The Good Thief's Guide to Paris Read Online Free Page A

It seemed to me that half the customers inside the Left Bank bookshop at any one time were young men aiming to catch Paige’s eye. An awful lot of them were American grad students, loaded up with textbooks from semester-long courses at the Sorbonne. They spent their time browsing through Beat poetry and striking bookish poses and glancing over the top of Émile Zola paperbacks towards the central cash desk where Paige tended to sit. And hell, I couldn’t really blame them, because I’d spent more than a few days doing the same thing myself.
    It was maybe my third visit before I decided I was ready to talk to her and my fifth before I actually did. At the time, she was chatting with one of the unwashed hippies who worked there – a guy with a whole culture of organisms living among his crusted dreadlocks and matted, bright red sweater. She was being loud and opinionated and not at all how one is supposed to behave inside a bookshop. And I thought that was just great.
    “Hello there,” I said, approaching the counter with a lop-sided smile and offering her my hand. “My name’s Charlie Howard. I’m a local writer.”
    Paige paused mid-sentence and took me in with those swollen eyes of hers. For just a moment, everything was on hold. Then she treated me to a blazing grin and pumped my hand energetically.
    “Well hello yourself. I’m Paige.”
    “Charlie,” I repeated.
    “Poet?” the guy stood beside her asked, in a gruff, Mancunian accent.
    “Mystery writer,” I confessed, and held up a copy of my book for their inspection.
    Paige scanned the title. “Looks . . . interesting,” she managed, meanwhile turning from me to weigh the Mancunian’s reaction.
    The Mancunian wasn’t sure what to make of me just yet so he reached for my book, checked the spine and brazenly assessed the publisher. His eyebrows jerked up a fraction. “This really you?”
    “Afraid so,” I said, and worked a bashful shrug.
    “I’m writing a novel,” the Mancunian told me, from behind his dreadlocks. “It’s an epic fantasy wrapped in a socialist dystopian nightmare.”
    “That’s . . . great,” I managed, and caught Paige winking conspiratorially.
    The Mancunian sniffed, wiped his nose with the sleeve of his red sweater and offered me his hand. “Mike,” he told me. “You want to sign some books?”
    “Why not? You have a few copies towards the back, I think.”
    Paige reached across the counter and squeezed my wrist. “Oh, well we can order some more now we know you. And you’ll do a reading, right?”
    “Er . . .”
    “Oh come on, say yes.”
    “Um . . .”
    “Pretty please,” she added, and batted her eyelids.
    “Well,” I told her, shrugging, “If you put it like that . . .”
    And boy, was I was reaping the consequences. By now, I was almost at the end of the chapter and I found myself consumed by the fear that I’d lost my audience altogether. I’d done my best to make the reading as engaging as I could but who knew if it had worked? I’d modulated my voice, though that was easier said than done, and I’d even risked an American accent on some of the dialogue, which was almost certainly a mistake. And as thoughts like that occurred to me, I cringed and began to read a little faster, straining to reach the final sentence as soon as possible without sounding as if I was hyperventilating.
    With only two paragraphs left, I glanced up and noticed Paige gossiping with one of the men from the store. She was covering her mouth with her hand, which was pretty dumb because it just drew more attention to what she was up to. I guessed that said it all – even my host had had enough. I felt my cheeks flush and stumbled across a word. Paige looked up and winked at me. I paused, composed myself, and lunged for the end.
    When it was finally over, I received a smattering of applause and then I asked if there were any questions.
    “Yeah, hi,” said an English girl sat off to my left. I took in the girl’s large