Chapter 12
12
I never expected I’d be the type to settle in one place. I’ve had too much fun roaming, taking work wherever I can and living frugally, with complete freedom. So, it’s come as a bit of shock to find myself gloriously in love with a Greek man who only speaks snippets of French. I’m learning a bit of Greek, but our love doesn’t need translation; it just is. And how can that be? I only know this feels different, like stars have exploded, a galaxy of light above showing me the way to him. And so I’m staying in this little whitewashed home perched on the side of a cliff, with my Greek God, his dog and a few donkeys. Who knows what the future will bring, but I feel like I’ve found my place and the person who I was always meant to meet.
I finish Margot’s diary with a tear in my eye. What an energetic life she lived, for as long as the diary covered. Margot travelled all the way around France before moving on to Italy and then settling down in Greece with a man who worshipped her but gave her plenty of space.
If only I had more volumes of her life story. What came next for Margot? I like to think of her with the salty sea breeze in her hair, still wild and free. Her story has given me hope. Margot had been adamant she’d never stop roaming, but love caught her unawares and there she stayed. Who wouldn’t want to live in a sun-drenched paradise like the Greek isles? I send up a thank you to the love gods for allowing me to be privy to Margot’s diary and be alongside her for those chapters of her life. What a privilege.
When I look up, I’m surprised to note the market is swarming with people. It’s been quiet in Ephemera but I haven’t exactly been paying attention. Time to get to work before the day escapes. I’m expecting another Friday delivery from Guillaume. I check my watch, miffed to find he’s running late. He’s never late. Either I’ll have ammunition for the rest of my days, or something terrible has happened. I peek outside and am relieved to see him chatting enthusiastically with Pascale, of all people.
Both of them are laughing and gesticulating as if they’re long-lost friends reunited at last. What on earth? Guillaume’s default personality is pernickety, and Pascale’s is peeved, so to see them fully relaxed like this is somewhat out of character. What could they be so animated about?
‘Guillaume?’ I yell across the hallway. ‘Didn’t we have an appointment thirty minutes ago?’ I make a show of checking a watch I don’t wear in ode to all the times he’s simpered at me.
A wrinkle mars his brow. ‘Oui, we did. But I’m talking to a potential new client. You won’t begrudge me that, will you?’
Pascale gives me a mocking smile. ‘There’s a lot more value in typewriters than old letters, Lilou.’
That man! ‘If you’re talking monetary value, maybe, but isn’t that a shallow way to look at the world?’
The mocking smile melts right off Pascale’s face. ‘What I meant was—’ His words peter out as Guillaume picks up a box of stock and marches in my direction. Pascale says, ‘Lilou, is this about the candles again?’
Guillaume stops midway between us, his eyes crinkling with suspicion. It’s like a standoff.
‘No, I’ve noted your sensitivities to candles, music, pot plants, my singing, and all the other things you’ve complained about. This is about you belittling me in order to feel better about yourself.’
Pascale’s retort dries right there on his lips. Eventually, he manages, ‘It was a joke…’
Guillaume shakes his head and takes a step towards me.
I fold my arms and lean against the door jamb. ‘Which part was funny?’
‘I’m sorry, Lilou.’
Oh, I see right through this amicable persona that’s meant purely for Guillaume’s benefit.
‘You two can sort it out later.’ Guillaume finally tires of our back and forth-ing. ‘Now, Lilou, your delivery. The rest of my day is going to be a shambles if I don’t catch up.’
We head inside Ephemera and, as I turn, I see what appears to be real worry on Pascale’s face. Doesn’t he understand that the show is over?
I drop my voice low and ask Guillaume, ‘Any news about Paris Sweethearts?’
He grunts but fights a smile that plays at his lips. ‘For the hundredth time, Lilou, it’s Paris Cupid. You might want to write that down.’
I ignore the jibe and fight my own smile. ‘Well?’
‘If you must know, you busy body meddler, I’ve been matched with a certain Clementine. I happen to know of her. She owns the fromagerie on Rue Damrémont.’
‘You know her? You’ve written already?’
‘Non. You see, all I was given was her first name, and I was informed that she runs a successful fromagerie in Paris. It didn’t take a genius to work out it was Clementine D’Amboise because of her first name and the fact her shop is around the corner from my apartment. I’ve stopped in on occasion for fromage but haven’t personally made her acquaintance before.’ I hadn’t even considered he might know her, which is rather na?ve of me considering he is a cheese lover and her fromagerie is in Montmartre.
‘So you could cheat the system and go in and introduce yourself?’
He looks up, alarmed. ‘That’s not how this works, Lilou. I’m going to write her a letter this evening. Or maybe tomorrow. Or on Monday. Wednesday at the latest.’ This is a worry. He’s had her contact details for a few weeks already and he hasn’t written.
‘Has she written to you?’
‘Non.’
I take a moment to figure out how best to ease his nerves. ‘Would reading a love letter here help, Guillaume? I have all sorts. Formal, informal, passionate, polite.’
He double blinks. ‘Are you implying I don’t know how to express myself?’
With an emphatic shake of my head, I say, ‘Of course not! I’m confident you’ll express yourself in the most articulate of ways. Only, I wondered if these penned letters might serve useful as inspiration.’
He looks up to the heavens as if he needs a miracle having to deal with me. ‘If I don’t agree, I suppose you’ll keep harping on about me not trying hard enough and then I’ll never hear the end of it. I’ll have to speed read as I’m already behind today so only give me the very best. None of that purple prose, lovey dovey stuff either.’
As ever, Guillaume won’t admit he needs help so I play along. ‘You’re a man who knows his own mind, a wonderful trait in a partner. Give me two minutes.’
‘Two! I’ll give you one.’
I shake my head as I find a selection of love letters that are a little more sedate, more Guillaume’s speed. ‘Here you go.’
As he settles in to read, I pretend to tidy, all the while surreptitiously watching the expression on his face changing from gruff to soft.
Love is a universal language. My lonely old friend just needs a little practice learning the fundamentals again. When he’s finished, Guillaume grumbles about lost time and irate clients as he takes his leave. I can only shake my head as I watch him go, with a little more enthusiasm than when he arrived. The love letters touched him. You’d figure a man who procures these things would be well versed in such matters, but he insists he only ever gives them a cursory glance to check they’re in good condition and aren’t shopping lists before he agrees to purchase them.
I search through the latest delivery of treasures. There’s an unusual prayer book. The tissue-thin paper has a mauve hue, the script itself bronze. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. As I gently flick through, I have the sense it belonged to a teenage girl.
I unpack the rest of Guillaume’s finds. He really hit the jackpot with his latest trip near Neufchateau. As I rifle through the goodies, I take photos for my newsletter as I go. At the bottom of the box is a type-written letter that isn’t familiar. Has Guillaume forgotten to show me this one? I double check his invoice; he hasn’t charged me for it either. It’s not like him to make a mistake. He’s nothing if not meticulous. I snap a picture and text it to him.
Did you forget about this one?
I take it from the plastic film.
I’ve never believed in love. Or the notion that love conquers all. As for soul mates, give me a break – it’s a ploy, marketing for gift card companies. That was until I met her. It felt like my world flipped upside down. Now my brain doesn’t function the same around her. I say the stupidest things. I’m suddenly unsure of myself and my place in the world because I can only think of her. But I keep messing things up, trying to be funny, or trying to strike up conversation, and things go awry. I’m really not sure how to fix things. If I told her how I feel she’d laugh in my face. What to do?
Like a cliché I find myself holding my breath as I read. The honesty! I can relate too. I often stumble over my words or say the complete opposite to what I’m thinking when I like a guy. It’s just that stupid sort of giddy that sometimes takes a moment to get a handle on.
As I fold the page, there’s a notification on my phone from Guillaume.
Non, I didn’t forget. That’s not one of mine.
How can it not be? Surely he’s made a mistake.
It was in the box, at the very bottom. If you’re sure, then…?
Then what? Can I sell a letter that I didn’t procure myself? But common sense says Guillaume has made a rare error and it’s probably best to count it as a win and move on.
Lilou, I pride myself on my organisational skills and I would never ‘forget’ a valuable item and I don’t appreciate you implying such a thing.
Duly told, I grin at his predictable response and put the letter away, not quite ready to put it up for sale just yet. It reminds me of the beautiful brittle calligraphy letter. Two letters, both featuring men who love a woman they don’t know how to approach. What are the chances? And what would the world be like if we didn’t cherish letters such as these?