Chapter 8
8
Geneviève’s antique shop Palais is filled with truly exquisite antique furniture sourced from France and Italy. Gilded, golden creations that have lived on this earth longer than us both, and have a hefty price tag to match. Most of these luxe pieces come from chateaux or castellos. I lament that any person in their right mind would relinquish such beautiful antiques, but I suppose if they didn’t we’d all be out of a job in the antiquities trade.
‘Mimosa?’ Geneviève asks.
‘It’s not even ten.’
‘And?’ Geneviève unwinds her gossamer-thin ruby-red scarf.
‘OK.’ I long for a cup of coffee but that ship has sailed. Geneviève takes a bottle of Taittinger and orange juice from a bar fridge behind the counter and makes two mimosas, heavy on the champagne.
‘Now, I don’t want to alarm you, but it seems that there’s a bit of an investigation going on.’
I sigh and take a sip of my mimosa. ‘Let me guess, Coraline told you?’
She frowns. ‘What? No.’
‘Then who?’
‘The glossies, Lilou. I take it you haven’t seen the presse indiscrète today?’
Not more tabloid press interviews with the man of the hour, surely! ‘Emmanuel Roux is at it again?’ He can’t help himself! Is his star power on the wane? Did his PR team dream this up as a way to get his name in the forefront again?
She grimaces. ‘No, it’s about you! Wait a moment.’ Geneviève sashays from the shop, champagne glass in hand, leaving me to ponder what she’s on about. I’m anonymous when it comes to Paris Cupid, so how can any tabloid refer to me? Before panic sets in, I take a slug of my mimosa. It doesn’t help. Anxiety looms large as I imagine the worst.
A few minutes later, Geneviève returns, waving the magazine. ‘Normally, I don’t pay attention to these trashy tabloids, but this one has me a little worried, I must admit.’ She hugs the glossy tight to her chest as if she really doesn’t want to expose me to whatever lies within.
‘Show me.’
‘OK, but I don’t want you to be alarmed.’
‘That is sweet, Geneviève, but how can I not be when you say something like that! It’s like being told to calm down when you’re in the middle of an argument.’
‘Om…’
‘Are we meditating now? There goes my blood pressure!’
With a sigh, she hands it over. The headline screams from the front cover:
Who’s the mastermind behind Paris Cupid?
Mon Dieu! My stomach flips as I frantically search for the article, speed reading when I find it. They’ve taken information directly from the Paris Cupid website, saying it’s a small affair dedicated to matching the lost, the weary, the broken hearted, or the just plain romantic, using the medium of love letters.
Then it goes on to say it’s becoming increasingly popular as a new way to find the one, and it’s being whispered about in Parisian bistros, and it’s spoken about more widely after the site successfully found a match for actor Emmanuel Roux, who’d previously sworn he’d be a bachelor forever. Online groups have been created where conspiracy theories run wild. The secret everyone wants to know is, who is behind the site? Who is Cupid? Who came up with the old-school idea of a slow-burn romance for modern-day love?
My air leaves my lungs in a whoosh. ‘Why! Why do they want to know who I am? Who are these people in the online groups?’ I throw the magazine on Geneviève’s desk as if it’s tainted.
Geneviève lifts her palms. ‘Nosy people. You know what these online sleuths are like if there’s a mystery to be solved. The issue is, will they find out who you are? And if so, does that matter in the grand scheme of things?’
Does it? ‘The scrutiny would be unbearable. If they dig into my background and discover I was named in Frederic’s divorce, a married man with twenty million children – even with the caveat that I didn’t know, it still won’t look good. There are plenty of market vendors who saw le scandale unfold and would no doubt love to talk about it to these media types. If they kept digging, they’d find one disaster after another. Let us not forget the cryptomancer who I met in a café and exchanged numbers with (oh, yes, it’s real and just as awful as it sounds) who had me fooled until he tried to seduce me into investing in crypto currency. I mean, why am I a magnet for all the wrong guys? Who would trust a match maker with that kind of relationship history? I wouldn’t!’
Despite my own sketchy love life, Paris Cupid matches have been largely successful. Real love has blossomed for so many unlikely pairs. Getting to know one another by the written word has laid a strong foundation for them to build on when they finally do meet. And for those who didn’t gel, I’ve rematched them and they’ve reported back that they’re happy to have a new correspondent and another chance at finding love.
This new threat could change all of that. Take the mystery, the anonymity away.
‘Pah! Surely they won’t focus on any of that. If you do get outed, they’ll probably want to quiz you on how you came up with the idea. It’ll be a good plug for Paris Cupid.’
While her voice is upbeat, it’s clear she’s putting a positive spin on it to keep me from descending into panic.
‘That’s the thing, Geneviève. I’m already at capacity with members and what I can handle. By June I’d matched thirty couples. It’s only mid-July now and I’ve matched a whopping twenty more. If I didn’t need sleep, it would be in the hundreds, but I need to take my time when going through their questionnaires in the hopes of finding the compatible partners. Emmanuel Roux won’t stop speaking to the press every chance he gets. It’s been two weeks since his very first interview, and he keeps popping up all over the place. When he does, memberships go wild. But they’re not the right kind of people. They’re influencers, people chasing clout. LoveTokkers, I mean, what even is that? A few I looked into were already in relationships! It’s becoming a circus.’
She nods wisely like a sage. ‘Then it’s time to double down. Pause all new applications for the last two weeks of July and possibly August? Let the furore dry up. Those insta-famous types will soon move to the next craze.’
While the idea is anathema to me, it might be the best way forward right now. I can’t keep up with demand, and ferreting out fakes is a huge time suck. ‘You’re right. I’ll do that. If they are serious about finding love, they’ll wait. Or reapply, right?’
‘Oui.’
My heart sinks at the thought of halting memberships, albeit briefly, even if it is the only option. But I’ll honour those who have applied already, if they’re in it for the right reasons.
‘And what will you do about Emmanuel Roux?’
I blow out a breath. ‘What can I do? He hasn’t responded to my email. The phone number he provided isn’t in service any more. I’ve reached out to émilienne as myself, not as Cupid, but she hasn’t replied to my texts and her phone is always off. She does that when she goes on retreats but the timing of it feels more like she’s hiding, from the press, the scrutiny.’
Geneviève takes a long sip of mimosa. ‘Reach out to her as Paris Cupid by email?’
I contemplate it. ‘Oui. Why don’t I formulate a sort of… follow-up survey for her and Emmanuel, asking if they’re happy with their match and whether they had any concerns, that kind of thing? Emmanuel will most likely ignore it, like he has with the previous email, but it will look legitimate if they both get the same survey if it comes up in conversation between them.’
‘Parfait. You could add all of your membership rules again at the end of the document. It might jog their memories and she may just remind Emmanuel that the whole premise behind Paris Cupid was keeping the details of matches private and being honest.’
Paris Cupid has a handful of rules to protect members. First, they must use post office boxes for correspondence rather than give total strangers their home address. Second is to be truthful. I go further but it’s all common sense advice spelled out so that everyone is aware of their responsibilities.
The rules clearly stipulate that every member must be honest about, but not limited to: age, job, name and relationship status. If members don’t care to share that information with their match so early in the process, that’s acceptable too, but they do have to share it with me, not only so I find them a suitable partner, but also because it’s part of the background work I do on them to make sure what they say correlates with who they are. It’s understandable if Emmanuel Roux has social media accounts under another name for relative anonymity due to his celebrity status, but he should have disclosed that information with Paris Cupid.
‘Good idea, Geneviève. I’ll do that tonight.’
In the hall, Guillaume arrives to deliver stock and greets Benoit with a wave and stops to chat. I presume Guillaume has managed to find some stamp collections on his travels after Benoit called and introduced himself on the phone two weeks ago. I hope it will work out well for both of them and I’m happy that Benoit has another source to help find stock for his stall.
He and Guillaume chatter excitedly about the finds from the south of France. Benoit’s face lights up when Guillaume produces a stamp collection in an old binder. Really, Benoit is so wholesome.
‘You know the quiet ones are also pretty good between the sheets.’ Geneviève nods towards Benoit. At least I hope it’s Benoit she’s alluding to and not Guillaume, who is at least thirty years my senior and about the same age as Geneviève. I’ve thought of setting them up before but Guillaume is much too traditional for her.
‘Why is it always about sex with you!’
She shrugs. ‘It’s good exercise.’
I can only shake my head. I’m eager to take delivery of my own treasures, so I go to take my leave. ‘Talk soon.’
‘But your drink?’ Geneviève is not one to leave a glass half full.
I take a long sip of my mimosa, suffering a rush to the head drinking alcohol in the designated coffee hour. ‘Au revoir.’
I give Guillaume a wave to let him know I’m ready to take delivery while Benoit pores over a stamp collection. He’s lost in a world where those tiny rectangles of paper reign supreme.
They wrap up their conversation, and Benoit says, ‘Pardon, Lilou. I didn’t see you there.’ He blushes as if he’s committed a terrible faux pas.
I wave him away. He’s always blushing and mumbling. It’s really rather charming. ‘No need to apologise. I see Guillaume has found you some gems too.’
‘Oui, thank you for connecting us. Selling these on will be the hard part.’ He rakes his fingers through his light-brown hair. That same distracted gaze is back, as if he can’t quite talk and dream at the same time.
‘I understand. It’s almost impossible to let them go.’
‘Beauty comes our way but for a moment.’ He stares just past me and I find myself lost for words as I so often am when Benoit says a phrase that’s so startlingly poetic.
‘I – I…’ I fumble with a response, all at once lost in the deep intelligence of his dark eyes. He’s not like other men. Not loud, not showy, not a rippled mass of muscles, which all adds to his appeal. Benoit’s magnetising in a way I can’t quite put my finger on. He moves his gaze to Felix who is in the hallway, chatting with a customer.
Guillaume glances at his watch with an impatient sigh. ‘I really am pressed for time. Can you continue this chitchat later?’
I cough, clearing my throat, feeling unbalanced suddenly, as if the world tilted for a fraction of a second. The idea of finding love is literally making me woozy, which I put down to being surrounded by love in all its forms at Ephemera and with Paris Cupid. ‘Oui. Sorry, Guillaume,’ I finally manage.
Benoit nods au revoir and Guillaume follows me into Ephemera, hefting the small package of books with a grunt as if it’s as heavy as a box of bowling balls.
Guillaume takes great care unpacking my wares and hands me a handwritten invoice. He detests the march of technology and will most likely never adapt to using a computer for his business. He did eventually capitulate and purchase a photocopier, but he only agreed to that in order to keep the stock safe in his office and to not cart valuable prayer books, first editions and other accoutrements around Paris to show his buyers.
‘Did you sign up to Paris Match, Guillaume?’ I say, pretending to be distracted, rifling through my new stock.
‘It’s Paris Cupid, Lilou. Must I keep reminding you?’ He gives me a stern look.
I make a face at my obvious stupidity. ‘Sorry, I keep forgetting.’
‘I did, I’ll have you know, but I’m expecting precisely zero from it. The more I think about it, the more I envisage this is a young person’s game. It’s not meant for old men like me.’
‘Ah, but you’re so very wrong! Love is a game for all ages.’
He purses his lips as if trying to stop scepticism leaching out. ‘That’s all well and good when it comes along organically, but not like this. A newfangled website, a matchmaker. I had to go to the Bibliotheque Nationale de France to use their computers to sign up to the infernal Paris Cupid site. I’m not sure this is the right course for me.’
The Bibliotheque Nationale de France is arguably the most famous of all Parisian libraries. The reading room features a glass domed ceiling and archways full of bookshelves. It’s near the Place Vendome, home to the Ritz and quite a distance from where Guillaume lives and works.
‘Why didn’t you go to the library in Montmartre?’
‘I didn’t want any nosey friends to question me.’ He lets out a long sigh as if all his friends converge at the library in Montmartre and question him relentlessly, which I’m sure they do not. He lowers his voice as he says, ‘Those fandangle machines never work for me either so I knew I’d have to plead for the bibliothécaire to assist me, and the last thing I want is Kellie from Montmartre library knowing my business. You know what she’s like, always hovering around.’
Kellie does no such thing but now is not the time to mention that.
Have I left it too late to send Guillaume his match? If his feet get any colder, they’ll be blocks of ice. ‘Give it a chance, like you promised, and if it doesn’t work out, you can say “I told you so” for the rest of your life.’ The sentiment produces a glimmer of a smile.
‘That is tempting. Must dash.’
‘Au revoir.’
Once Guillaume takes his leave, I make a note on my phone to send his match this evening. As I pocket my mobile, I notice Benoit across the hall, staring off into the distance as if lost in thought. Every now and then he glances in my direction with a faraway look in his eyes. What’s on his mind? Probably his new stamp collection.
I turn back to my delivery, thumbing through my loot, hunting for Margot’s diary that I’d read one tantalising page from the other day in the cemetery. The adventure-seeking woman who broke off her engagement with poor Elliott because he didn’t set her soul on fire. When I find the diary with its worn leather cover, I peek outside. The market is quiet, so I settle on a chaise to read. When I gently creak the cover open, I’m assailed with a scent that takes me a moment to recognise. Lavender. It’s as though clues are seeping out from the very pages themselves, exposing me to hints of her past.
Did Margot live in a chateau in Provence where lavender grows in abundance?
Maman has given me an ultimatum. I’m to rekindle my romance and marry Elliott or I’m to leave the village and give up my monthly allowance. I asked Maman, ‘If Elliott’s family weren’t wealthy, would we be having this conversation?’ and she didn’t even have the audacity to lie! My dreams lie outside this village. Outside of these crumbling chateau walls. I’m not getting wed, having children and living a humdrum life because it’s what someone of my station is expected to do. There’s no other choice, except pack my bags and leave. Adventure awaits!
I close my eyes and picture her running her fingers along blooms of lavender as she made her escape from a life she didn’t care for, the purple flower leaving an indelible mark on her fingertips and these very pages preserving the perfume. What a gift.
So she did pack up and leave? How did she support herself after relinquishing her monthly allowance? Guillaume mentioned the diary had been found in a chambre de bonne. Did she swap her upper-class lifestyle and lasso herself the life she wanted? Total freedom and the power to choose. I understand her need to be more than a wife, a mother. To explore the world and live on her terms, but just how difficult would it have been in the early sixties?
I read half of Margot’s diary before a regular customer wanders in. With some reluctance I stash the diary in my desk and greet her. ‘Bonjour, Giselle.’ I give her a bright smile. ‘Are you looking for anything in particular today?’
Giselle shakes her head as she picks up a prayer book and flicks through the pages. ‘Just killing time before I meet a friend for lunch. I can’t be this close and not visit Ephemera.’
I smile. Giselle is one of my favourites who has a keen eye and enjoys hearing a good backstory on her purchases. ‘Take your time. On the shelf by the grandfather clock is a folder of new love letters. One of my suppliers sourced them from a small estate in Brittany a few weeks ago. They span decades.’
‘And they haven’t sold yet?’ It’s always risky knowing what to invest in. These beautiful letters haven’t sold, despite being a one-sided sweeping love story told over a lifetime. Forbidden love.
‘Not yet. The cursive writing is difficult to read, especially the letters towards the end. The penmanship is shakier then, but to me, that adds to the appeal. You can see the author age as the script changes. Once again, showing us the fragility of life…’
Giselle groans. ‘I knew this would be an expensive lunch.’ She laughs and goes to find the letters.
That evening, as Paris Cupid once more, I email Guillaume about his match. I don’t give him many details, except her first name and that she runs a successful fromagerie in Paris. It’s up to them to share their stories and get to know one another at their own pace. I explain that they’re compatible in many ways and they have many shared interests, but I don’t delve into what they are. When I hit send, I cup my face. I always want love to win, but I want it even more for Guillaume. I shoot up a prayer to the love gods and will them to make it so.