Page 4 of The Little Provence Book Shop

‘Yes. So,’ Monique replied, a smile playing on her lips. ‘Perhaps we should start.’

Adeline nodded. In all honesty, she hadn’t asked much about what the job would entail when she’d answered the advert; had expected an interview, a discussion before taking it on rather than just the acceptance she’d received. But she assumed she’d need to be able to operate the till, become familiar with the stock, hopefully learn how to order books for those who couldn’t find what they were looking for. Monique would need to train her, but she’d soon get up to speed.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Like I mentioned on the phone, I’ve worked in a shop before. But not for a good few years.’ And a world away from this place, she thought – remembering the bright, stark shop floor lights, the bar-code scanner and the ill-fitting uniform she’d squeezed into for her Saturday job as a teen.

Monique gave another dismissive wave. ‘I think you will find things a bit different here.’

‘No doubt.’

‘And certainly worlds away from being a teacher,’ she said, referencing Adeline’s most recent job.

Adeline laughed. ‘Do you promise?’ she joked.

Monique looked at her askance. ‘Oui, it is sure,’ she said, all seriousness.

Adeline’s smile faltered. She nodded. ‘Well, great,’ she said, weakly. Perhaps in France, teachers weren’t quite as maligned as they were back home – whenever she made a chance remark about leaving the profession in London, people would roll their eyes and drop anecdotes about young people today, or remark that they’d never be a teacher, or tell her ‘hilarious’ stories about the awful things they’d done in their own schooldays. The more daring of them sometimes commented on the long holidays and be much closer to a knuckle sandwich than they might imagine.

‘Come. I will make us coffee. We should talk,’ Monique said, gesturing to the stairs.

Adeline shot a look at Lili.

‘Ah, she will be fine. The bell will tell us if someone comes. And we will be able to hear if she calls.’

‘OK,’ Adeline replied doubtfully, hoping they wouldn’t come back to find half the stock sold to the next customer for a couple of coins or a handful of sweets. ‘Mummy’s just popping upstairs,’ she said to her daughter who nodded her head, eyes still fixed on a picture of a white kitten playing with a ball of wool.

Adeline followed her new boss up the wooden stairs into a small corridor and then into a pretty room that opened out to reveal a glossy rosewood table with carved wooden seats, a faded chaise longue stacked with books, an armchair with a floral cover. Light from the large windows streamed across the worn wood of the table’s surface, highlighting its uneven patina, brushing the upholstered backs of the chairs with a pinkish light.

‘Espresso?’

‘Oui, merci,’ Adeline said, although she wasn’t really a fan of the strong, bitter and all-too-short beverage. It just felt right to agree.

‘Because I have tea also?’ Monique called, her voice more distant. Adeline turned and realised she must have slipped from the room to prepare the drinks. There was a laugh in her voice again, as if she realised that Adeline had agreed to espresso out of politeness.

‘No, thank you,’ Adeline doubled down. ‘Espresso will be lovely.’

Her eye alighted on a shelf, on which there stood a collection of jars filled with coloured powders – perhaps bath salts? But no. Now, looking closer, she saw one had a leaf curling around the glass of its interior, another contained a coin resting on a dark powder.

Moments later her host returned with a tray on which sat a large, porcelain coffee pot and two tiny cups. Little biscuits wrapped in twists of paper garnished the saucers and she placed a delicate cup in front of Adeline with a smile. ‘I have some juice for your Lili when she wants,’ she said.

‘Thank you.’ Adeline lifted the cup to her lips and was surprised by the mild, rich taste. ‘I like your jars,’ she said, nodding at the shelf.

‘Merci,’ Monique answered. ‘They are pretty,non?’ Her eyes searched Adeline’s face for a moment, before she looked away and took a sip from her cup.

Adeline longed to ask more, but couldn’t quite find the words. ‘So, I meant to check what my hours will be? And do you use Excel or another programme for the accounts?’ she said instead.

To her surprise, Monique laughed – throatily – reaching ahand forward to steady herself against the table. ‘I am sorry,’ she said. ‘It is rude of me. It’s just… you are so very British.’

‘I am?’

‘Yes. Or perhaps I should say, so verymétropolitaine,’Monique continued. ‘Ah, it is not an insult,’ she added quickly. ‘It is just that we do things very differently in St Vianne.’

‘You don’t… have set hours?’

‘Non,mon coeur, it is not that. What I mean is that your question is so very practical. And this is not a practical shop. It is a shop that sells stories.’ Monique swept her arms out wide as if to indicate the enormity of this task. ‘Stories do not fit neatly into a spreadsheet. They fill the space they need, in our hearts, our heads, our imaginations. Yes, of course, we must deal with money and opening hours and all the things like taxes that are necessary. But what is necessary is not always important. When you prepare for a role in my store, the first thing I want to learn about you is the content of your heart.’

‘My heart?’

‘Yes. Why do you love books? Why do you choose to come here to work? What makes your heart beat faster?’

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