Chapter 4
4
I open my stall, switch on my laptop and glance up to make sure I’m alone. Satisfied there’s no chance of being caught out, I search for Emmanuel Roux’s pseudonym on Paris Cupid. As I scroll through the membership list, my frustration increases. I’m breaking a cardinal rule by working on Paris Cupid at Ephemera and risking my anonymity. Worse, I can’t see a single man who doesn’t appear real. Their stories are all so touching, I get lost down the rabbit hole, checking their statuses and making notes on couples I have to liaise with. Finally at the very end of the list, I see a potential and my heart judders to a stop.
Merde. How can I have made a mistake as epic as this?
There in bold is the name of the woman I matched Emmanuel Roux AKA Remy Tatou with. émilienne Lyon. My friend, and the first ever member of Paris Cupid. I cup my face and resist the urge to wail. émilienne, the unwitting inspiration behind the matchmaking site, now believes Emmanuel Roux of all people is her soulmate. The power of suggestion is a heady thing. Have I exposed her to a man who will break her heart and publicly humiliate her? So far, he’s kept her name out of the press, but now the media have caught the scent it won’t be long until they hunt down the newly engaged couple and splash their pictures all over the internet.
What have I done? Emmanuel and émilienne. It even sounds farcical!
How did he persuade émilienne that he’s truly retired his Playboy of Paris status? It boggles the mind, but if the article’s to be believed he must have convinced her well enough that she’s accepted his hand in marriage. Or is it because I, playing my part as Paris Cupid, told her in no uncertain terms Remy Tatou AKA Emmanuel Roux is compatible to her in every way? The slippery snake has really done a number on me. I bring up his application and reread. It’s poetic, heartfelt and honest (ha!). The lamentations of a man who claims to be ill-fated when it comes to love, despite his best intentions. The fraudulent application makes my teeth grind. But really, I’m responsible for any fallout.
There’s nothing I can do about it at the moment, so I shut down my computer and distract myself with my morning routine at Ephemera. I wheel out my display tables and arrange stock. Water my plants. Give the rugs a quick vacuum.
Soon, the market is filled with shoppers; laughter, shouting, chitchat. Outside, horns are blaring, sirens wailing, the soundtrack of our market days.
Feather duster in hand, I make my rounds when I spot the arrival of one of my neighbours as he stomps up the stairs, his familiar scowl in place. I hide behind a postcard carousel and spy on prickly Pascale as he unlocks his stall. In the month or so since la réorganisation du marché, the big market vendor reshuffle, Pascale has managed to find fault with me numerous times. Allegedly my display tables are too wide and it’s not fair to the others who share the hall. My rose-scented candles give him a headache. My lavender plants attract bees even though we’re indoors and upstairs, and on and on it goes. Each complaint has caught me unawares. I’m not used to such criticisms. I’ve done my best to remedy these issues but then he comes back with another problem.
‘Who are you hiding from?’ A velvety voice rings out and manages to snare Pascale’s attention. He looks over in my direction. I do the adult thing and drop to the wooden floor, hoping it will open and swallow me whole. The last thing I need is him storming over here again.
‘Geneviève! Shush!’ Glamorous Geneviève is one of my neighbours in Marché Dauphine and my very best friend, despite being twenty, or maybe even thirty, years senior to me. It’s hard to gauge exactly what age she is as she has a timeless quality about her and is the least grown-up person I know.
‘Lilou, honestly, that’s no place to sit.’ Geneviève shakes her head as if I’ve lost my marbles. Maybe I have. ‘Get up this instant.’ She’s bossy at the best of times, but Geneviève has the sort of presence that commands a person to do as they’re told.
I’m sure I can feel Pascale’s laser-like gaze on me. Like the ultimate grown-up I am, I edge backwards on all fours like a hunted animal, which is surprisingly difficult, and take cover behind my desk.
I’d be mortified if he caught me spying on him. It would only give him more ammunition. He’d probably put a complaint to market management about me making him uncomfortable or something equally wild.
‘Is he looking over here?’ I ask as I duck my head and make a show of shuffling paperwork so she can’t rebuke me again.
‘Who?’ She dons her bejewelled spectacles – Geneviève is so extra – and gazes across the hall. ‘Ooh, is that the delectable Pascale? You should ask him on a date. This is a clear case of grumpy sunshine.’
I scoff. For the past month Geneviève has impatiently listened to my litany of complaints about the guy, and this is what she comes up with?
‘I hardly think a relationship between us will evolve like it does in the books, Geneviève. Unless it’s a true crime novel. Don’t you always see this with warring neighbours? One ends up worse off. Or dead.’ I massage my temples as a headache looms. I’m not usually so testy. I blame it on the morning I’ve had.
‘Non, non, non. This is how they always start out! The couple can’t stand the sight of each other’ – Geneviève has a penchant for romance novels, the spicier the better. Most of her advice comes from such tomes – ‘and then voila. Love hearts for eyes.’
‘Well, lucky for me my life is non-fictional.’ What I don’t tell Geneviève is, I do find Pascale’s abrupt unsunny disposition slightly alluring. And how ridiculous is that? Part of me wants to get to the root of why he’s so abjectly bothered all the time. He’s not much of a talker – why use a string of words when a grunt will suffice? But as a professional in the world of true love, I see it for what it is – an act. Those red flags are waving so hard they’re impossible to ignore.
‘Look at him. There’s something almost wild about him. Purrrr.’
I roll my eyes. ‘Really! Did you just purr?’ This is what she’s like, absolutely man mad. Geneviève has a new beau every season, claiming her love is fluid and that she’ll never be tied down to one man. Despite her fickle heart though, she remains good friends with all of her exes. Everyone wants to be in her spotlight as either friend or beau.
‘What?’ She reluctantly draws her gaze away from ‘the delectable Pascale’ and back to me. Geneviève leans close and whispers, ‘You’re a successful matchmaker, and yet you can’t see what’s right in front of you!’
‘You make a valid point,’ I agree, peeking over the top of the desk to make sure no one is eavesdropping on our conversation. Only Geneviève knows my secret, and I intend to keep it that way. ‘For some unfathomable reason, my matchmaking abilities don’t translate to my own love life. How is that fair?’ It’s a bone of contention, but who would I complain to? Truthfully, I’ve searched applications looking for a man who might be right for me, but it feels like it would be a breach of trust setting myself up. If it came to light I was Paris Cupid, it wouldn’t look good, and after le scandale I’m not keen for the spotlight to be trained on me like that ever again.
Right now, no one suspects the quiet bookworm who sells quirky ephemera is the creator of Paris Cupid. It’s my intention to keep Paris Cupid select, manageable and anonymous; to keep my secret safe.
I’m obsessed with love in all its guises, yet somehow real love eludes me. Another reason to remain anonymous. Members wouldn’t have any faith in my abilities if they knew about my own dating history. I’ve been catfished, gaslit, stood up, friend-zoned, had my share of situationships, and most recently got caught up with married man Frederic with his rather large brood of children. That catastrophe has made me somewhat reluctant to dip a toe back in the dating pool.
You could say even my textpectations are at an all-time low. Besides, I don’t have time right now. I’m too busy helping other hopefuls.
Geneviève shakes her head as if she too is befuddled by it. ‘Such a riddle. You’ve set up so many couples, yet love remains elusive for our resident Cupid.’ Her face softens with sympathy.
‘You know what they say: lucky at cards, unlucky in love.’ I shrug. Is it me? Am I too much of a daydreamer? Too caught up with work and Paris Cupid? If only the perfect guy would appear, like they do in the movies, where I’m walking along, head in the clouds, and oops, we bump into one another, my handbag goes flying and then we lock eyes and the rest is history. Or is that just romcoms giving me unrealistic expectations?
I’m debating whether to confide in Geneviève about the Emmanuel Roux development when Pascale cranes his neck my way. I drop my head to the desk, much to Geneviève’s chagrin. ‘Why would you want to hide from Pascale anyway?’
I drag my attention back to Geneviève. ‘So I can avoid conversation.’
Her eyebrows pull together. ‘What? Why? Because he complained a few times?’
‘A few! He’s intimidating. Look at that scowl, the fire in his eyes. I don’t speak his language. Grunts, that is.’ And after Emmanuel Roux taking advantage, I’m feeling a little more feisty than usual, so if he does stomp over here, I’m not going to be conciliatory this time. Geneviève lets out a string of tuts. ‘Have a listen to yourself, Lilou. This is exactly the challenge you’d set for a woman on Paris Cupid, advising them to write and get to the root of the person’s mind and soul before judging them. Yet here you are, bent like a pretzel, behind your desk.’
‘I’m working, Geneviève, as you can very well see.’ I vehemently shuffle paperwork so she can see the truth right before her very eyes.
She heaves a theatrical sigh and snatches the paperwork from my hands. ‘This is nothing but a prop! Are you going to spend the rest of your natural born life hiding from him? A nice healthy response from someone who advises others on such matters.’
It’s almost as if I can hear her eyes roll.
Merde.
She’s right though. Why should I hide? I was here first before la réorganisation du marché, which brought this egotistical megalomaniac into my work life and made it infinitely worse.
A month ago
La réorganisation du marché
Geneviève arrives unusually early before the market is even open to customers, which is very out of character for her. She’s wearing a swishy summery dress that’s perfect for the mild June summer weather.
‘Bonjour, Lilou,’ she says, kissing me hello. ‘Our new neighbours arrive today, so I thought it’s best I am here to help welcome them.’ The powers that be decided to reorganise the market, bringing together vendors with similar customer bases. We’ve said goodbye to our previous neighbours and await the influx of the new ones, feeling hopeful they’ll be just as nice as the ones we had before.
‘Aren’t they lucky to have your attention so early in the morning?’
‘Ha!’ She opens her handbag and removes a compact mirror, checking her lipstick. ‘You’re right. I’m not a morning person. Is that a crime? But truthfully, I snuck in early to pop Paris Cupid brochures in the vendor pigeonholes to see if we can drum up some love around these parts. What do you think?’ Geneviève is always thinking of new ways to spread the word about Paris Cupid and often helps delivering marketing material of her own accord.
‘Great idea.’
I’ve set up around thirty couples since Paris Cupid began back in February. Of those, a handful weren’t compatible, so I matched them again. A few people have decided it’s not for them for various reasons, one said he found the process too slow, another woman said she found it dull. Not everyone will make it, or find true love, but I’m willing to help the ones who are in it for the long haul.
‘Would you ever try Paris Cupid for a match?’ I ask, as I’m genuinely curious. It’s not that she has any trouble finding paramours, it’s more that I wonder if this way of seeking out a partner intrigues her.
‘Non, ma Cherie. It wouldn’t be for me. I like my men with a bit of grrr. Those robust, take-charge types who keep me on my toes.’
‘I’m surprised by how many men have signed up who yearn for romance too. It’s not that they’re beta at all, it’s more that they like the idea of a slow seduction. It’s quite sensual this way of meeting someone and opening up to them.’
‘Huh. I do like the sound of slow seduction. I must admit, French men can be deliciously romantic, and wildly poetic, so it makes sense this would appeal. That goes for men and women.’
‘Oh, here’s one of our new neighbours.’ A mussed ginger-haired thirty-something guy bounds up the stairs, carrying bags and boxes that don’t seem to weigh him down. He gives us a cheeky smile as he deposits his things before dashing over to us. ‘Bonjour, je suis Felix.’
‘Bonjour, bonjour,’ I say. ‘I’m Lilou and this is Geneviève. What do you sell?’
Felix nods, acknowledging us both. ‘Lovely to meet you beautiful ladies. I sell vintage printing press parts. And I design posters, cards and other paraphernalia using movable type to paper. It’s a lost art form and using traditional printing methods is time consuming but a worthy endeavour, if I do say so myself.’ He speaks fast and gesticulates wildly as if he has an abundance of energy that has to go somewhere. I like him instantly.
Felix the flame-haired printer is just the type of personality we need around here to bring customers up those stairs. We tell him about what we sell and about the amount of foot traffic we get in the Marché Dauphine, which is decent compared to other parts of the market but could always be better. He just might be the answer to that. I’d hazard a guess that he’s the type of person who makes friends with everyone.
‘I’m thrilled to have been chosen to move here,’ he says, running a hand through his hair, which sticks up in all directions. ‘I’ve been in the north corner, tucked away behind the maintenance office. A spot rarely visited and also difficult to find. This place is going to be much better for business.’
‘Let us know if you need any help with… anything.’ Geneviève gives him an exaggerated wink. She cannot help herself if there’s a good-looking man in her presence.
Felix waggles his brow. Great, now we have two incorrigible flirts in our midst. Like Geneviève, Felix is a breath of fresh air, who I know will make market days just that little bit lighter. ‘Merci, Geneviève. Perhaps we can all share a drink after work sometime and get to know each other better?’
We chat for a bit until there’s more footsteps on the stairs. ‘Au revoir, I better get myself sorted,’ Felix says while looking intently at the newcomer.
‘Bonjour, I’m Benoit,’ the man says when he reaches the top of the stairs. He gives us a shy smile and continues to his stall, which is right beside Felix’s and across the small hallway from Geneviève and me.
With eyes comically wide, Geneviève motions with her head in Benoit’s direction in case I haven’t latched on to the fact that he is rather beautiful in a bookish, intelligent kind of way with his neatly parted hair and spectacles, and his hot, introverted bookworm kind of vibe. Has the universe heard my pleas for love? Suddenly there are two very handsome men in my vicinity.
Just as I’m about to tell Geneviève to cool it, there’s a commotion on the stairs. A mountain of a man speaks angrily into his phone as he takes the steps two at a time, shouting curse words in French. The quiet calm has been replaced by this hulk who has managed to get all of our attention yet is blithely unaware of us.
‘Ooh, that alpha male energy,’ Geneviève says, fanning her face.
‘Seriously? Non.’ How can she be taken in by a man like that? Is he really so self-absorbed that he doesn’t know his bellowing might be considered rude in a workplace, and that he’s really not making the best first impression with us, his new neighbours? I sneak a peek at Felix and Benoit to see what they make of it and find them sharing a small smile, as if they find the guy slightly amusing rather than rude.
‘Lilou, that man is gorgeous, can you not see that?’
That surly alpha male energy is exactly the thing that Paris Cupid is designed to be the antithesis of, and for very good reason. Those highly combustible types who breathe fire are just such a cliché, are they not?
‘Well?’ she prods. I don’t want to agree on principle, but I can’t deny the man is rather… hot. ‘If you’re into tall, muscular bad boys, then yes, I suppose so, but I could never be into someone so lacking in manners like he clearly is. Who do you think he’s yelling at like that?’ I debate whether to politely inform him that he’s creating a nuisance when he shoots a glare my way. My breath catches as I recognise him but can’t place from where. Oh no. The man in the market square the day of le scandale. The one who locked eyes with me for so long I swear he could see into my very soul. Coraline, the florist, told me his name that day, but I struggle to recall it. ‘Pascale,’ I whisper.
‘Why are you whispering?’
‘He was there the day Frederic’s wife confronted me.’ How embarrassing. I’d hoped for a fresh start with new neighbours, ones who didn’t know that particular rumour about me. Homewrecker. Destroyer of families.
Before I can break his gaze and turn away, he stomps over, glowering at me. ‘Can you turn that music down? I’m on a phone call and can’t hear a thing!’ He turns away then stops abruptly and faces me again. ‘Where do I know you from?’
‘You don’t.’ There’s no way I’m going to remind him. He narrows his eyes suspiciously. Surely he’s not going to remember a passing look he shared with a stranger who had just been publicly humiliated? But I recognised his face, didn’t I? Perhaps because every detail of that day is burned into my mind.
He presses his phone to his ear and resumes his call, albeit slightly less angrily. Why is he still staring at me? Ah, he’s still trying to place me, so I spin on my heel and hide behind Geneviève, pretending to fuss with some trinkets on display.
‘Ooh, he is a feisty one.’ Geneviève grins. ‘The perfect bad boy ready to set a heart aflame, but whose heart, eh?’ She jabs a finger into my shoulder. ‘You?’
‘You can’t be serious?’ Does the woman not know me at all? ‘Our very first conversation is him ordering me to turn my music down, music that is barely discernible, I might add. Not a single bonjour, not a single s’il te plait.’
Geneviève shrugs. ‘Perhaps he’s got sensitive hearing and he forgot his manners because he was in the middle of a phone call?’
‘I hardly think so.’
While we’re arguing about what makes good manners, Felix does more trips up and down the stairs, carting in more boxes. ‘Do you need a hand?’ I ask.
He shakes his head. ‘Non, merci. I have the heavy stuff coming by courier. There’s only a few boxes left, but if you could watch my stall while I move my car from the loading bay that would be great.’
‘Oui, of course.’ Felix has one of those ready smiles and a boundless energy about him. As he goes back downstairs, I take a moment to see how Benoit is doing. He doesn’t seem to have many boxes to unpack. Maybe he’s waiting for a courier too. There’s a quiet indifference about him, as if he’s aware of his surroundings but separate from it. Lost in a daydream perhaps? I wonder what Benoit sells?
And as for Pascale, when I sneak a peek in his direction, he’s staring at me with utter contempt and motions for me to turn down the volume of my music. I’m tempted to give him some finger signs of my own, but I won’t stoop to his level. Instead, I roll my eyes and get back to work, feeling a strange sort of unsettled.