Scrivener’s Tale. Fiona McIntosh

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      TWO

      Gabe strolled to the bookshop carrying his box of cakes and enjoying the winter sunlight. Catherine gave a small squeal and rushed over to hug him as he entered the shop.

      ‘Happy birthday!’ And not worrying too much about what customers might think, she yelled out to the rest of the staff: ‘Gabe’s in, sing everyone!’

      It was tradition. Birthday wishes floated down from the recesses of the shop via the narrow, twisting corridor created by the tall bookshelves, and from the winding staircase that led to the creaking floorboards of the upstairs section. Even the customers joined in the singing.

      In spite of his normally reticent manner, Gabe participated in the fun, grinning and even conducting the song. He noted again that the fresh new mood of wanting to bring about change was fuelling his good humour. He put the giveaway bag with its box of treats on the crowded counter.

      ‘Tell me you have macarons,’ Cat pleaded.

      Gabe pushed the Pierre Hermé box into her hands. ‘To the staffroom with you.’ Then he smiled at the customers patiently waiting. ‘Sorry for all this.’ They all made the sounds and gestures of people not in a hurry.

      Even so, the next hour moved by so fast that he realised when he looked up to check the time that he hadn’t even taken his jacket off.

      An American student working as a casual sidled up with a small stack of fantasy novels — a complete series and in the original covers, Gabe noticed, impressed. He anticipated that an English-speaking student on his or her gap year was bound to snaffle the three books in a blink. Usually there were odd volumes, two and three perhaps the most irritating combination for shoppers.

      ‘Put a good price on those. Sell only as a set,’ he warned.

      Dan nodded. ‘I haven’t read these — I’m half-inclined to buy them myself but I don’t have the money immediately.’

      Gabe gave the youngster a sympathetic glance. ‘And they’ll be gone before payday,’ he agreed, 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 —’