The Little Antique Shop Under the Eiffel Tower Read Online Free Page A

an apple core. “We just weren’t compatible. C’est la vie.”
    “C’est la vie
again
?” I couldn’t hide the rebuke in my voice. It was one thing to take flight every time something shinier came along, but she’d left a trail of broken hearts in her wake, and I knew only too well what that felt like. I couldn’t tell her how to care – she wouldn’t listen anyway – but it grated that she could be so frivolous with other people’s feelings. I blamed it on her youth, and hoped she’d grow out of it. There was a six-year age gap between us but sometimes it felt like twenty.
    I mused. “I liked Rainier. He was soft on the inside.”
    She ignored me and winked at two young guys sitting on the grass nearby. Lilou was an incorrigible flirt who winked, waved, and whispered her way around Paris, just for fun.
    Turning away from the guys, she said, “I could have set you and Rainier up. You should have told me!”
    I gasped, and broke into a fit of giggles at the ridiculous idea. “Not for me, for you!”
    We strolled along the fringes of the Champs de Mars. The 800-meter-long green space was once used as a market garden centuries ago. Once upon a time locals grew abundant crops to harvest and plied their wares. Now it was a verdant park for people to picnic on and gaze at the Eiffel Tower.
    “Well you haven’t met Claude yet. And…” she paused for effect “…his brother Didier lives in Paris, and just so happens to be an art critic. Art. He likes
art
.
You
like art!”
    As if that was enough to jump into bed with someone, which is what she constantly nagged me to do. I shook my head in a vigorous no.
    “Don’t do that thing you do, not again, please.” It was her mission to set me with up with a man,
any man
, the only prerequisite seemed to be that he was breathing. So far she’d introduced me to a sixty-year-old count with a handlebar moustache, a dreadlocked guitarist who spoke in tongues, and the last and most explosive no: a magician who kept threatening to make my clothing disappear. I shuddered at the thought of such paramours.
    We walked in silence, enjoying the hazy sunlight on our faces. Twenty minutes later we arrived at one of our favorite restaurants,
Mille
, near Les Invalides. Inside the various buildings that made up Hôtel National des Invalides there were museums and monuments pertaining to the French military, and deep within its walls lay Napoléon Bonaparte’s tomb. It was a hallowed place and steeped with history, a popular spot for tourists who could wander most of the expanse for free.
    Mille
served traditional French food, and a selection of fine wines, perfect for a slow lunch, and it was a good vantage point for people watching, which was one of my favorite things to do.
    The maître d’ recognized us and hurried over, motioning to a table by the window. We thanked him, taking proffered menus. Lilou ordered white wine without consulting me, and fluttered her lashes at the poor smitten man, as was her way. “Vin blanc, OK?” she asked, leaning her head on her hand, giving me a lazy smile.
    “Well you’ve ordered it now, haven’t you?” I furrowed my brow, trying to appear disapproving, but failing.
    “Oui, I have.” She laughed, and it lit up her blue eyes. We were similar in appearance, but Lilou had a playfulness to her that made her radiant, which I had never had, even in my teens. While our facial features were alike, our style was markedly different. I tended to wear vintage clothing, forties style, and Lilou was very a la mode, and kept up with the latest fashion trends even on her limited budget. Her hair was always loose, and shiny, like a shampoo model, and mine was curled or coiffed. She favored natural makeup, and I preferred the dramatic smoky-eyed, scarlet-lipped look. Though many a time she’d pilfer my wardrobe for scarves or dresses – a younger sister’s rite of passage.
    Perusing the menu I decided on the dish of the day – let it be a surprise