Chapter 17
17
The next day I head toward the Marais to visit the Musée des Archives Nationales housed inside the H?tel de Soubise. It’s a museum full of words, of history, and the place I go to when I need to reconnect and remember that I am just one person trying to make a difference in this great big world. The national archives are a good reminder that there have been many a conflict greater than mine. I’m taking a self-care day. A full twenty-four hours where I don’t think about Paris Cupid or Ephemera. A battery recharge.
Inside I make my way around the displays, as always so grateful for those who preserved these relics from history. There’s so much to see, and the exhibits are regularly changed. Today I find the diary of King Louis XVI. I read Mary Antoinette’s last letter written only hours before her beheading. It highlights her strength of will, her love for her family and the hopes her children wouldn’t avenge her death. I’m not sure if she truly had no inkling her children were at risk, or if she was simply hoping for the best. Either way, her letter gives me chills and brings her to life right in that very room.
While it’s fascinating to view Napoleon’s last will and testament, more exciting to me is a coded love letter that only the two lovers could decipher. Why did they write in code? Were they forbidden to be together? Did their love endure? I’m taken with the idea that they devised a plan to write in code so their romance was kept private. Did they end up together? Did someone stand in their way?
I’m stuck in dreamland about two strangers from hundreds of years ago as I turn and bump into a man who is bent at the waist reading a plaque. ‘Sorry,’ I say, embarrassed to have knocked into him from behind and forced him forward. When he stands, I stifle a groan. What is it about this guy and my spatial awareness? If only I could meet-cute a man I’m actually interested in!
‘Li, do you think you might need glasses?’
I roll my eyes. ‘It’s Lilou, Pascale. And why would I need glasses?’
‘So far you’ve run into my chest, thrown hot coffee over me, and today you’ve walked directly into my… derriere. If I didn’t know better, I’d say things are escalating.’
Mon Dieu. I scrub my face. ‘Excusez-moi? I think the real issue here is you manspread all over the place and making it impossible for people to move around your… your enormous frame.’
‘Are you suggesting my physique is… too big?’
There’s not an ounce of fat on his body as I’m sure he well knows. He must stare at himself in the mirror as he lifts weights or whatever fit people do in order to bulk up like that. It’s not from eating croissants, that’s for sure.
I cock my head. ‘I’m doing no such thing. Yet again, you’re trying to turn this around, making me look like the bad person.’
‘Moi?’ He plays the innocent by widening his eyes and raising his brow. This guy is next level.
‘Oui, toi.’
‘Look—’
I hold up a hand. ‘Don’t.’
He bites down on his lip as if to stop a smile and it’s really rather distracting. ‘Apologies, Lilou. I seem to have trouble communicating with you and I’m sure it’s all my fault.’
Is he being sarcastic? This is his way, always confusing things. ‘Well, I won’t argue with that.’ He grins, putting me off balance once more. Why do I never feel quite right around Pascale? It’s like he interferes with the energy around me.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asks.
‘Are you joking?’
‘Right. Stupid question.’ He rubs the back of his neck as an awkward silence falls between us. ‘What I should have said was, did you see the coded love letter? It reminded me of you.’
‘Oh?’ What does he mean by that?
‘You sell love letters, right?’
A blush creeps up my neck. Why am I having so much trouble talking to him? I’m reading into things that aren’t there! It’s hot in here, or I’m feverish. Perhaps I didn’t eat enough breakfast and my blood sugars are all over the place.
Pascale stares into my eyes with so much fervour I almost forget what we were discussing. Eventually, my mind reboots and I remember. ‘I did see the coded love letter. It’s a shame that men aren’t as romantic in modern times.’ I shrug as if it’s not a big deal that romance is almost dead, dead, dead. For me, anyway.
He folds his arms across his muscular chest. I do my best to avoid dropping my gaze but I am really quite intrigued by the way his biceps bulge out all over the place. I’ve never dated a man who is quite as athletic as Pascale. Not that I intend to, either. More time building muscle is less time reading, unless he got his physique from lifting hardbacks, and that I highly doubt. He doesn’t seem the type who’d spend a lazy day in bed with a book. And really, that’s vital in a partner. But if he’s not a reader, why is he at the national archives?
‘You have a low opinion of me, or of all men?’ His voice is softer, as if he wants an honest answer, not a sarcastic rebuttal, which is the way we usually seem to communicate.
I contemplate the question. ‘It’s more that I don’t understand how as a society we’ve graduated from writing coded love letters, sending bouquets of flowers with their own unique language, to picking up a handheld device, squinting at a thumbnail-sized picture and finding love that way. I mean, if that works then great! But it hasn’t worked for me. I want a love story like the letters I sell.’ Why am I being so honest! ‘Not just me, obviously. There’s plenty of other singletons who want what I want.’
People brush past us, paying no attention to me, but Pascale receives many a double take. Really, can they not see he’s not interested? He’s more inclined to fall in love with his own reflection.
‘Why do you think you can’t find a love like that? Is it because you got burned by that guy?’
‘Ah…?’
‘That day in the market square. I heard the wife yelling at you. You looked so startled, so shocked. I really felt for you.’ So he does have a heart under all that muscle? And he remembered me from that small slice of time, like I remembered him. I suppose it was memorable; it’s not every day you seen a scorned wife berating the unintentional mistress.
‘He – he really broke my heart. He’d ticked all the boxes. The most romantic man I’d ever dated and it turns out it was all based on a lie. It definitely hurt. Perhaps that’s why I’ve sought refuge in other eras, other worlds with love letters and diaries from the past. They give me hope when I feel like there is none.’
Why am I even telling him all of this? By the unsurety in his eyes, he’s not romantic in the slightest and its evident now as another silence between us descends.
‘I suppose I’ve never thought about it like that before.’
‘It’s just one of the things that keep me up at night.’ I laugh, trying to lighten the mood.
‘Would you like to get coffee?’ he asks.
It occurs to me that maybe Pascale isn’t as intimidating as he pretends to be. Times like these, it’s almost as if he’s unsure of himself, or maybe it’s more that he doesn’t know how I’ll react to his invitation since we haven’t exactly been friendly with each other.
‘Sure. We can take a walk past the Stravinsky fountain too if you like?’
The Stravinsky fountain is a masterpiece featuring sixteen colourful sculptures that move and spray water. There’s a surrealist ornamental air to it. It’s close to the Centre Pompidou, an architectural phenomenon known as the inside-out building. Paris really has something for every taste.
‘Oui.’
We head to the fountain, Pascale with his hands deep in his pockets, me trying to keep up with his long-legged pace. ‘Are we in a rush?’ I walk Parisian fast, but Pascale goes at Olympic walk speed.
‘Sorry, I’m used to walking alone.’
‘No love interests for you then?’ I want to slap my own forehead. Where did that come from?
He gives me the side eye as if he’s also surprised I went there. ‘Why? Do I seem so unlovable?’
I make a face. ‘Erm…’
He lets out a bark of laughter. ‘It’s OK, you don’t have to answer that.’
‘Are you sure? Because I can if you want?’
‘No, thank you. I’ve learned quite enough about how I’m lacking today.’
‘Touché.’ There’s a current between us at times. He stares at me like he’s about to impart a secret or wants to know mine. It’s unusual and it sends a jolt through me.
We lapse into a companionable silence. I’m not sure what it is, but opening up to Pascale and him being truly interested in what I had to say has slightly changed my view on him. Slightly. Perhaps his gruffness is a defence mechanism? Could it be that he’s not as confident as I pegged him for?
When we come to the fountain, I offer to buy coffee. He checks his watch and says, ‘Sorry, Lilou, I just remembered an appointment I’ve got to keep. Let’s do this another time?’
And there goes whatever progress I sensed we’d made. The old ‘I forgot an appointment’ charade. Really, does he think I’m that dense? ‘It’s fine.’ I give him a blustery wave as if I’m too caught up with the stunning kaleidoscope of colour of the sculptures in the Stravinsky fountain.
‘No, I mean it. I really am very…’ He makes a show of lifting his watch again, as if he’s got somewhere to be.
‘It’s fine. I’m going to grab a coffee. Au revoir.’ I spin on my heel and join the queue for a nearby coffee kiosk, glad to be away from his unnerving gaze so he doesn’t see the hurt in my eyes. Really, how ridiculous am I? Suffering a slightly bruised ego because my work nemesis gave me the brush off. Why then was he the one to suggest a coffee only to change his mind? I suppose it fits with his fickle nature and I remind myself to be on guard around him. While there’s something intriguing about him, he’s just a walking red flag. Alpha males are off the list no matter how convincing they can be. Why does my brain compute that but not my subconscious?