Read Online Hunting and Gathering by Anna Gavalda - Free Book Online Page B

anxious.
    What?
    Â 
She pulled herself together and called out to a sales assistant before she lost it completely. Little cottages deep in the woods, that was all well and good, but in the meantime she was freezing at the end of a damp corridor and this young man in his bright yellow polo-neck was bound to help her:
    â€œYou say the air is getting in?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œIs it a skylight?”
    â€œNo, a louvered window.”
    â€œThose things still exist?”
    â€œUnfortunately.”
    â€œHere, this is what you need.”
    He handed her a roll of sealing strip that could be nailed in place, especially designed for “window weatherproofing” and made of long-lasting, washable, waterproof PVC-backed foam. Hallelujah, thought Camille.
    â€œDo you have a staple gun?”
    â€œNope.”
    â€œA hammer and nails?”
    â€œNot that either.”
    Â 
She followed him all around the store like a little dog while he filled her basket.
    Â 
“What about heaters?”
    â€œWhat do you have at the moment?”
    â€œAn electric radiator which blows the fuse during the night, and which stinks as well.”
    He took his role very seriously and gave her a proper lecture on the subject.
    In a learned tone of voice he sang the praises of various heaters, gave a running commentary on others, and compared the merits of fan, radiator, infrared, ceramic, oil and convection, until Camille felt dizzy.
    â€œWhat should I get?”
    â€œWell, that’s really up to you.”
    â€œBut that’s the thing, I just can’t tell.”
    â€œGet an oil heater, they’re not too expensive and they heat well. The Calor Oléo is not bad.”
    â€œIs it on casters?”
    â€œWell . . . ,” he said hesitantly, checking the technical specifications,
    â€œ ‘mechanical thermostat, cord storage, adjustable power, integrated humidifier,’ blah-blah-blah, ‘casters’! Yes, ma’am!”
    â€œGreat. That way I can put it near the bed.”
    â€œWell . . . if you don’t mind me saying so . . . you know, a guy does the job just as well. In bed, he gives off heat . . .”
    â€œYes, but there’s no cord storage.”
    â€œTrue, true.”
    He was smiling.
    Â 
On the way to the register to get the warranty, she spotted a fake fireplace with fake embers, fake logs, fake flames and fake andirons.
    â€œHey, what’s that?”
    â€œAn electric fireplace, but I don’t recommend it, it’s a rip-off.”
    â€œNo, go on, show me!”
    Â 
It was the Sherbone, an English model. Only the English could invent something so ugly and kitsch. Depending on the intensity of the heat (one thousand or two thousand watts), the flames rose higher. Camille was enraptured: “It’s fantastic—it looks just like a real one!”
    â€œHave you seen the price?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œFive hundred thirty-two euros. It’s insane. A useless gadget. Don’t be fooled.”
    â€œWhat the hell, it doesn’t mean anything to me in euros anyway.”
    â€œIt’s not hard, just calculate roughly 3,500 francs for a gizmo that won’t heat you half as well as the Calor for less than six hundred francs.”
    â€œI want it.”
    Â 
Here was a young man full of good sense, but all Camille could do was close her eyes to her own profligacy as she handed him her credit card. She’d come this far, she might as well pay for the delivery as well. When she told them she was on the eighth floor without an elevator, the woman looked at her askance and told her it would cost an extra ten euros.
    â€œNo problem,” replied Camille, squeezing her buttocks.
    He was right. It was insane.
    Â 
Yes, it was insane, but the place where she was living wasn’t much better. One hundred and sixty square feet under the roof, which left her about sixty to stand up in, with a mattress right on the floor, a tiny