Ren’s teeth were chattering and her fingers ached, even inside her gloves. In the crush of the market, she’d kept warm enough not to have felt the hours passing in the winter cold. But now she found herself out on the street, the wind whipped at her hair and the sleet was getting in her eyes. She fumbled for her phone, but her hands wouldn’t work. She wrapped the Malian rug more tightly around her and put on the top hat, although the stupid thing did nothing for her ears. Monsieur Gnome (with an audible ‘g’, according to Malou) was safe in her handbag.
Looking around desperately for shelter, she noticed shafts of warm light emerging from the gates of another market, painted a lurid yellow that was somewhat softened by the pine boughs hanging below the sign. Praise the Lord, the market had a roof. Ren hurried in that direction, sighing when she reached shelter and the sleet no longer stabbed her nose.
There was a thick warmth radiating from further inside and she followed the sensation as though drawn by a magnet. When she reached the source of the warmth, she could almost believe flea market Christmas magic did exist.
The warmth came from a wonderland of Christmas past. At the front stood a white carousel horse with a grey mane, finely sculpted, with a golden bridle and a glittering saddle. Carved wood panelling and antique mirrors adorned the walls, along with embroidered curtains with twisted rope tie-backs. A beautiful mahogany escritoire was off to one side, covered in letters addressed to ‘Père Noël’. Two fragrant Christmas trees stood in opposite corners of the space, glowing with lights. The moulded ornaments were plump and nostalgic – shiny pinecones, stars, baubles and Father Christmas. Some showed enough wear for Ren to guess that they were all vintage.
Opposite the escritoire, Ren found the source of the glorious warmth: an iron stove, with elegant scrollwork and glazed patterned tiles. She tugged off her gloves and stepped forwards to warm her hands with blissful relief.
At the back of the stall, on a small platform covered by a Persian rug, stood the most extraordinary thing of all: Santa’s sleigh. It was curved like a shell, with a space on the side to get in and out. The two benches were plush red velvet and the outside was decorated in the effusive, joyful golden ornamentation of the Belle Époque, with leaves and plump swirls and a giant fake jewel. She guessed it had originally come from a carousel, but it was perfect for its new role.
Two small children sat in the sleigh talking to the man himself, gazing with wide eyes at his bearded face and the red fur-lined robe. They were admiring their gifts: two rustic horseshoes that they clanged together, making a satisfying tone in the hushed market stand. Ren stared at the horseshoes, her skin prickling.
When she slowly raised her gaze to take in ‘Père Noël’, she couldn’t believe her luck. ‘Joseph?’
‘Ah! Ren! Quelle surprise! Welcome to my shop.’ He emerged gingerly from his sleigh to shake her hand vigorously, then he clasped her shoulders to give her two fond ‘bisous’ on her cheeks. ‘So lovely to see you again.’
‘Wow, your costume is perfect,’ she said.
‘You know what they say: Père Noël is really Black.’ He tapped the side of his nose and grinned.
‘You’ve convinced me,’ she said with a smile. ‘Is… is Sacha here?’
‘Ah, non,’ Joseph said, his smile fading.
‘It’s okay,’ she murmured, although it really wasn’t. The disappointment at her near miss was momentarily crippling. What difference would it have made anyway, seeing him one more time?
‘I don’t know where he’s gone. He helped Mireille with a client half an hour ago and he never came back.’
Her head whipped up. ‘Oh, he was here? He is here – somewhere?’
‘Yes. He’s my… elf for the day, ho, ho.’
‘Well,’ she said breathlessly, ‘perhaps I could… wait for him here?’
‘Bien sûr, I insist.’
The shot of adrenaline at the possibility of finding him again rushed back through her veins and she gushed, ‘This is really the most beautiful Christmas display. I hope you’ve been overrun with visitors.’
‘Ah, not quite. The Christmas display at the Marché Paul Bert is better known. But I don’t complain. It makes everyone happy.’
She studied him thoughtfully. ‘Joseph, do you have Instagram?’
He was an idiot. How long had he spent rushing around the Marché Serpette after someone he wasn’t even sure was there?
Cold, wet and annoyed, Sacha swiped at his hair as he stepped under the shelter of the familiar yellow arcade. How long had he left Joseph alone? And all because he thought he’d caught a glimpse of Ren’s friend. The stupidity of hope.
He fished the crumpled hat out of his coat pocket and shoved it back on. It could have kept him warm and dry, but he hadn’t wanted to go running after Ren looking like a festive imbecile.
He shrugged out of his coat as he approached Joseph’s stand, transformation to Christmas elf complete, but as the stand came into sight, he froze in shock.
It was packed. Families huddled together outside, smiling and pointing. A queue had formed and someone in a top hat and a strange cloak was busy selling ornaments out the front. He blinked, wondering if the sleet had damaged his eyes.
Sacha came closer, hearing the cheery, but slightly creepy rendition of ‘Minuit, Chrétien’ on the barrel organ – played a little too fast by the enthusiastic hands of a child on the crank. A group of customers was singing along with the English words, ‘O Holy Night’, and not quite reaching the high notes.
When the song came to an end, the elf in the top hat stopped to cheer and clap, turning in Sacha’s direction to smile at the carollers. Sacha shook his head to clear it. He must be imagining things. For a moment, he’d thought he’d seen that smile. Just great. Trying not to think about her appeared to be the same thing as thinking about her.
She caught sight of him, and her face brightened even more.
‘Sacha!’ she called out. He was rooted to the spot, unwilling to accept she was really there because it made him so damn happy. Nom de Dieu, her eyes. He’d forgotten how his heart raced when she looked at him like that.
Her voice propelled him forward, but, when he finally stood next to her, by the display of decorative items he’d helped Joseph solder together from more old horseshoes, he couldn’t think of a thing to say.
‘I’m sorry… to surprise you here. Would you believe I dropped the slip of paper from the top floor of the Galeries Lafayette and I lost your number?’
‘What?’
‘I was going to call you.’
‘You didn’t have to…’ No more words came. He just stared dumbly at her, remembering their conversations and completely charmed by her strange appearance.
‘I… my friend brought me here. It’s… educational, I suppose. And then I saw Joseph and…’
‘Voilà,’ he finished for her.
‘Voilà!’ she repeated. ‘Look, I’m wearing jeans from Zara and no expensive jewellery. I’m so glad I could help Joseph, too. This is amazing!’
She looked amazing. The freckles on her cheeks were bright, which only seemed to emphasise those clear eyes. She didn’t look like the miserable granddaughter of Livia Asquith-Lewis. She looked… herself… in a top hat.
‘Um, is it okay that I’m here? I don’t mean to intrude. You were probably happy to be rid of me on Monday morning.’
‘No!’ he spluttered, finally throwing himself into gear. ‘Juste… ah…’ He scratched the back of his head. ‘I was… disappointed you didn’t call and now…’ Merde, had he really admitted that?
‘Sacha! Where have you been?’ Joseph called out in greeting. ‘Ren made me an Instagram account and performed some magic with a hashtag and now everyone’s pouring in! Every génie needs the Internet, these days, il paraît.’
Sacha turned back to Ren in surprise. Her smile had turned wry. ‘I thought I could use my powers for good.’
‘Thanks,’ he said, still struggling with multiple syllables. ‘I’m glad you found us,’ he blurted out.
‘Me too.’
With the newfound popularity of Joseph’s Christmas wonderland, the next hour passed in a blur. Despite her boundless enthusiasm, Ren’s French was terrible and her ability to count change similarly so. Sacha took over the sales and she worked on Joseph’s new Instagram account, posting photos of the small details of the stand, taking a video of the barrel organ and visiting the other traders.
Sacha felt adrift, in limbo between his expectations and reality. She must have seen thousands of high-quality antiques in her life – she probably had a house furnished with them. But she admired Soufiane’s rugs with enthusiasm and listened raptly to Mireille gushing about her boho peacock armchair. After a few minutes of conversation, they appeared to be best friends and each trader had their own Instagram account, too.
‘You look like someone, but I can’t think who,’ Mireille said, making Sacha look up sharply. He shared Ren’s look of alarm. Announcing her identity would probably take ‘using her powers for good’ a step too far. He knew what a name like Asquith-Lewis meant in this market. ‘That’s it!’ Mireille snapped her fingers and studied Ren’s face with interest. ‘You really look remarkably like… What did you say your name was, chérie?’
‘Oh, gosh, didn’t I introduce myself? I’m…’
Sacha hurdled a wooden chest and hopped through a forest of limestone statues to land at her side, taking a deep breath. He wrapped an arm around her shoulder and squeezed. ‘This is Ren, my girlfriend.’
Mireille clapped her hands together. ‘Pourquoi tu ne me l’as pas dit? C’est super! I knew you’d find the right one, one day. She’s lovely, just lovely. I don’t know why I thought… perhaps all red-headed English look the same! What did you say your name was? Renne? Like the animals of Père Noël?’
‘What?’
‘Renne is the French word for reindeer,’ Sacha explained.
‘I had no idea my name was so difficult. Erm… no, my name is… Wren, w-with a “w”. It’s actually a bird in English,’ she said, the lie falling with some hesitation from her lips.
Sacha shepherded Ren back to Joseph’s stand and adjusted her top hat. ‘Thanks,’ she said softly, peering at him from under the brim. ‘I didn’t want to lie to her, but Ziggy would kill me if word got out that I’d visited the Marché aux Puces.’
He rather felt like murdering Ziggy himself. ‘What did you say about a bird?’
She grimaced. ‘I was worried “Ren” would be too easily connected to Irena,’ she murmured. ‘But there is a name in English, “Wren” with a w. It’s a kind of bird.’ She looked it up in her phone and showed him the French translation.
‘Roitelet huppé?’ he said with a laugh. ‘Yes, this is a bird, but in French we call it a little king – or queen in your case. And huppé can also mean… upper class.’
‘The perfect name for me, then,’ she said drily.
‘No,’ he said softly. ‘The perfect fake name. I begin to suspect that you are not… huppé at all.’
‘Despite my collection of Chamani boots?’ She gave him a wobbly smile.
‘Là! Regardez! Le gui!’ Mireille called out behind them. ‘Here, give me the phone. We need a picture of you kissing under the mistletoe!’
‘Mireille,’ he began, not certain how to protest without arousing suspicion. ‘History has moved on from forcing women to kiss.’
‘I wouldn’t mention it if she was a stranger! But you can indulge an old friend who’s never seen you look at a woman the way you did just now,’ Mireille replied softly in French. ‘It warms my heart, Sacha.’
The effect on Sacha’s heart was quite different. It seemed to beat too fast, one moment in panic and the next in anticipation. But he couldn’t contradict his old friend, and not only for the sake of the ruse. Mireille was right. He didn’t think anyone had ever had this effect on him. But he was far from a handsome prince and had no intention of complicating her life any further.
He shouldn’t kiss her, but he wanted to.
‘It’s okay,’ Ren said. ‘I think the tradition these days is to give couples an excuse to smooch in public!’ Mireille grinned and held up her phone. Ren tugged off both of their hats and looped her hands around his neck.
They’d kissed before, so this was no big deal. Except it was.
