Chapter 18
18
It’s a blindingly sunny Wednesday when I take the funicular de Montmartre and disembark at the Sacre-Coeur Plateau. Right next to the Basilica is the famous Sinking House of Montmartre. It’s an optical illusion, helped by the position of an opportune grassy knoll so that when the camera is tilted just right it gives the appearance that the great big orange house is sliding into the earth. Well-informed tourists converge in the outdoor space to tilt their cameras to capture the shot, but I come here for the fresh air and the remarkable view over Paris. Most Parisians enjoy the parks and gardens around the city. While there are plenty of exceptions to the rule, most apartments are somewhat compact, so we live outside as much as possible when the weather is fine. As we’re coming to the end of August, I want to soak up as many summer days as possible.
I spread out a picnic blanket on the lush green grass and sit, taking in the view from the high vantage point. I’ve lived in Paris for a big chunk of my life but there’s still so much to explore. Today the outdoor area isn’t too busy but come sunset that will change. It’s a great spot to watch the blue sky change colour as the sun sinks over the sprawling city below.
Now, however, work beckons. I open my laptop, tether it to my phone for internet connection, and commit a solid hour doing Ephemera bookwork, reconciling accounts and answering customer emails and social media queries.
Once I’ve caught up, I log on to Paris Cupid to work through previously uploaded applications. I scroll through the emails and so many hopefuls who’ve sent their unlucky-in-love stories that really tug at the heart strings. There’s a couple of people who don’t want to join but are emailing to say after hearing about Paris Cupid, they’ve been writing love letters to their husbands or wives and it’s given their relationship a boost. I feel a pang of regret as I come to many an email pleading for a chance to get matched even though applications are closed.
How can I steal the chance of real abiding love away from lonely hearts such as these?
Emmanuel Roux might have made my life ten times more difficult by shouting Paris Cupid’s praises, resulting in me having to weed out the genuine from the not, but surely I can figure out a way to manage it. But how? I don’t want to rush choosing matches. I want them to work, and when they don’t, I want time to find them another match.
I feel a renewed sense of purpose this morning because, according to Geneviève, chatter in the online groups has quieted down. Have they become bored of the hunt? I hope so. I hope I can continue doing what I love without worrying about my identity being exposed.
I open one with the subject line: Paris Cupid: Aide Moi!
I’ve been completely obliterated by love. Destroyed. Demolished. Yet again, I fell for a pseudo-heart who disappeared with no explanation. Why do I keep choosing the wrong men? Is it me? I resolved to give love one last chance with Paris Cupid only to find the site closed for applications. If you’ll accept one last application, I volunteer! Kiki.
Gah! Kiki is the perfect candidate for Paris Cupid. My fingers hover over the reply button before I stop short. What if Kiki mentions this to others and it creates a furore? Especially if it was shared on one of the online groups. I must be fair to one and all and remember to tread carefully while things are so uncertain.
Which reminds me – I encouraged Coraline to email and plead her case. What was I thinking?
I scroll through looking for an email that could belong to her and find it.
I send this appeal with a tender heart. A friend – actually ‘friend’ is too strong a word. She works in the same vicinity as me, but I digress. This acquaintance reminded me that as a florist, that I used to care about the language of flowers, their hidden meanings, their secret stories. What could be more enticing than learning by bouquet alone what the sender feels for you? A heliotrope is an expression of eternal love. A Carolina rose warns that love is dangerous. A spider flower is an invitation to elope. But it’s so much more than that. You can share your innermost desires with a colourful posy without having to say one single word.
I shake my head at Coraline’s description of me but she’s right, we’re not exactly friends. I get swept away in the evocative language of flowers. I read on:
Exactly two years, one month, and eleven days ago, I lost the love of my life. He vanished and all he left me was a note to say things weren’t working out. He wasn’t the first to do this, but I vowed he’d be the last. But still, it crushed me. Looking back, that’s when the language flowers speak also went silent. Work became a chore, life became bleak. It’s almost like the sun switched off and I slowly shrivelled without that warmth on my face. Without love, what’s the point? I’m missing a key nutrient, and that imbalance is causing bitterness to leech into my soul. I’m wildly envious of customers who visit my flower stall, choosing bouquets for their lover; excitement shines in their eyes, radiates from their smiles. It’s like a gut punch every time. Romance is alive and well in Paris for those in the light, but not for us left in the dark, wilting, drooping, becoming brittle. Is there any hope for me, or is this it?
Matches always write a brief history about their love life and give reasons why relationships haven’t gone the distance. Reading those is one of the hardest parts of the job – I feel their sadness, I relate to it. Usually, they lay the blame at their own feet, their confidence at an all-time low. While Coraline and I might not be the best of friends, my heart still goes out to her. For all her gossiping, I never knew she’d been ghosted in such a callous way and, by the sounds of it, more than once. She’s suffered in silence, turned inward. Don’t we as humans need solace in times such as those? Why do we attach a sense of shame to it? Outwardly pretend everything is fine, when inside we’re crumbling? Everyone deserves love, including Coraline. I might not agree with the way she tattles, but that could very well be a coping mechanism, and who am I to judge?
I’m in a bind. How can I say yes to her and no to the other enquiries?
What to do?
‘Hello, stranger, you use this place as your office too?’
I snap my laptop shut and paste a smile on my face. ‘Bonjour, Felix.’ I shade my face with a hand and gaze up at him, as his red curls blow about in the breeze. ‘Oui, I like the view over Paris.’ Did he see what was on the screen? I survey his features for any sign he did, but he’s just smiling that same impish grin of his.
‘Are you meeting a friend?’ I ask. Felix has a laptop bag in one hand and a picnic basket in the other. He shakes his head. ‘Figured I’d need stamina to get through all my invoicing while I eat my body weight in camembert and then maybe read a book, all under the guise of working outdoors to soak up some vitamin D.’
‘Late night?’ I ask as he unsuccessfully stifles a yawn.
‘Always. Actually, I went on a literary treasure hunt! One which resulted in finding a hidden speakeasy in the 10th. We then had to solve a riddle to gain admission.’
‘Wow, that sounds incredible. What did the treasure hunt itself involve?’
He points to my blanket.
‘Sorry, yes, sit, sit.’
Felix takes a corner of the blanket. ‘We started at the bookshop Shakespeare and Co.’
Shakespeare and Co is the most famous English language bookshop in all of Paris. An eccentric by the name of George Whitman opened the shop in 1951 and invited all sorts of literary enthusiasts into the fray. He was well known for inviting aspiring writers to work and live in the bookshop. They’d sleep in beds crammed between shelves. These guests were called Tumbleweeds and could stay as long as they liked on the condition that they’d help customers, read a book a day and write a short biography to be filed away with all those who came before. A beat generation, bohemian enclave where all were welcomed as long as they pitched in and loved the written word. The disorderly charm is still evident inside, with double-stacked books and hidden nooks and crannies. Even now you might pull out a book that’s been signed by a literary great, hidden in the stacks for all those years.
‘We had to find a clue inside, one word that would lead to the next literary venue and the next clue. Harder than first thought, when a bookshop is full of words.’
‘Sounds like so much fun! Where did you find the word?’
‘One of the floors has the tiniest alcove with a desk and a typewriter that had a piece of paper in the reel with only one word: Procope. I only found it because I can’t see a typewriter just sitting there and not have a go on the keys. As I squished into the small space, I came face to face with it. That word led us to the next place, Café Procope, a café rumoured to be the oldest in Paris, that famous writers such as Voltaire frequented. There we found his desk on display and another word. We trekked to the apartment F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald first lived in near the Arc di Triomphe, and on it went. Let’s just say, I have a new respect for all the plaques around Paris. I’ve never paid any attention to them before.’
Paris is a joy to discover on foot. There are many plaques that show where literary greats, artists and the like lived and worked. From what I’ve gathered about Felix, there’s always a new adventure on the horizon. Today is the first time I’ve seen him suffer any aftereffects in the way of fatigue. Usually, his energy is off the charts, so it’s nice to know he is human.
‘Sounds incredible. So what was the final riddle?’
He arches a brow. ‘Why? Do you want to go?’
‘Ha!’
‘My spine is stiff, my body pale, I’m always ready to tell a tale. What am I?’
‘Ah!’ I hold up a finger. ‘That’s too easy. A book!’
Felix leans back on one arm and grins. ‘Yes! I guess they were eager to sell the literary cocktails and didn’t want guests to fail at the last hurdle. Be warned though, if you do go, they change the riddle every night.’
When was the last time I went out like that? I shudder when I recall attending a night at the Palais Garnier with Mr Married. We’d spent a wonderful night at the opera having a late dinner at Panasia, a fusion restaurant, before walking around the 9th arrondissement stopping every few paces to kiss under the moonlight. Mr Married did things like open doors for me, pull out my chair in bistros, that sort of old school chivalry that I’d thought was dead. After the opera, he stayed at my apartment – I never wanted the night to end. I’d been so swept up in our burgeoning love that my mind drifted to wedding dress styles and venues because I’d been convinced he was the one. The love bubble burst early the next morning when his wife confronted me.
I’m lost in thought when Felix taps my knee. ‘Earth to Lilou.’
‘Sorry, I was a million miles away.’ Down the same old rabbit hole of what was not to be. It occurs to me that all of us singletons are facing the same battle, albeit emerging with different battle scars. Why haven’t I gone out? Why have I holed up in my tiny box of an apartment and found love for others and not myself? A therapist would have a field day with my predicament. Really, what sort of hypocrite doesn’t attempt to find love herself? Sure, I dream about it, but I don’t ever actively pursue it for myself.
While Felix fiddles with his laptop, I surreptitiously observe him. Did he send the Cupid card, or is that wishful thinking? If so, is there a spark between us? He’s so lovely and flirty and makes me feel adored, but is that just his energetic persona?
‘Now…’ He catches me staring at him, so I pretend to be gazing just past his shoulder at the sinking house. ‘The big question remains. Do we work or do we feast?’ He opens up the picnic basket, displaying a range of mouth-watering temptations. Brie truffé. Terrine de Lapin. Rillettes. Served alongside juicy herbaceous olives and a fresh crusty baguette.
‘Do you even need to ask?’ I joke.
‘If I’d known you’d be here I would have included a bottle of wine.’
I laugh. ‘It’s your lucky day, Felix.’
‘It sure is.’ He grins, coy smile at the ready.
From my tote, I take an insulated bottle bag. ‘Don’t judge me, but some workdays are better with a bottle of rosé. But I only have one glass.’
He holds up a finger. ‘I have glasses in the picnic basket.’
A man who is always prepared. I wouldn’t have pegged Felix for the organised type. We spend the afternoon chatting while intermittently working, but mostly our screensavers bounce around as we get to know each other better. Felix is an open book, and steadier than I’d first thought. When we’re silent, I return to pondering about the similarities between Coraline and myself. It’s never really hit me before that by shunning love I’m allowing Mr Married to have won. But what’s the remedy? Failure to launch is usually a young person’s issue, but that’s what it feels like in my situation. Would a night out with a flirty friend be just the tonic, or am I setting myself up to fail? Before I can overthink it to its inevitable death, I blurt out, ‘I’ve always wanted to go to Musee des Arts Forains.’
It’s a museum full of vintage carnival rides and other antiquities, including the personal collection of Jean-Peal Favand who was an actor who traded in antiquities, just like we do. ‘You can even ride on the Manege velocippedique, an historic bicycle carousel that will only move if we cycle hard enough.’
‘That sounds just like my level of quirky. I’d love to go. Tonight? Dinner first?’
‘Tonight. Dinner would be lovely.’
We make arrangements to meet later that evening.
There are some big decisions that have to be made for Paris Cupid, so reluctantly I say my goodbyes to Felix and head back to my apartment to work in private.