Read Online The Loveliest Chocolate Shop in Paris by Jenny Colgan - Free Book Online

seemed to cover it, just about. There was a jumble of old bells with writing all over them, and the steps were worn smooth. I couldn’t see the name—Sami—that I was meant to push, so I tentatively pushed at the door. It creaked ominously straight in front of me, and I stepped in.
    â€œ Bonjour ?” I cried out. There was no response. “ Bonjour ?”
    Nothing. There was a glassed door at the end of the broken parquet hallway that let in just enough light to let me see the dusty piles of old mail over the floor and a tired looking pot plant by the stairwell. The stairs led up into the dark. I fumbled a bit and found a light switch, turned it on, and moved upward—there was nothing on this floor—but before I was halfway up, the light went out. I cursed crossly under my breath and trailed my hand till I found another switch. This wasn’t, it turned out, a light switch, but instead a loud doorbell that went off like a gun.
    â€œALLO?” shouted an old lady’s voice. I knew I was meant to be on the top floor, so I cried out a quick “ Pardon , Madame” and continued on my way.
    What was with these accursed lights that couldn’t stay on? One had to dart between them. The staircase was incredibly twisted and narrow, so it was difficult to get up without scrabbling a bit on my toes, and I was beginning to feel terribly nervous when I finally made it to the top. Down below, the lady whose bell I had rung by accident was shouting her head off now, saying things I couldn’t make out, but I think one of them was police. I cursed again under my breath, some proper Anglo-Saxon words, hauling my now incredibly heavy bag up the steps.
    Finally I emerged onto a tiny little landing with—thank goodness—its own light coming through a dirty skylight above me. It was a tiny space, like being inside a turret. Someone had put a little white bookshelf crammed full of books at the top of the steps, so I couldn’t get my bag past it. On the other levels, there had been two apartments, but here there was only one, as if the building had run out. I stepped forward. Beside the low white door was a little brass plaque that had “Sami” written in very tiny letters. I blew out a breath of relief. I didn’t fancy reliving the stairway of death. It then occurred to me that, if I was going to live here, I was going to have to negotiate the stairway of death on eight toes every day, but I put that thought out of my mind for once.
    I knocked sharply on the door. “Hello?”
    Inside, I heard the sound of someone moving about. Thank goodness; I didn’t know what I would do if I had to turn around again. Probably just get back on the train , I thought to myself. No. No, I wouldn’t do that. Definitely not.
    â€œ J’arrive !” a voice called, sounding slightly panicked. There was a clattering noise inside. I wondered what was going on.
    Finally, the door was flung open. A gigantically tall man stood there. His skin was a dark olive color, his eyebrows black and bushy, his jaw bristly and jutting. He was wearing a patterned robe which didn’t appear to have much underneath it. He glanced at me without the slightest flicker of recognition or awareness whatsoever.
    â€œ Bonjour ?” I said. “Anna Trent? From England?”
    I worried suddenly that Claire hadn’t done it right, hadn’t managed to set it up, or there’d been some misunderstanding, or he’d changed his mind, or…
    He squinted. “ Attends ,” he commanded. “Wait.”
    He returned two seconds later with a huge pair of black-rimmed glasses. I sniffed. He smelled of sandalwood.
    With the glasses on, he squinted once more.
    â€œ La petite anglaise !” he said, a sudden smile splitting his face. He switched to English. “Welcome! Welcome! Come in! Come in! I will say, I did forget. You will say, ’ow could you forget, and I will