Chapter 23
23
After closing up for a few days, I take my usual route wandering through Montmartre, coming to Rue de l’Abreuvoir, one of the most picturesque streets in Paris. It’s home of the pretty pink restaurant La Masion Rose. Along the curve of the cobblestoned street, ivy cascades down walled fences, giving the space an almost fairytale feel. It’s one of the most photographed places in Paris and it’s easy to see why.
I continue down to Place Dalida, the square that holds Buste Dalida; a bronze bust of the famous French–Egyptian singer sits under the shade of a leafy tree. It’s believed if you rub the bust and make a wish, it will come true. It’s evident many visitors have made wishes as Dalida’s chest area is golden from these touches. I’ve never made a wish on Dalida before, although I’ve visited her many times. I take a quick look around before I touch the statue, close my eyes and make a wish: Help me find true love and let go of the past. There’s no guidebook for love. No easy way to trust in the process. A string of failed relationships dented my confidence in men. How can I successfully match for Paris Cupid but not for myself? I step back from Dalida’s bust, hoping she’ll grant my wish. As I turn, I hear a familiar voice call my name. Colour races up my cheeks. Did he see me touching the bust of Dalida? How will I explain that away? Everyone in Montmartre knows this is a wishing spot usually associated with love.
Benoit jogs down the cobblestones, bag in his hand. By the time he gets to me, his cheeks are flushed and he’s out of breath. ‘Geneviève told me you walk this way home, but I wasn’t sure if I’d catch you in time.’
‘Is everything OK?’ I ask.
His face is pinched with worry. ‘Guillaume needs to speak with you.’
‘But he didn’t call…’ I slap my forehead. ‘I must have left my phone at Ephemera.’
‘You did but Geneviève had the spare keys to your stall and gave me your phone.’ He reaches in his satchel and pulls out my mobile. ‘Guillaume called a number of times so I answered it for you.’
‘Merci. What did Guillaume want?’ I ask.
Benoit takes deep inhalation as if he’s still trying to catch his breath from running to find me. ‘He was quite frantic, something about finding a cat who’s been hurt in a presumed cat fight. He’s at the vet right now.’
‘Merde! Minou? Is he all right?’ My heart plummets at the thought of him being seriously hurt and missing for all this time.
‘As far as I know the cat is being tended to. Guillaume is waiting for your call.’
Where did he find our little friend? I pull up his number and dial. It rings and rings, my heart rate increasing each time as I imagine the worst about the tabby cat. When he finally accepts the call, I blurt, ‘Guillaume, it’s Lilou. How is he?’
There’s a shuffling sound as if he’s looking for somewhere private to speak. ‘Lilou, how are you without your phone again? I’m going to buy some super glue and have it bonded to your hand!’
While his voice is gruff, there’s a slight wobble to it. ‘Guillaume, I know, I know. How is Minou? Is he going to be OK?’
‘A little worse for wear but he will survive. I found him by the cemetery gates in a heap and I tell you, Lilou, my heart almost broke until I saw him move. I’ve never run so fast in all my life to get a taxi and get him help. After assessing him, the vet is of the opinion that there’s been some sort of cat fight for dominance. He’s suffered a fair bit, lost a couple of claws, has some deep scratches, is dehydrated and malnourished. The vet has put him on a drip and has tended to the wounds. There’s a range of medication that needs to be administered twice a day, but the thing is, Lilou, I’m off to Roeun tomorrow on a buying trip, so I won’t be able to give him the medicine.’
I exhale all the angst, all the worry, and focus on the fact that Minou’s going to get better. ‘Right, right. I understand. But Guillaume, if there’s some sort of fight for king of the jungle, won’t it happen again once Minou is better? What does the vet say about that?’
He lets out a frustrated sigh. ‘Oui, the vet says for his safety it’s best if he finds a permanent home. I’d take him, but I’m often away for work. What can we do, Lilou? I really don’t think it’s safe for Minou to return to the cemetery, and right now he’s going to need a lot of love and attention while he heals.’
There’s no question in my mind. ‘I’ll take him. He can live with me. Unless… you’d like to share him? We can be co-parents.’
He coughs as if clearing his throat, then his voice comes back thick. ‘I’d love that, Lilou. I really would. I only hope that Minou is amenable to the idea.’
I laugh. ‘Why wouldn’t he be? Fresh fish every day and two people who adore him. He can recuperate and I can administer the medication and he’ll have plenty of time to rest.’
‘The vet believes Minou once had a home because he’s been neutered and knows how to use a litter tray.’
‘Wow. He must have escaped or got lost at some point?’
‘Yes, but he doesn’t have a chip implanted so there’s no chance of finding former owners.’
‘That’s OK, he has us now.’
How hard can being a cat parent be? It’s not like being a dog owner with all those daily walks. This should be a breeze, especially if the both of us are sharing the care.
Guillaume sniffles down the line. Maybe it’ll be good for all of us, not just Minou. ‘You’re right. He’ll live in the lap of luxury for the rest of his life.’
‘Where are you? Shall I come and meet you there? How long will he need to stay at the vet?’
‘I’m at the clinique vétérinaire on Rue Pierre Picard. They have Minou under observation for another couple of hours to rehydrate and then he’ll be discharged. There’s no point coming now as they’ve got Minou sedated. Meet here at eight p.m. and you can take him home tonight. Our custody arrangement can commence when I return in a couple of weeks?’
I smile at the thought of us sharing the regal minx. ‘Perfect.’
‘I’ll get him a cat bed and food so you can go straight home with him this evening.’
‘Wonderful. And I suppose we’ll need to formally adopt him?’
‘Oui. I’ll handle that here.’
We chat for a while about precisely what a cat might need and make a plan to split the costs involved. We say our goodbyes and I pocket my phone and apologise to Benoit for keeping him waiting.
I fill him in on the situation, figuring he only heard one side of the conversation, and am surprised to find my eyes fill with tears when I tell Benoit about Guillaume finding Minou hurt by the cemetery gates.
Benoit gives my arm a rub. ‘It’s awful to think of an animal being hurt, but he must be a clever cat to have made his way to the cemetery gates so he could be found.’
‘Oui, and luckily found by Guillaume. I can’t wait to see Minou, but I can’t pick him up until eight this evening.’
‘Then we must have an early dinner. Have you been to La Moulin de le Galette before?’
I find Benoit quietly beautiful, a gentle soul. He radiates a certain calm that’s helpful when I’m feeling so worried about Minou. ‘I haven’t but I’d like to.’ Once upon a time, Montmartre was an agricultural area, with many working windmills. Very few remain, and one of those has become the fa?ade for La Moulin de la Galette. Many tourists go in search of the so-called lost windmills of Montmartre having seen them in famous paintings by the likes of Van Gogh and Renoir.
The word ‘Moulin’ means ‘mill’. Most visitors associate that with La Moulin Rouge, the iconic red windmill on the Boulevard de Clichy, home to the famous cabaret show in the red-light district of Pigalle.
‘Then it’s a date.’ His smile fades. ‘Uh, I mean, it’s a…’
I laugh, enjoying the way he blushes and stumbles when he’s nervous. ‘It’s OK. I know what you mean.’ We walk side by side, making our way to the restaurant that’s well known for its epicurean delights. We pass through the famous Place de Tertre, the artists’ square, where painters and portrait artists are doing a bustling trade. You can commission an artist to draw a likeness or buy their paintings, and it’s always awash with tourists who peruse the art or sit in a café sipping wine and admiring the artists as they paint or sketch.
‘I take it you don’t have any other pets?’ Benoit asks as we navigate our way around the busy square.
‘Is it that obvious?’ I grin.
‘Hah. Just that you asked Guillaume what time to put the cat to bed.’
‘Right. And now I know Minou will decide his own bedtime.’
Benoit laughs. ‘You could always try and keep a schedule.’
‘Minou might like knowing what his days will consist of,’ I joke. I’m going to be responsible for another living creature when I misplace my phone all the time.
‘I’m sure he’ll love living with you.’
‘Minou is my favourite, even though he keeps his distance and is haughty and distrusting. That probably stems from once being domesticated and then having to survive in the wild. Sometimes the cemetery cats are adopted but I’ve never really agreed with the idea, mostly because they seem so happy there, lazing on the tombstones, soaking up the sun, and who are we to judge which option is better? But with his safety in doubt, the choice is much easier.’
Benoit grabs my elbow to steer me out of the way of a man holding a glass of wine aloft, oblivious to splashing from the sides of the glass as he gesticulates wildly. ‘He might prefer the safety of a steady home. I take it from your British-accented French that you haven’t always lived in Paris?’
‘Oui. My dad is British and Maman French, so I spent my formative years going back and forth because they could never agree where to put down roots. I attended university in England and then I moved back to Paris for good. Last year my parents moved back to London because my dad was missing his family. I know it won’t be long and they’ll come back because Maman will insist.’
‘You preferred Paris?’ When we’re out of the thick crowds of the square, he slows his pace.
‘I love both countries, but Paris has my heart. And now I’ll have cat responsibilities to keep me occupied. What about you, have you got any pets? Any words of wisdom for me?’
He takes my elbow to steer me around a corner. I’m surprised to find my arm tingles at his touch. ‘I have a rather large dog, Hugo, who I inherited from my wayward brother. Like you, I never intended to be a pet owner, but one look into those puppy dog eyes and the choice was made for me. And, as for tips, it’s always an adjustment and you just have to roll with the fact they’re now in charge.’
I laugh at the idea an elderly grumpy cat will try and take charge. Somehow I can’t quite see that being the case. ‘You have a wayward brother? Why did he give Hugo to you?’
Benoit looks up to the sky as he lets out a long sigh. ‘My brother has always been a handful. He makes these spontaneous decisions and then abruptly changes course. He adopted Hugo and in the next breath announced he’d decided to take a year off to backpack around the world.’ He shakes his head at the memory. ‘Oh, and could I loan him some money for the trip because it was a now or never thing, and also could I care for Hugo because he didn’t want him to go to just anyone?’
I laugh. ‘And did you loan him the money?’
‘Oui. But my brother doesn’t understand that loaning means you make repayments. I’ll never see that money again.’
‘You sound really close, despite your misgivings.’
He nods. ‘He gets away with bloody murder but we love him so. He was sick for a long time, and we thought we’d lose him. That sort of scare really changes your perspective on life. How could I say no to this crazy new plan when a few years ago we didn’t think he’d make it this far? So, of course, he uses that to his advantage.’
‘I’m so glad he made it through.’ Benoit is one of the good ones. A man with a big heart.
‘Merci. We were lucky. And so now I have his ginormous dog who eats more than I do and insists on being walked three times a day. If I don’t take him out, he whimpers and wails at the window, driving my neighbours crazy. Really, he’s just as needy and conniving as my little brother.’
‘How will you feel when it’s time to give him back?’
Benoit gives me a wide smile. ‘We might have to become co-parents too. But most likely my brother will secede custody and that will be that. I’ll have to make sure he doesn’t spontaneously buy a horse or a pony or something equally outlandish.’
‘Next minute you’ll be living on a farm with a menagerie of animals your brother has adopted.’
‘While he travels the world and calls me when he needs more spending money.’
We both laugh at his sibling’s antics. ‘You’re a good brother.’
We arrive at the restaurant and I take a snap of the windmill before we go inside. Benoit takes my hand as we’re directed by the ma?tre d’ to our table. It feels totally natural, as if we’ve clasped hands so many times before. Like Felix, I feel so comfortable in Benoit’s company. Could he be my secret admirer? Those beautiful calligraphy letters certainly point to him. Could he be behind all the mysterious deliveries? I reserve judgement and see how the evening pans out.
Once our orders are taken and wine poured, I take a slice of baguette and add lashings of salty house-made butter. ‘Have you heard much about this Paris Cupid scandal?’ Benoit asks out of the blue, just as I bite into the bread. It lodges in my throat at an odd angle and I do my best not to die. Death by bread, that would be just my luck. I take an unladylike gulp of wine to help wash it down.
‘Sorry, what?’ I finally manage.
He blushes as if embarrassed to have to explain such a thing. ‘Oh, it’s nothing really. I just caught the tail end of some gossip in the market this afternoon as I was tidying up before I closed. There’s a Parisian matchmaking site that’s got everyone talking. They’re trying to uncover who is behind it. It’s all hush-hush apparently, leading to a lot of conjecture.’
‘Oh, yes, I have heard some whispers about that. I tend to avoid all that gossip. It gets so exaggerated, you never quite know what to believe. Why – are you thinking of joining?’
His blush increases. ‘Non, non. That’s not my style at all.’
‘So you wouldn’t write love letters in an effort to romance a woman?’
The poor man could not blush any harder, but our conversation pauses when the waiter returns with our entrées: two steaming bowls of bouillabaisse – fresh fish and seafood soup with a spicy undertone. Benoit is saved by the soup as he picks up his spoon and dives in… Is he just hungry or is he avoiding the question? Did the question of love letters make him react that way? Suddenly Benoit seems the most likely to have placed the prayer book in Ephemera. Or am I totally off track? He’s gorgeous and wise and ticks all the boxes, but is there a spark there?