Chapter 21
21
The market is hectic the following Friday as shoppers are out and about enjoying the start of autumn. There’s an influx of tourists on holidays and the halls are awash with many an accent. Guillaume waves as he delivers my latest purchases, but I’m too busy with a group visiting from Australia to chat to him. The Sydney ladies pepper me with questions about the handwritten diaries, having never seen such a thing on sale before.
‘Where do you get them from?’ a woman named Janet asks.
‘All over! Estate sales, auctions, other flea markets. Friends in the trade keep an eye out for me.’
‘I want to read them all!’ Janet’s friend says. ‘And the love letters. I wish I could read French.’
‘I have some English love letters. My father is British and spends a lot of time attending car boot sales and the like in England hunting for me.’
‘This has to be one of the best jobs going,’ Janet says.
I laugh as I show the women around Ephemera and point out diaries, prayer books and love letters that are written in their native tongue. Tourists like these always brighten my day. Not everyone understands the importance of what I do, so when people like this step inside and are so invested in learning about my more niche antique trade, it’s makes it feel so worthwhile.
‘Letter writing is becoming a lost art form, so it’s my mission to bring that back. Remind people that emails aren’t going to cut it when the time comes to looking to the past.’
Janet shakes her head as if she’s annoyed with herself. ‘It never even crossed my mind, and now I can’t think of anything else. I’m going to start writing letters again. Who knows, it might rekindle that stagnant part of my marriage. I love my husband, of course I do, but after thirty-two years together, there’s a certain complacency there…’
‘I understand. Is he here in Paris?’
The trio of women laugh and Janet says, ‘No, we left the husbands at home.’
‘Why don’t you write to him from Paris?’ I’m off in fairyland, dreaming about Janet writing to her husband, pouring out rich descriptions of our wondrous city, the sounds, the sights, the colour that’s all around. ‘I have some beautiful letter-writing paper. Or…’ I look across at my neighbours. ‘Another option, my neighbour Benoit writes letters in the most beautiful calligraphy.’ I point to his shop. ‘And next to him is Felix, who makes hand-pressed cards on a vintage press. You could get a card from Felix and have Benoit write your message in calligraphy for you – it could be a lasting memento of your visit here.’
Janet’s eyes light up. ‘That would be lovely. Can I also take a look at your letter-writing paper?’
‘Oui.’ I show Janet and her friends the range of thick, lush papers I have. She chooses one with that has an embossed Eiffel Tower in the corner. I’m not surprised; every tourist chooses this one. La tour Eiffel is always fascinating to our overseas guests. The Australians choose some love letters, a diary written by a woman who felt trapped in a marriage of convenience, and pads of letter-writing paper. ‘Would you like me to introduce you to Benoit and Felix?’
‘Sure, and – ooh – what does that guy sell?’ Janet points to Pascale.
Pascowl, more like.
‘How do you get any work done with him around? I’d spend all day staring at him!’
‘Ha! He’s OK I guess, if you’re into the sullen broody kind of guy. He sells vintage typewriters. Or, they sell themselves. He doesn’t seem to put a lot of effort into his sales. He mostly ignores his customers.’
‘Does he type out love letters too?’ Janet is not listening to a word I say. She’s got her gaze locked on Pascale, and there it’s stayed.
‘He doesn’t seem to be the romantic sort. He’s more likely to type break-up letters.’ I might be a little more bitter because of his abrupt departure after the visit to the national archives.
Her eyebrows shoot up. ‘Is that a thing?’
I usher them to the counter to break the spell. ‘I hope not!’ I ring up their purchases and place them in an Ephemera tote.
‘Well, let’s meet the neighbours, eh? My husband’s going to love getting letters in the mail, rather than only electricity bills.’
I smile, knowing I’ve converted one more soul, keeping the lost art of letter-writing alive. Once I’ve introduced Janet and her friends to Felix, I dash back to my stall to unpack my delivery from Guillaume. Sitting atop the unopened box is an unfamiliar prayer book. I frown. Where did it come from? Did Guillaume forget one? Again? He has been rather distracted lately. I open the box and check the stock against his invoice, but it’s not there and I haven’t seen this one before in his photocopies. I take a picture and text him. His reply is instant:
Not one of mine. Should I be worried about how forgetful you’re becoming?
How forgetful I’m becoming? He really is the limit. I shake my head as I gently prise the prayer book open. It’s a simple sort, leather bound, yellowed paper. My favourite kind. On each page, a French word has been underlined. Only one word per page. Why? Keeper. Of. My. Heart. It’s a message written in code. Did two star-crossed lovers swap prayer books to communicate in secret? Will. She. Ever. Understand. The. Weight. Of. My. Feelings. For. Her? Shall. I. Confide. In. Her. Or. Keep. This. Ache. Of. Longing. To. Myself? I want to rush across the hall to show one of them how romantic this is, but Felix is chatting away with Janet, and Janet’s two friends are with Benoit. Pascale is the only one alone, as he sits scowling behind his desk, not paying an iota of attention to his surroundings. I don’t want to show him; he’ll probably make light of it. We haven’t spoken since he left me at the fountain. He hasn’t even complained about me lighting my candles today. I’ll have to show Geneviève.
It’s after lunch and still her shop remains shuttered. Our Paris Cupid work has kept her late at my apartment most nights, and I’m worried it’s affecting her business, even though she insists it isn’t. Like I’ve summoned her from sheer will alone, she strides into the hall, a riot of colour in a fifties-style swing dress with a thick white belt. How does she effortlessly pull off such looks? She gives our neighbours a fluttery wave and blows a kiss to Pascale. Honestly, she has no shame. Not even a little bit.
When she turns to face me, I wave her in. ‘Geneviève, you’re so late!’
‘Oui, oui. I had the most amazing idea!’ Outwardly, Geneviève is well put together, but on close inspection, it appears as though she’s put her make-up on in a rush. Her lipstick is slightly skewed and the sweeps of taupe eyeshadow uneven.
‘Do tell.’
She ushers me further inside and lowers her voice to a whisper. ‘The Coraline predicament. I’ve solved it!’
‘Quoi?’ When I told Geneviève about what had transpired between Coraline and me and the confidences she’d shared about being used and then dumped, she still wasn’t convinced we should allow her to join Paris Cupid, possibly risking our anonymity. Coraline has burned a number of bridges with her penchant for gossiping, so this about-face is interesting.
‘I know, I know, at our first meeting I was of a different opinion. I had a good long think about what you said about everyone deserving love. And what I came up with is that maybe Coraline is a scandalmonger because she’s lacking in other parts of her life. The woman needs sex, no two ways about it!’
‘Geneviève! It’s always sex with you!’
She waves me away as if I’m a bug. ‘Intimacy is everything, Lilou!’
‘Romance is everything.’
‘And intimacy falls under that heading, non?’
‘Fine. So who do you think is right for someone like Coraline?’ While I feel she needs a strong man, she doesn’t necessarily need a take-charge sort because in the past those types have tended to manipulate her. But conversely, she can’t be with a pushover either because she can be a little domineering too.
‘I spent this morning on the Paris Cupid portal, searching for that elusive guy, the type who is sensitive yet strong, supportive but not controlling. A man whose romance game is on point. After all, to woo a florist you need some skills, especially a florist who knows the language of flowers intimately the way Coraline does. From reading her dating history a hundred times, I deduced a pattern!’
I bite down on a smile. Geneviève has become enamoured with figuring out the psyche of matches. ‘And…?’
‘Coraline goes for men who take advantage of her kindness.’ Without discussing any of this together, we are both of the same opinion. ‘For example, she wrote that her last beau, the one who really did a number on her, moved into her apartment after they’d been dating mere weeks! I considered that for a bit, wondering why she’d allow that to happen so quickly. When he didn’t need her any more, he vanished, leaving only a note. The boyfriend before that, she employed at her flower stall even though he didn’t know a thing about floristry. She wrote that he needed a helping hand. And on it went. Coraline tried to save these men from whatever problem they faced and in return they broke her heart. What Coraline needs is a man who is self-sufficient and ambitious and successful in his own right. The type who won’t take advantage of her but won’t be bullied by her either.’
‘Wow, Geneviève, you’re a natural at this!’
‘Right? I’ve missed my calling.’
‘And so humble too!’
She laughs. ‘That’s me, the whole package. But wait… there’s more! I found the man for her. But I want your take on it first.’
‘Ooh who is he?’
Geneviève goes behind my desk and logs into the Paris Cupid portal and brings up a photograph of a man. Gone are the days I kept the two worlds separate. I double check no one is watching us before I scoot closer to the screen. ‘Is that Pierre, the bookseller from the Seine?’
‘Oui! His application came in late last night. Can you believe it?’
I double blink. ‘I’m not surprised actually. He’s a word nerd so finding love this way would suit him. But he hates gossiping with a passion, Geneviève.’ I don’t even know much about his private life; we only ever touch on it and move on to the business of books and letters.
‘Exactement!’
‘Well… isn’t that going to be an issue for them? Coraline might draw a line between work and play, but at her core, she does love telling tales.’
‘Because she’s lonely! Sad people do silly things because their mood drives those behaviours. I’d bet that Coraline in love is a whole other person.’
I consider it. Coraline certainly used to be a sunnier sort until a broken heart robbed her of that, its dark cloud hovering in her wake. For a long time, her stall was popular with Parisians because of her personal touch, educating customers about the language of flowers with such passion and fervour you couldn’t help but be swept away by the notion of it. I’m still not convinced Pierre is the one for her though. ‘This match… it’s so left field.’ I’m not sure Pierre would have the patience if Coraline’s true colours were on full display. And that doesn’t mean she needs to change; if that’s her default setting, then that’s up to her, but are they a good match?
‘Opposites attract! Trust me, I’ve read a million romance novels with this very coupling.’
From that viewpoint, it does make more sense. Maybe Coraline’s forthrightness will suit Pierre’s more reflective nature? They both enjoy the art of storytelling, Coraline with flowers, Pierre with books. He’s also definitely not the type to take advantage of a woman. He’s softly spoken with just the right amount of French flair and has a stubborn side that I’ve witnessed when customers try to bully him over the price of his books.
‘Actually, Geneviève, the more I consider it, the more I do see the appeal of such a match. Love might just bloom if they form a connection through letter writing, and then eventually decide to meet in person.’ That’s the part we can never really gauge. On paper they might be a wonderful match, but in person, if the chemistry isn’t there, there’s nothing we can do about that. It’s just one of those things.
‘Shall I send them the details then?’
‘Oui. I’ll visit Pierre next week and see if he mentions it.’ He’s notoriously private so I don’t like my chances. I’ve got a lot more chance hearing from Coraline, but I’ll have to be careful and let her lead any talk of Paris Cupid. I’d also like to find out more about the letter found in the Madame Bovary book.
‘OK, I’ll do that later. What’s that book you’re holding tight against your chest?’
I glance down. ‘Oh, another mysterious arrival that turned up. But have a look.’ I flick through and point out the underlined words.
Geneviève’s eyes widen. ‘A love letter in code! These must be meant for you, Lilou. You can’t keep explaining them away.’
‘I would love to believe that, Geneviève, I really would, but this was in a delivery from Guillaume and it’s more likely he’s making mistakes because he’s distracted by you know who.’
‘But they haven’t all come from Guillaume’s deliveries.’
‘Right, and he’s a stickler for organisation, so if he can make the occasional lapse then so can other suppliers.’
‘Lilou, I think it’s someone from the market. They could easily pop in one of these treasures when a box is delivered by your door or dropped to a neighbour.’
‘Maybe…’
‘I wonder if it’s Felix? That Cupid card. This is just his kind of quirky. He’s the type that would do something like this, don’t you think?’
It is sort of reminiscent of his literary treasure hunt. It would be just like Felix to go out of his way to romance a woman.
‘I’m not sure, Geneviève. When we’re together I feel like a different version of myself. More spontaneous, more willing to try new things, but it’s more like a friendship than a real flirtation. I adore him, but like you pointed out, there were no fireworks. I don’t feel a spark…’ Our museum meet up had been a blast but didn’t feel romantic in the slightest.
Geneviève considers it for a moment and then says, ‘I’ve changed my mind about him after seeing this. Maybe deep down he’s shy and this is his way of wooing you. You need to take your own Paris Cupid advice and give someone a chance. Let things develop over time.’
There’s a mutual respect there with Felix but is it enough? Shouldn’t it be more than that and more obvious? But Geneviève is right; I advise others to let that spark build and here I am wanting the thunderbolt. The weak knees. The arrow to the heart that shows me he’s the one I’ve been waiting for. The one I’m ready to risk my heart with. Is it Felix?
I head downstairs to grab lunch, a sandwich to eat at my stall because the market is so busy today. I order at the counter and, while I wait, I scroll on my phone when a Facebook friend suggestion for Pascale pops up. Intrigued, I click on his profile and am surprised to find it unlocked. And that he has friends – lots of them. Maybe outside of work, he’s the life of the party? I click on his photos. There are a lot of arty travel pictures taken around France. There are many featuring bookshops with disorderly piles on double-stacked shelves. I suppose if he’s writing a book, then it makes sense he enjoys reading them. Maybe he is the type to spend a lazy day in bed reading? A picture forms of him in my mind, shirtless, a sheet wrapped around his large frame, novel in hand. It’s appealing for some strange reason. I’m lost in thought as I flick through his albums and almost die, literally die, when a voice says, ‘Find anything interesting?’
Pascale smirks at me. I hastily pocket my phone, but it’s clearly too late; he’s caught me looking through his profile.
‘Nothing. I’m not sure why the algorithm suggests certain people and not others. It’s a mystery!’ I let out a gurgle of laughter that sounds forced even to me.
‘Is that so?’
‘Uh-huh.’ My face is aflame and I feel a little unsteady on my feet. He’s surely going to think I’m secretly obsessed with him or something.
‘Oh look, here’s my order.’
I hurry away. When I get back to Ephemera, I do my best to hide behind my desk. A few minutes later, my phone pings with a notification. A friend request from Pascale. I click accept, unsure how else to play it. As soon as I do there’s a message from him that reads:
You can stalk my profile much easier this way.
Mon dieu! It makes total sense that he would react in such a way. He probably thinks every woman on planet earth is in love with him!