XVI chairs, as though Ren had passed under the nearby boulevard périphérique into this upside-down version of Asquith-Lewis, where the quality over quantity rule was inverted and every punter was welcome.
‘Grandmama would hate this place,’ she murmured.
‘I’m pretty sure she does hate it. Despite the humble location, some of these traders have pieces that are just as stunning as the things I see in your auction house, but they can often sell them more cheaply. Some even sell to Asquith-Lewis on occasion. They’re professionals, too.’
‘Of course. And you’re the only professional here. I just… know what I like.’
‘You’re a connoisseur,’ Malou said fondly. ‘Meaning everyone will want to sell you stuff.’
‘Va te faire foutre!’
‘That’s only for the streets around the market! Do not break that one out in the Marché Biron, je t’en prie!’
‘Is the Marché Biron the fancy one? You don’t have to go there for my sake. We’re off-duty. What about this one? It looks interesting.’ Ren steered Malou under a dated blue sign, draped with tinsel and baubles, that read ‘Marché Vernaison’, and into a warren of lanes.
The Christmas decorations, the stalls piled high with every object imaginable – and a few she would never in her life have imagined – made her think of Sacha’s friend Joseph’s workshop. Sacha had said Joseph ran a market stall. Could it be here? Surely that would be too much luck even for the old horseshoe, but Ren was struck by the possibility.
Ignoring Malou’s curious look at the sudden spring in her step, Ren headed for the first stand. Outside was a pile of carved wooden boxes and a ceramic tea pot shaped like a savoy cabbage.
By lunchtime, she’d bought a top hat, a handwoven Malian cloth from the 1950s, which she draped around her shoulders, and an ugly gnome who she’d felt sorry for, all the while holding on to the naïve hope of seeing Sacha somewhere in the crowd.
‘You are a terrible businessperson,’ Malou murmured.
‘That’s what Grandmama always says. But you never know. Maybe this little guy is Sèvres porcelain and worth a fortune.’
‘He’s not,’ Malou assured her drily.
Ren enjoyed the most delicious hamburger at a stand under a gas heater – not that she’d eaten enough hamburgers to judge. But it came with a glass of wine, which made the experience suitably French – that, and the fresh brioche bun and truffle cream on the burger. She could certainly get into fast food if it was cooked by the French.
In the afternoon, Ren’s eyes had started to ache from constantly sifting through the mountains of jumbled wares and the faces in the crowd. Then, of course, the worst happened. She was inspecting an impressive display of antique clocks and candelabras, thinking of Cogsworth and Lumière from Beauty and the Beast, when she looked up to find Malou nowhere to be seen.
She took a deep breath and closed her eyes until she was certain she could hide her panic. ‘Va te faire foutre,’ she repeated under her breath to make sure she still remembered.
‘Quoi?’ replied the horrified trader of the antique clocks.
‘Non… pas de… rien, merci. Excusez-moi,’ she rattled off and backed away hurriedly. After a minute of frantic walking to and fro, she, her top hat, her Malian rug and her ugly gnome were all lost.
