Chapter 7
7
On Friday morning, I lock up my apartment on Rue Tourlaque and head on foot to Saint Ouen Flea Market, ready for a bustling three days of trading. It’s a thirty-minute walk, long enough to blow out the cobwebs after a long night of reading Paris Cupid applications. Still no reply from Emmanuel, but the influx of membership applications seems never ending because the man won’t stop shouting Paris Cupid’s praises. In any other business this would be a marketer’s dream but it’s the antithesis of what I want. émilienne hasn’t responded to the text I sent a few days ago. Perhaps she’s in a love bubble and the rest of the world has faded to black, but I’d really like to find out how she feels about dating the Playboy of Paris.
I stop to buy some blooms from Coraline, the florist, outside the market. Every July she has the most amazing selection of summery flowers.
While I’m taking a great big sniff of a bouquet of wild roses, Coraline says, ‘Did you hear about Emmanuel Roux?’
My heart sinks. If Coraline has heard, that means every second resident of Paris has too. ‘Ah…?’
‘You do know who he is, don’t you?’ Her eyes narrow as if not knowing who he is would be a sin. ‘A singer?’ It’s best if I play coy with Coraline; she’s a wily one. She lets out a frustrated sigh at my apparent lack of celebrity knowledge. ‘Mon Dieu, Lilou! He’s only France’s version of a Hollywood heart throb! Well known for performing his roles wearing very little, claiming that clothing is a construct and one he doesn’t subscribe to?’ She makes a show of scoffing and harrumphing to the point I’m about to ask her if something is stuck in her throat when she says, ‘You don’t know him?’
I cock my head, as if I’m trying hard to conjure this anti-clothes-wearing actor.
She rolls on the balls of her feet, jittery and hyper. ‘The silver fox with the steely eyes?’
‘Oh – uh, that sounds vaguely familiar.’
She waggles her thin Edith Piaf-style brows. ‘He used some silly little site to find love! Incroyable! Now he’s off the market for good, engaged, or so he says. But we all know what he’s like.’
I frown. Silly little site?
She continues. ‘It’s more likely a publicity stunt…’ Agreed! ‘…Now we’re all trying to work out who the mystery fiancée is. But if she’s not “in showbiz” how will we ever find out?’
Just how far will they go to find émilienne? Lovely Em, who is not a fan of the spotlight and really only wanted to find a genuine guy who wouldn’t try and change her. She will not appreciate being found, not like this. ‘Best to leave them to it, is my advice.’ If I didn’t know better, I’d say this so-called scandal has given Coraline a strange energy boost.
With her tongue in her cheek, she gives an exaggerated shake of the head before saying, ‘Impossible, not when it’s news as tantalising as this.’
‘Is it though?’
Coraline gives me a gleeful nod. ‘It’s downright scandalous!’
While my mind is in a furious battle figuring out some kind of damage control, I continue picking up bouquets, as if I’m having trouble choosing. I settle on a bunch of soft pink peonies and hand over some euros, doing my best to pretend this is any other day, but eventually curiosity gets the better of me and I ask, ‘How is finding love scandalous?’
She makes a great show of rolling her eyes as if I’m too simple to understand such matters. ‘Because it can’t be real! He’s probably being sponsored by Paris Cupid. That’s the only scenario that makes sense to me.’
‘Then why are you ruminating about who his fiancée is if you think it’s simply a sponsorship deal and not actually real?’
Coraline reels back as if I’ve slapped her face. ‘Because the fake fiancée is responsible for hearts breaking all over Paris right now! Real or not, we’ve been blindsided.’
Now I’ve heard it all! Poor Em. What have I done! ‘What if his new fiancée is genuinely in love? A witch hunt would be well out of order.’
A frown mars her brow. ‘Who said anything about a witch hunt?’
I cradle the bouquet close to my chest. ‘It’s best you leave well enough alone. Maybe Emmanuel Roux really is in love too. Have you ever thought of that?’ Her mouth opens and closes like a puffer fish before she eventually says, ‘Your peonies will need water, Lilou.’ And she turns her back, dismissing me just like that. I shake my head and walk into the market, hoping Geneviève has arrived so I can debrief and ask her advice. This could well spiral out of control and truly leave broken hearts in its wake, the very opposite of what I’d hoped to achieve for émilienne and so many others like her. My pulse thrums with worry, so I try my best to breathe through it so I can think. There must be a solution.
I wave to acquaintances as I make my way to my stall. The flea market is enormous. There are 1700 merchants spread over seven hectares, comprising of fourteen unique market areas. Locals and tourists alike can spend many a day hunting for bric-à-brac.
There are all sorts of eclectic shops here. Tapestry and carpets from Persia, Asia and Europe. Funky watches and vintage jewellery. There are art workshops to learn mediums such as ceramics, leather-working and upholstery. Stalls full of curios and objets d’art. Records. Pop culture. Recycled fashion. Whatever your heart desires, it is here somewhere. It’s simply a matter of finding it.
In the middle of Marché Dauphine is Futuro House. The bright orange UFO landed here ten years ago and is a popular attraction for visitors. The flying saucer was one of sixty-three designed by Finnish architect Matti Suuronen who originally intended them to be used as holiday homes for skiers, because they were lightweight, easy to transport and small enough to heat quickly. However, things didn’t go according to plan and now they’re spread around the globe in the most unlikely of places. I take great pride in our alien craft, which is used for book launches, conferences and pop-up bar events.
I continue up the stairs. There’s no sign of Geneviève at her antique furniture shop.
While we are all required to open our stalls at regimented times, Geneviève does not conform to such trivialities. Some days her shop remains completely shuttered. She plays by a different set of rules, and I envy her ability to not give a damn and get away with it. ‘Bonjour, Felix!’ I greet the ginger-haired printer who is bent over his work, in full concentration mode. It’s a painstakingly slow process to set a book, or pamphlet, which – as I’ve recently learned – is just about the only time you’ll see Felix stand still.
‘Bonjour, Lilou.’ He steps back from his work with a devilish sparkle in his eye. ‘Is your heart broken too?’
‘My heart is just fine. Why?’ While the market might be seven hectares long, gossip spreads faster than wildfire ever could.
Felix fidgets with a printing implement while tapping his foot, as if his body, mind and spirit runs on a higher frequency, a different bandwidth to most. ‘Every woman under eighty seems to be heartbroken over the announcement that Emmanuel Roux is engaged. He’s a bit of a cause célèbre, non?’
I shrug. ‘I don’t understand the appeal of the guy. Why would anyone fangirl over a guy who calls himself the Playboy of Paris?’ His popularity has never made sense to me.
‘Do you think it’s real? I always figured it was just talk. One of those men who exaggerate every story for attention.’ Felix shakes his head, dappled sunlight landing on his ginger curls, making them shine. ‘The whole “look at me with my extra-large… apartmente”.’ He gives me a wicked grin.
I laugh. ‘Could be. Do you think the engagement is real?’
Felix scoffs. ‘Hardly. He’ll never settle down – and who would want to? From what I heard, his life is a never-ending party.’ There’s an element of awe to Felix’s statement. Is he too taken by the Emmanuel Roux persona: live and love, fast and hard?
‘A never-ending party sounds exhausting.’ I tuck a stray hair back. ‘Are you saying you’d never settle down?’
‘I’d settle down for you, Lilou.’ Did I mention Felix is the flirtatious type? In the short time he’s been my neighbour we’ve discovered a lot about each other during our morning catch ups. Felix is curious, and quirky. An over sharer. Really, he’s a mood booster.
But he’s also high energy and lives a high-octane life. I’m a homebody, whose nose is either pressed into a diary or else matching lovebirds behind a screen. We’re as different as can be.
I shake my head. ‘You would do no such thing.’
Felix places a hand over his heart as if it’s broken. ‘It’s still a no then?’
I grin and shake my head. ‘It’s still a no.’ At least once a day he asks me on a date, and I turn him down. He told me his idea of a fun night out is dancing under strobe lighting inside some club at all hours. Mine is being in bed with a book before midnight calls. I’m tempted to say yes, but I presume his invitations are made in jest so I don’t want to look foolish by taking him up on his offer. Not to mention he’s my neighbour now, so any fallout would be awkward.
He lets out a long sigh. ‘But I love you and only you.’
‘You don’t mean a single word.’ Felix doesn’t take life seriously and everything is always a joke. Still, there are plenty of women who’d swoon in his presence. He’s gorgeous in that distracted, just-rolled-out-of-bed way. The cheeky spontaneous type who makes you feel that adventure is around every corner.
He waggles a brow. ‘I guess you’ll never know, Lilou. Café crème?’
‘Oui. Extra hot.’ With a salute, Felix dashes off to buy coffee, while I stand there pondering where he gets his energy from. I’m tired just watching his brisk pace down the stairs. I open the door of my stall, inhaling the scent that sits heavy in the air. The musty, dustiness of times gone by. The perfume of inky secrets and hidden desires. I recently redesigned it with old-fashioned opulence in mind, furnished the space with replica Louis XVI gilded chairs, pink velvet chaises, thick brocade curtains and well-worn Persian rugs – all given to me by Geneviève at a criminally discounted price.
The space appears intimate, almost boudoir-like, in ode to the letters, the words, the thoughts penned in private so long ago. While I wait for my café crème, I take a duster and make my rounds. Righting prayer books and tidying shelves. By a collection of poetry books I find a pressed red rose. Did someone drop this here yesterday? It’s just my sort of whimsical and I’m lost to wondering about it. Did it come from a secret admirer before being hidden between the pages of a book? Did it leave a rose-shaped imprint and scent? I’m saddened for whoever misplaced a rose that clearly belongs in a special book to be opened and reminisced over. For now, I put it in my own personal diary behind the counter to keep it safe.
Felix returns with two keep cups in hand and motions for me to join him outside. ‘Mademoiselle.’ Felix hands me a coffee. ‘Have a lovely day.’
‘Merci. My turn tomorrow.’
‘Make it a vin rouge after work, eh?’ he says over his shoulder as he heads off to open his shop.
I give him a playful smirk. ‘Don’t push your luck.’ As I turn away with what I hope is a playful hair flick, I run smack bang into a muscular chest. Pascale. The force of the altercation sends the lid of my keep cup flying and coffee ejects itself like a tidal wave over his shirt, which is of course white.
He lets out a blood-curdling scream that has me jumping out of my skin. ‘Ca brule!’
When my soul returns to my body after Pascale’s terrifying screech, I take a breath and say, ‘Of course it burns, it’s hot coffee. Ah, extra hot.’ How can one small café crème do so much damage? ‘Pardon, Pascal. I wasn’t paying attention. I have some tissues inside.’
‘Tissues?’ he spits, his face devoid of all colour.
‘Paper towel then?’
With a grunt he says, ‘I’ll have to change.’ He pulls the sodden shirt from his chest, but not before I note the ripple of his muscles beneath the suddenly translucent linen.
However, muscles don’t maketh the man. ‘Would you like me to find you another shirt? Will that suffice?’ There’s plenty of clothing stalls in a different section of the market and it would be the least I could do so he doesn’t hold this against me.
He continues grunting and groaning and making his displeasure known without using actual words. Honestly, he’s acting like his first-born child ran away to join the circus.
‘Non.’
And with that, he storms off. My morning is going to start without the requisite caffeine jolt.
‘Did you purposely scald him with hot coffee?’ Geneviève whispers in my ear, making me jump in fright as Pascale does some sort of Hulk stomp out of the market.
I gasp. ‘Geneviève! Of course not.’
‘Oh, shame. I thought it might be a very clever trick to get him half naked, and if so, I’m here for it.’
‘I have no words. None.’ I’d never waste my morning coffee on such an activity. ‘Is that even a thing, scalding a man with a hot beverage to sneak a peek? Surely not!’
She grins. ‘If the end justifies the means, why not?’
Srrieux! ‘You don’t think it’ll result in permanent damage, do you?’ He’ll never forgive me if his tight, taut muscles are left scarred. Who would!
‘Don’t fret, Lilou. I’m sure it’s fine.’
I consider my interaction with Pascale. He’s so very different to Felix, who laughs and jokes as if all the world is a stage, whereas Pascale always appears hard done by. Clearly being drenched in scalding café crème isn’t an ideal start to the day, but he could have at least thanked me for offering to help. I shake my head; some men are a puzzle with a few pieces missing. ‘You do have to wonder why he’s downright morose all the time.’
She tuts. ‘Don’t give up yet. The poor man simply has trouble acting on his feelings.’
I manage to contain my exasperation. The poor man! Seriously. If there was a guidebook about bad boys, Geneviève probably penned it.
‘He doesn’t have any feelings, except one – irritability. Just what has he got to be so moody about all the time? OK, his white tee is now coffee coloured, but it’s not as if I threw it over him on purpose and, after his part in the nose debacle, he can’t really hold it against me.’
‘You’re always going on about meeting a man meet-cute style and I can’t help but think you’ve had two opportunities, the first of which smacked you right in your very face and the second in his very chest, and you still don’t see it.’
‘What? That’s not exactly meet-cute style, Geneviève. Meet cutes are cute for one. My nose almost being sheered clean off my face didn’t exactly feel cutesy. In fact, it felt downright painful, and I gather the extra hot coffee across his chest was up there in terms of discomfort too. A meet-cute is meant to be a charming interaction, not… an altercation with the world’s moodiest man.’
‘Moody men make the best lovers.’ She gives me an exaggerated wink; her hooded eyes and long false lashes give her an aged Marilyn Monroe air.
I supress a sigh. ‘And the worst boyfriends.’
‘He’s probably exhausted fending off women. He’s almost too good looking.’
‘Fending off women! Geneviève, you don’t take anything I say seriously.’ If you were into buff, hot, fiery-eyed men then I suppose he’s attractive. In the past I’ve come to know men just like that, men who rely on their looks alone, never developing a personality, empathy, humility. Been there, done that, got the break-up text. His dominant macho-man energy is off the charts and I just wouldn’t risk it with a guy like that. ‘Firstly, we have no intellectual connection. He’s not exactly friendly, and what’s he got going for him except sex appeal? It’s not enough, is it?’ I want more than a sizzling sexual relationship. I want deep and meaningful conversations. I want romance to be front and centre. I want a man who is respectful and sensitive, and he is none of those things. Why am I even thinking about all his faults? It doesn’t matter one bit to me!
Geneviève rummages in her iconic Fauré Lepage tote and soon brandishes her keys. ‘Voila! Follow me,’ she orders in her usual haughty way. I can keep an eye on my stall through the window.
‘Let me clean up the few drops of coffee that didn’t land on Pascale and I’ll be right there.’ I dash to my shop and grab some paper towels and mop up the mess on the floor before joining Geneviève in her shop.