Chapter 15
15
After meeting Guillaume at the patisserie, I head to Ephemera. When I get upstairs, Felix calls me over, cheeky smile at the ready. ‘A courier left this for you.’ It’s a box of stock from a new Parisian supplier.
‘Merci!’
‘Do you ever write love letters, Lilou?’
I stop short. I have never written a love letter and that fact has gone unnoticed by me until this very moment. ‘I’ve been so focused on finding them that it’s never occurred to me to write one myself, even with a previous flame. Why is that?’ I’m not going to tell Felix that I’ve been single since le scandale, and before that my relationships were so short-lived that I didn’t get to the pining-for-them stage where I’d have felt comfortable pouring my heart and soul out in love letters.
‘Ah, because they haven’t been the right man for you! What you need is a ginger-haired prince of men, one who will…’
‘What? Make me stay out until the witching hour and drink far too much champagne?’
‘Now that sounds like a fun night!’
As always, I don’t quite know how to take Felix’s flirtatious nature. It comes across so jovial that it’s impossible to take seriously. But is that his way of showing me he’s interested in me? He can’t be though; he flirts with everyone just the same, men and women alike. It’s just his bubbly, fun persona. ‘Thanks for this.’ I hold up the box. ‘Maybe we can get that glass of wine after work soon?’
He makes a great show of clutching his heart as if in some sort of rapture. ‘You’ll make all my dreams come true.’
I cock my head. ‘You’re simply a showman.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’
‘Au revoir.’
‘Bonne journée.’
I unlock my stall and wheel out the display tables, taking great care not to look in Pascale’s direction. I don’t bother to light candles or play music, not because I’m conceding to him but because I’d rather open the box of my new treasures.
As I’m going through it, a greeting card falls out of the bundle. I pick it up to inspect it. It has a pressed picture of Cupid on the front. Inside is printed too, with a phrase that reads:
To the woman who makes my heart sing. I wish I could tell you how I feel.
My pulse quickens. Has someone figured out I’m Cupid? If so, the message inside doesn’t make much sense.
Just as I’m mulling it over, Geneviève sashays in, a cloud of perfume following in her wake. ‘What’s that?’ she asks. ‘If you keep frowning over your work you’re going to age before your time.’ She attempts to smooth the furrow between my eyes with a fingertip. ‘Tell me what’s got you daydreaming like that?’
‘I’ve got a stack of new letters from a Parisian supplier, and this card was in the box. Do you think someone knows I’m Paris Cupid? This wasn’t part of my order…’ It’s so specific. It has to be. ‘The supplier – it can’t be her.’ I barely know the woman. We chat via email and aside from a few pleasantries about the weather, we only talk shop.
Geneviève takes it from my hands and dons her spectacles. ‘This looks like the type of personalised hand-printed cards Felix makes.’
‘He accepted the delivery because I wasn’t here!’ The card is like one of Felix’s made on his vintage press with his luxe paper and traditional font. ‘But there’s no way he could know that I’m Cupid, is there?’
Geneviève frowns over the top of her glasses. ‘Do you think I’ve made it obvious it’s connected to you when I’ve visited market vendors and tried to spread the word about Paris Cupid? I hope I haven’t blown your cover.’ She massages her temples as if the idea gives her a headache.
‘Non, Geneviève, I don’t think so. You’re always prying into everyone’s love lives, so that’s not out of the ordinary for you.’
She laughs. ‘Oui. I love love. So perhaps it’s just coincidence that Felix took delivery of the card and the card just happened to have a Cupid on it.’
‘Doesn’t that seem like one too many coincidences? Felix is funny and flirty, but maybe that’s a cover and his plan is to… extort me, or something nefarious.’ His open nature could be a sham. ‘It’s always the ones you least suspect, isn’t it? The ones who hide in plain sight.’
Geneviève’s eyes widen as if she hasn’t considered such a thing before. She probably needs to lay off the romance novels for a bit and read a thriller every now and then. Her face dissolves into laughter. When she finally composes herself, she says, ‘And the gold medal for jumping to conclusions goes to Lilou!’
I shake my head. ‘It’s not out of the realm of possibility.’
‘It makes no sense. If he sent you the card, it’s because he’s got a soft spot for you, not because he’s aware that you’re Cupid and wants to toy with you. You watch too many of those true crime documentaries.’ My guilty pleasure. ‘Don’t forget he said he’d met someone recently he’s got feelings for – could it be that our flirty happy-go-lucky neighbour is taken with… you?’
If I was matching myself on Paris Cupid, I would choose someone like Felix. He’s a bright light and would make every date fun, but there’s just a niggle there I can’t quite figure out. It’s probably because we all get the Felix treatment – mega-watt smile, jokes and laughter as if he doesn’t take life too seriously. Or I’d match myself with Benoit, a deep thinker, quiet and studious, who I sense would have a really romantic side to him. Often I suggest to my matches to step outside their comfort zone and allow me to choose them a type of person they claimed they’d never choose for themselves; so then shouldn’t I be following my own advice? That would mean taking the risk with a man like Pascale who just clearly isn’t the one for me. Is there anything under that gruff exterior, except hardened muscle? I think not.
‘It’s just an odd way to go about it, stuffing the card in a delivery, don’t you think?’ I ask Geneviève.
‘Odd or romantic?’
‘Wait.’ I’m reminded of the letter I found in the earlier delivery from Guillaume. Written by a man who didn’t believe in love – until he did. Why are these strange missives appearing out of the blue? Are they connected?
‘Geneviève, have a look at this…’ I go to my desk and find the typewritten letter and hand it over. Geneviève takes a seat at my desk and reads.
‘Typed. Abrupt. A different tone to the card. They can’t be connected.’
I lean over her shoulder and read it again too. It strikes me that the letter isn’t written to anyone. It’s more like a journal entry.
‘So, let’s take stock for a minute. We have what we think is a hand-pressed card. A frankly written, typed letter. These can’t be accounted for with your suppliers? Have any others appeared like these? A man yearning for a woman but doesn’t have the courage to tell her how he feels?’
I frown. ‘I do have one! Pierre, the bookseller by the Seine, gave me a Madame Bovary book. The letter tucked inside it was tissue-thin, and the parchment was so delicate with age. The calligraphy writing faded almost beyond recognition. The letter was written by man who walked Parisian streets alone at night, contemplating a woman he loves from afar. Wait, I have a photo of it on my phone.’ I find my phone and pull up the picture of the delicate letter.
Geneviève reads it and says, ‘There’s a theme here then! A connection?’
Ah, she’s a real romantic at heart. She wants to believe there’s a mystery here but there isn’t. A few misplaced letters, or mixed up deliveries. It’s bound to happen when I’m buying from sources all over the place. ‘Not really. I buy letters just like this all the time.’
‘Full of unrequited love?’
‘All types of love.’
‘I don’t know, Lilou,’ she says, tapping her chin with a finger. ‘It just seems so strange to suddenly have these little… gifts appearing, and they have the same premise. They love a woman and can’t tell her. Don’t you think?’
I think of the pressed rose I found a while back. I’d presumed it had been misplaced by a customer. ‘There was a flower here too, but it’s probably nothing. Left behind. Forgotten in someone’s haste.’
Geneviève gets that preoccupied look in her eyes that I know all too well. It means she’s not listening and is off in fairyland dreaming about romance.
That afternoon, I’m tidying up after a flurry of customers when there are raised voices from downstairs. I strain to hear who it might be and what they’re arguing about. Pascale stops typing and looks up before locking eyes with me.
‘What are they saying?’ I ask as their voices rise, but they’re too garbled for me to untangle.
‘He’s saying her display table is far too wide.’
I roll my eyes. ‘He is not.’
Pascale shrugs. ‘He could be saying that.’
‘Only a roi des cons would say such a silly thing.’
‘Are you calling me the king of idiots?’
I lift a shoulder. ‘Who can say?’
He shakes his head. ‘Why do you want to hear what they’re arguing about anyway?’
‘Why do you?’
‘Makes the day go faster.’
The voices quieten down. ‘Guess we’ll never know.’