Scrivener’s Tale. Fiona McIntosh
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quietly glad because Dan was always spending his wage before he earned it.
‘Monsieur Reynard came in,’ Dan continued. ‘He left a message.’
‘About his book. I know,’ Gabe replied, not looking up from the note he was making in the Reserves book. ‘I haven’t found it yet. But I am searching.’
Dan frowned. ‘No, he didn’t mention a book. He said he’d call in later.’
Catherine came up behind them. ‘Did Dan tell you that Reynard is looking for you?’
Dan gave her a soft look of exasperation. ‘I was just telling him.’
‘And did you tell Reynard that it’s Gabe’s birthday?’ she asked with only a hint of sarcasm in her tone.
‘No,’ Dan replied, but his expression said, Why would I?
‘Good,’ Gabe said between them. ‘I’m —’
‘Lucky I did, then,’ Catherine said dryly and smiled sweetly.
‘Oh, Cat, why would you do that?’
‘Because he’s your friend, Gabe. He should know. After all —’
‘He’s not a friend, he’s a customer and we have to keep some sort of —’
‘Bonjour, Monsieur Reynard,’ Dan said and Gabe swung around.
‘Ah, you’re here,’ the man said, approaching the counter. He was tall with the bulky girth of one who enjoys his food, but was surprisingly light on his feet. His hair looked as though it was spun from steel and he wore it in a tight queue. Cat often mused how long Monsieur Reynard’s hair was, while Dan considered it cool in an old man. Gabe privately admired it because Reynard wore his hair in that manner without any pretension, as though it was the most natural way for a man of his mature years to do so. To Gabe he looked like a character from a medieval novel and behaved as a jolly connoisseur of the good life — wine, food, travel, books. He had money to spend on his pursuits but Gabe sensed that behind the gregarious personality hid an intense, highly intelligent individual.
‘Bonjour, Gabriel, and I believe felicitations are in order.’
Gabe slipped back into his French again. ‘Thank you, Monsieur Reynard. How are you?’
‘Please call me René. I am well, as you see,’ the man replied, beaming at him while tapping his rotund belly. ‘I insist you join me for a birthday drink,’ he said, ensuring everyone in the shop heard his invitation.
‘I can’t, I have to —’
Reynard gave a tutting noise. ‘Please. You have never failed to find the book I want and that sort of dedication is hard to find. I insist, let me buy you a birthday drink.’
Cat caught Gabe’s eye and winked. She’d always teased him that Reynard was probably looking for more than mere friendly conversation.
‘Besides,’ Reynard continued, ‘there’s something I need to talk to you about. It’s personal, Gabriel.’
Gabe refused to look at Cat now. He hesitated, feeling trapped.
‘Listen, we’ll make it special. Come to the Café de la Paix this evening.’
‘At Opéra?’
‘Too far?’ Reynard offered, feigning sympathy. Then he grinned. ‘You can’t live your life entirely in half a square kilometre of Paris, Gabriel. Take a walk after work and join me at one of the city’s gloriously grand cafés and live a little.’
He remembered his plan that today was the first day of his new approach to life. ‘I can be there at seven.’
‘Parfait!’ Reynard said, tapping the counter. He added in English, ‘See you there.’
Gabe gave a small groan as the man disappeared from sight, moving across the road to where all the artists and riverside sellers had set up their kiosks along the walls of the Seine. ‘I really shouldn’t.’
‘Why?’ Cat demanded.
Gabe winced. ‘He’s a customer and —’
‘And so handsome too … in a senior sort of way.’
Gabe glared at her. ‘No, I mean it,’ she giggled. ‘Really. He’s always so charming and he seems so worldly.’
‘So otherworldly more like,’ Dan added. They both turned to him and he shrugged self-consciously.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Gabe asked.
‘There’s something about him, isn’t there? Or is it just me?’ Gabe shook his head with a look of puzzlement. ‘You’re kidding, right? You don’t find his eyes a little too searching? It’s as though he has an agenda. Or am I just too suspicious?’
Cat looked suddenly thoughtful. ‘I know what Dan means. Reynard does seem to stare at you quite intently, Gabe.’
‘Well, I’ve never noticed.’
She gave him a friendly soft punch. ‘That’s because you’re a writer and you all stare intensely at people like that.’ She widened her eyes dramatically. ‘Either that,’ she said airily, ‘or our hunch is right and Reynard fancies you madly.’
Dan snorted a laugh.
‘You two are on something. Now, I have work to do, and you have cakes to eat,’ he said, ‘and as I’m the most senior member of staff and the only full-timer here, I’m pulling rank.’
The day flew by. Suddenly it was six and black outside. Christmas lights had started to appear and Gabe was convinced each year they were going up earlier — to encourage the Christmas trade probably. Chestnuts were being roasted as Gabe strolled along the embankment and the bars were already full of cold people and warm laughter.
It wasn’t that Gabe didn’t like Reynard. He’d known him long enough. They’d met on a train and it was Reynard who’d suggested he try and secure a job at the bookshop once he’d learned that Gabe was hoping to write a novel. ‘I know the people there. I can introduce you,’ he’d said and, true to his word, Reynard had made the right introductions and a job for Gabe had been forthcoming after just three weeks in the city.
Reynard was hard to judge, not just in age, but in many respects.
Soon he approached the frenzy that was L’Opéra, with all of its intersecting boulevards and crazy traffic circling the palatial Opéra Garnier. He rounded the corner and looked for Reynard down the famously long terrace of the café. People — quite a few more tourists than he’d expected — were braving the cold at outside tables in an effort to capture the high Parisian café society of a bygone era when people drank absinthe and the hotel welcomed future kings and famous artists. He moved on, deeper into the café, toward the entrance to the hotel area.
Gabe saw Reynard stand as he emerged into the magnificent atrium-like lobby of the hotel known as Le Grand. He’d never walked through here previously and it was a delightful surprise to see the belle époque evoked so dramatically. It was as though Charles Garnier had decided to fling every design element he could at it, from Corinthian cornices to stucco columns and gaudy gilding.
‘Gabriel,’ Reynard beamed, ‘welcome to the 9th arrondissement. I know you never venture far.’
‘I’m addressing that,’ Gabe replied in a sardonic tone.
‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ Reynard said, gesturing around him.
Gabe nodded. ‘Thank you for inviting me.’
‘Pleasure. I have an ulterior motive, though, let me be honest,’ he said with a mischievous grin. Gabe wished he hadn’t said that. ‘But first,’ his host continued, ‘what are you drinking? Order something special. It is your birthday, after all.’
‘Absinthe