Chapter 5
NOW
5
A month later our neighbours have settled in and set up their stalls which complement ours well with our literary and correspondence theme. Pascale manages to treat every workday as if it’s an exercise in futility. The man is never happy. In fact he’s downright surly. It bamboozles me how he stays afloat. For some inexplicable reason I can’t keep my eyes off him because it’s fascinating to see him behave so badly and get away with it.
It’s got me stumped why so many customers flock to his typewriter stall despite his bad attitude. He acts as if he’s doing his customers a favour if he takes a minute to stop typing to serve them. I push my display tables out to the common hallway and ignore his laser-like gaze. I’m well within my rights to use the area in front of my stall even though he’s complained already about them taking up too much room. He glares at me as I trundle past – no surprise there, the man put the steel into steely eyed – and motions for me to move my display table back inside. I shake my head – no. I will not be ordered about by this tyrant. Still, it’s a little thrilling and my heart beats erratically from these daily confrontations.
Once that’s done, I sit behind my desk, taking a breath and willing my pulse to slow down. What is it about the guy that makes my body go so haywire? Anger, probably. I’ve never met a man like Pascale before, not in the flesh anyway. You read about these types of guys all the time, and I can never understand why women fall for men like that. Who needs that sort of conflict in everyday life? I’d much prefer a man like Felix, who brightens each day, or Benoit, who is introspective and thoughtful. Both drama-free and happy in their own skin from what I’ve learned about them over the last month. I risk one last look at Pascale, who has moved from glaring across at me to setting up his own display table out the front of his stall and is loading it with vintage typewriters. I’m incensed. His table is twice the size of mine!
As I’m fuming about his double standards, Geneviève sashays in, wearing a fitted three-quarter length dress that accentuates her curves.
‘You just can’t get enough of him, can you?’ She peers down at me, tucked behind my desk.
‘Of who?’
She scoffs. ‘Pascale! Every time I get here, you’re staring over at him like he’s a nice juicy piece of filet de boeuf.’
I try to scoff but it comes out more like a gargle. ‘You couldn’t be more wrong! That man has no qualms badgering me about the size of my display tables and now here he is with his own that’s at least twice the size of mine. Someone is clearly making up for a lack.’
Geneviève ignores me, gazes over at Pascale, her flirty smile at the ready, and gives him a fluttery little wave.
‘Don’t encourage him!’
She lifts a shoulder. ‘I’m simply being a friendly neighbour.’
I huff and fold my arms across my chest. ‘Does it not bother you that he’s being a hypocrite?’ The more I think about it the more riled up I get. ‘It’s not fair I’ve caved in to most of his demands, and he’s put out a table that’s so wide we’ll all have to crabwalk to get around it.’ I steal a glance and notice he’s put candles on his display table. ‘You’re kidding me! He told me my candles were a fire hazard and I was violating the market code of conduct by having them, and now look!’ I hiss. Annoyingly, Geneviève just gives me a smug smile. What is she smiling about?
I have to get the upper hand this time, so how do I play this? Demand he use actual words when he speaks to me? All that grumbling and scowling is not conducive to a professional relationship. After all, work is my happy place and if I’m confronted by his glowering face every day it’s really going to dull my sparkle.
‘I’ll tell him he needs to lighten up if he wants to fit in here. Do you think that’ll do it?’ I pine for my former neighbours, a merry band of elderly men who were more like honorary grandpères. Well, except one of them who treated me differently after le scandale.
But they’re gone and here I am. I mustn’t allow Pascale to bully me. Internally I puff myself up and mentally prepare a script that will cut him to the quick and make him understand that I’m not to be messed with. I turn and run smack bang into a huge muscular chest. Specifically, his – ‘Aie!’ – with my nose, which from the velocity of the altercation and the taut toughened muscles involved I expect is now broken. Tentatively, I touch the tip and am surprised to find the appendage intact and not gushing a river of blood. I must be stronger than I give myself credit for. I await a rash of apologies slung my way, but instead find myself staring up at him, his habitual scowl in place as if I’m the aggressor and not the other way around.
‘Did you plan to march over here and strike my nose like that?’
His behaviour is escalating, this, this… Frenemy! Not even that – just plain enemy! Pascale scowls down at me. He is a lot taller when we’re standing toe to toe. ‘You struck me. I didn’t expect you to turn around and launch yourself in the air like that,’ he says with a loose shrug. How can he be so blasé when he almost knocked my nose clean off my face?
I jab my index finger into his chest and am surprised when it feels as though I’ve hit stone. He must work out. He’s a veritable man mountain. Probably another intimidation tactic. ‘You snuck up on me, Pascale.’
He casually leans against the door frame, as if he’s visiting an old friend.
‘Uh… are you going to apologise?’ I ask.
‘Apologise for what?’ He lifts a quizzical brow.
‘The nose?’ I point to my appendage and bet it’s bright red and not being painted in its best light. But what do I care? This man is trying to intimidate me, and for what reason?
He grunts.
Pascale is clearly not the apologising sort. I resist the petty urge to grunt right back. I will not stoop to his level.
I change tack to get myself back on the straight and narrow. ‘I understand the market restructure has put quite a few, ahem… noses out of joint.’ Literally mine. ‘But we have to make the best of it. Geneviève and I shared an easy comradery with our former neighbours before they were sadly moved to another section. We hope we can have the same kind of relationship with you, but that means you’ll have to stop ordering me about as if I’m an underling.’ I try and fail to keep the bitterness from my voice.
Pascale blithely ignores every sullen word and turns his bad-boy head away from me. ‘Geneviève, lovely to see you again.’
She lets out a girlish giggle. ‘You too, Pascale.’ Honestly, if there’s a good-looking male at ten paces, Geneviève cannot control herself. It’s usually charming but this is Pascale, gruff macho man, and it won’t do. ‘Looking as handsome as ever today, I see.’ Seriously!
‘Looks can be deceiving, Geneviève,’ I throw into the mix.
Pascale throws his spotlight back on me with a slow smirk. ‘Is that so?’
I fold my arms defensively, and then unfold them so he doesn’t see I’m rather rattled by him. His smirk morphs into a wide smile. C’est un miracle his face didn’t crack!
‘Lilou, is it?’
Mon Dieu. This is, like, the tenth time he’s double-checked my name. Passive aggressive or what? ‘It is, as you well know.’
He takes a deep breath as if gearing up for another lecture. ‘Li, you’re right about one thing, at least. The restructure has been a nightmare. Now I’m stuck up these stairs in this dingy little hovel whereas before I was right in the centre of the action. It’s ridiculous I had no say in it. I’ve got a screaming headache every day from your candles, your music and your laugh.’
Ouah. That’s a lot of complaining to unpack. ‘Firstly, it’s Lilou. Not Li. And secondly, I wouldn’t call this space a dingy little hovel. It’s one of the most popular sections of the market and there were a lot of other vendors vying for it, so you should be more grateful. And as for this screaming headache of yours, how did you cope before when you were in the so-called centre of the action? Surely it would have been noisier there? And what on earth is wrong with my laugh?’
He sighs and scrubs his face. ‘You talk fast. You throw questions at me like bullets. And your laugh, it sounds like chimes.’
What! This man makes my blood boil. ‘And that’s a bad thing?’
He frowns as if he’s disappointed in me. ‘Don’t be like that. We can make it work.’
I screw up my nose. Is he gaslighting me? It feels like he’s gaslighting me. I exchange a look with Geneviève but am met with some glassy-eyed rapture on her part. No help there then.
The bad-boy effect is real, but I won’t be succumbing to his alpha-male energy. This act of his is a ploy, a gambit. None of this charade is real. I just can’t get a handle on this. He swings the conversation around so fast I get whiplash. My laughter sounds like chimes? And that’s offensive? ‘You stay on your side, and I’ll stay on mine. Au revoir, Pascale.’
The scowl returns and he stomps back to where he came from. He can’t even stay in character long enough to fool me! I turn and am confronted with a suddenly stony-faced Geneviève, as if Pascale snatched the smile from her very face. Good! Now she can see what we’re up against.
‘That was a mistake, Lilou. A great whopper of a mistake.’
‘Quoi?’ My eyebrows shoot up. Is she not hearing what I’m hearing? Seeing what I’m seeing? He’s got her under some kind of spell! ‘You’re supposed to be on my side.’
‘I’m on love’s side! Now that I’ve seen you two lovebirds interact in real time, it’s blatantly obvious to me. This is your classic case of enemies to lovers. Open your heart and your eyes, Lilou, and let nature takes its course.’
Romance novels have ruined her! ‘Oh, Geneviève, he’s got you tricked! Did you not hear him insult me?’
Geneviève ignores me and stares off wistfully into the distance where Pascale is unpacking vintage typewriters and arranging his shop. ‘Lilou, look at him! Trust me, there’s more to him than meets the eye. What you’ve got is chemistry, that intensity in your eyes, the way you bounce back and forth off each other. It’s wild to see it in action.’
‘Yeah, it’s a science experiment right before it explodes.’ The woman is incorrigible! Chemistry! As if.
That afternoon, I keep catching Benoit’s eye. It’s almost like he’s daydreaming, not actively staring over at me, but I realise I haven’t really had much interaction with him compared to flirty Felix or prickly Pascale.
All I really know about him is that he peddles stamps and other philatelic keepsakes. When I catch his eye again, I give him a little wave and head over to his stall. The market is always quieter in the afternoons as locals and tourists alike take long lunches and enjoy the summery Parisian afternoons in bistros around the city, so it’s as good a time as any to chat.
‘Bonjour, Benoit.’
‘Bonjour, Lilou. I’m sorry I haven’t visited your stall yet. It’s been so much work getting things in order here after the move.’ He dips his head slightly as if he’s shy. He really is adorable.
‘By the looks of it, you’re mostly sorted now?’ Pascale’s move was much quicker, having to only unload his antique typewriters and some antiquity books, same with Felix, whose main job had been setting up his vintage printing press. Benoit’s move has taken a lot more time due to the fragile nature of his stock and having to install many cabinets to display his stamps and philatelic materials.
He pushes his specs up the bridge of his nose. ‘Oui, almost done. Although, I’m selling stock at a much faster rate here than I was downstairs, so I’m trying to source from new suppliers. As you can imagine, stamp collecting isn’t exactly as popular as it once was so it makes it difficult to find new stock and still make a decent profit. That’s why I’ve added calligraphy to my repertoire.’
‘Oh?’
He gives me a quick smile. ‘Customers give me messages, poems, birthday greetings and the like and I write them out in calligraphy on luxe stationery for them.’
His job is really rather romantic. Benoit seems like a sweet, shy, old soul.
‘I love that idea.’
‘It helps to offer a few things. Philately is my passion. Each stamp tells a story, not just with its design or provenance but imagining its journey around the globe, affixed to an envelope – that very stamp the reason correspondence can travel far and wide and end up in someone’s grateful hands. Did that stamp ferry a love letter, a breakup note, support for a grieving widow, a postcard from sunnier climes?’ His cheeks pink as if he’s embarrassed he shared too much.
His love of stamps and their path around the world are just like my diaries and love letters. We’ll never know exactly where they’ve been or who once held them, but it’s fascinating to imagine just where these oft discarded bits of ephemera have been.
Our jobs are similar in that respect; we’re treading water between the past and the present. The now and the then. We share that same sort of whimsy with our collectables. Most of the time, we’ll never have all the answers about our treasures so we must fill in the gaps with speculation, wonder. There’s a real gentle charm to Benoit; he’s so markedly different from Pascale. In the past I’ve always chosen the happy-go-lucky kind, the cheeky, funny flirty type, like Felix. Perhaps I should go for a man just like Benoit. Quiet, contemplative and intelligent with the heart and soul of a poet. We lapse into silence and I find him hard to read. Perhaps it’s his inherent shyness that stops him from saying more. I struggle to think of conversation myself, so lost in the idea of romance. Finally, I say, ‘You should contact Guillaume. He might be able to source stamp collections for you. I can give you his number.’