Read Online The Little Paris Bookshop by Nina George - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Nina George
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the former confusion and terror had left her eyes.
Soon the windowpanes had misted up; the gas flames were hissing under the pots and pans; the white wine, shallot and cream sauce was simmering; and in a heavy pan the olive oil was browning potatoes sprinkled with rosemary and salt.
They were chatting away as if they’d known each other for years and had simply lost touch for a while. About Carla Bruni, and about how male sea horses carried their young around in a pouch on their stomachs. They talked about fashion and about the trend for salt with added flavourings, and of course they gossiped about their neighbours.
Heavy and light topics such as these came to the fore as they stood next to each other at the stove, the wine and the fish before them. With every sentence, it seemed to Perdu as though Catherine and he were discovering a communion of souls.
He continued working on the sauce, and Catherine poached one piece of fish after another in it. They ate straight from the pans where they stood, as she didn’t have a second chair.
She had poured the wine: a light, golden Tapie from Gascony. And he had drunk it, with cautious sips.
That was the most astonishing aspect of his first date since 1992: he had felt intensely safe from the moment he entered Catherine’s flat. All the thoughts that usually pursued him could not accompany him into her territory; some kind of magic threshold kept them at bay.
‘How are you spending your time at the moment?’ asked Perdu at one point after they had dealt with God, the world and the president’s tailor.
‘Me? On looking,’ she said.
She reached out for a piece of baguette.
‘I’m looking for myself. Before … before what happened, I was my husband’s assistant, secretary, agony aunt and admirer. I’m now looking for what I was capable of before I met him. Or to be more precise, I’m trying to see whether I’m still capable of it. That’s what’s keeping me busy: trying.’
She began to scrape the soft white part out of the crust and roll it between her slender fingers.
The bookseller read Catherine like a novel. She let him leaf through her and look through her story.
‘Today, at forty-eight, I feel like I did at eight. I used to hate being ignored – and yet at the same time I was distraught if someone actually found me interesting. And it had to be the “right” people who took notice of me. The glossy-haired rich girl whom I wanted to be my friend; the kind male teacher who was struck by how modestly I hid my wonderful light under a bushel. And my mother. Oh yes, my mother.’ Catherine paused. Her hands kept kneading the bit of baguette.
‘I always wanted to be noticed by the biggest egotists. I didn’t care about anyone else – my dear father; fat, sweating Olga from the ground floor – even though they were much nicer. But I was embarrassed when nice people liked me. Stupid, eh? And I was the same stupid girl during my marriage. I wanted my moronic husband to notice me, and I took no account of anyone else. But I’m ready to change that. Would you pass me the pepper?’
She had formed something out of the bread dough with her slender fingers: a sea horse, which she now decorated with two peppercorns for eyes before handing it to Perdu.
‘I was a sculptor. Somewhere along the line. I’m forty-eight, and I’m learning everything again from scratch. I don’t know how many years it’s been since I last slept with my husband. I was faithful, stupid and so awfully lonely that I’ll gobble you up if you’re nice to me. Or kill you because I can’t bear it.’
Perdu was utterly stunned to be alone with a woman like this.
He was lost in contemplation of Catherine’s face and head, as though he were allowed to crawl inside her and look around for any interesting things that were hanging about in there.
Catherine had pierced ears, but she wasn’t wearing earrings. (‘His new girlfriend wears the ones with the rubies now. Shame, really:
Soon the windowpanes had misted up; the gas flames were hissing under the pots and pans; the white wine, shallot and cream sauce was simmering; and in a heavy pan the olive oil was browning potatoes sprinkled with rosemary and salt.
They were chatting away as if they’d known each other for years and had simply lost touch for a while. About Carla Bruni, and about how male sea horses carried their young around in a pouch on their stomachs. They talked about fashion and about the trend for salt with added flavourings, and of course they gossiped about their neighbours.
Heavy and light topics such as these came to the fore as they stood next to each other at the stove, the wine and the fish before them. With every sentence, it seemed to Perdu as though Catherine and he were discovering a communion of souls.
He continued working on the sauce, and Catherine poached one piece of fish after another in it. They ate straight from the pans where they stood, as she didn’t have a second chair.
She had poured the wine: a light, golden Tapie from Gascony. And he had drunk it, with cautious sips.
That was the most astonishing aspect of his first date since 1992: he had felt intensely safe from the moment he entered Catherine’s flat. All the thoughts that usually pursued him could not accompany him into her territory; some kind of magic threshold kept them at bay.
‘How are you spending your time at the moment?’ asked Perdu at one point after they had dealt with God, the world and the president’s tailor.
‘Me? On looking,’ she said.
She reached out for a piece of baguette.
‘I’m looking for myself. Before … before what happened, I was my husband’s assistant, secretary, agony aunt and admirer. I’m now looking for what I was capable of before I met him. Or to be more precise, I’m trying to see whether I’m still capable of it. That’s what’s keeping me busy: trying.’
She began to scrape the soft white part out of the crust and roll it between her slender fingers.
The bookseller read Catherine like a novel. She let him leaf through her and look through her story.
‘Today, at forty-eight, I feel like I did at eight. I used to hate being ignored – and yet at the same time I was distraught if someone actually found me interesting. And it had to be the “right” people who took notice of me. The glossy-haired rich girl whom I wanted to be my friend; the kind male teacher who was struck by how modestly I hid my wonderful light under a bushel. And my mother. Oh yes, my mother.’ Catherine paused. Her hands kept kneading the bit of baguette.
‘I always wanted to be noticed by the biggest egotists. I didn’t care about anyone else – my dear father; fat, sweating Olga from the ground floor – even though they were much nicer. But I was embarrassed when nice people liked me. Stupid, eh? And I was the same stupid girl during my marriage. I wanted my moronic husband to notice me, and I took no account of anyone else. But I’m ready to change that. Would you pass me the pepper?’
She had formed something out of the bread dough with her slender fingers: a sea horse, which she now decorated with two peppercorns for eyes before handing it to Perdu.
‘I was a sculptor. Somewhere along the line. I’m forty-eight, and I’m learning everything again from scratch. I don’t know how many years it’s been since I last slept with my husband. I was faithful, stupid and so awfully lonely that I’ll gobble you up if you’re nice to me. Or kill you because I can’t bear it.’
Perdu was utterly stunned to be alone with a woman like this.
He was lost in contemplation of Catherine’s face and head, as though he were allowed to crawl inside her and look around for any interesting things that were hanging about in there.
Catherine had pierced ears, but she wasn’t wearing earrings. (‘His new girlfriend wears the ones with the rubies now. Shame, really:
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