Building a vintage home
Flea markets, brocantes and everything in between - furniture shopping in France
We are looking at a mirror, I stare at our faces reflected in the beautifully mottled foxing of the glass, my eyes flicking to the intricate gilt frame, chipped with age, but still pretty. Tim is asking for the price, asking me what I think? My heart has started to race, sweat prickling on the back of my neck. “Do it,” I say, sharply. “I’ve got to go back.”
Then I am running, weaving my way through the people who are slowly strolling down the grassy aisles, browsing happily on this early, misty spring morning, exclaiming over paintings and pottery, silverware and spoons. “Désolée, pardon, excusez-moi…” I mutter as I try to squeeze through the crowded thoroughfares.
I shuffle between clusters of coffee drinkers beside the refreshment tent. Men brushing croissant crumbs from their waistcoats and moustaches, heads thrown back in laughter as they share stories over breakfast, women sitting around in groups on benches pulled up to trestle tables that are scattered with half-drunk cups of terrible coffee. They all pretend not to notice me as I try to get by, bobbing and weaving behind the clutches of men until someone almost imperceptibly moves slightly sideways enough to let me though. “Merci, merci,” I’m almost there.
I’m trying to find my way back to a stall I’ve already visited twice this morning. Trying to get back to a blue velvet chair that is really too expensive, but that my heart has just told me to buy. Will it still be there? Will it already be sold? Will someone else have made a faster decision, have been freer with their money? Is it meant to be?
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