Chapter 30
30
My head pounds as the interminable day continues. The gossip around the market is on overdrive and I’m sick to death of hearing about Paris Cupid rumours. Many a time I almost screamed the truth from the top of the stairs but stopped myself from being hasty. What if the reporter was all bluster? Although, deep down, I guess investigative reporters have ways and means to find out faster than online sleuths.
I’m about to close when Geneviève comes rushing in, brandishing paperwork in her hands. ‘Lilou,’ she whispers. ‘I have the handwriting samples!’
That gets my attention. I guess I have been more invested in finding out who my so-called secret admirer is than I’ve let on.
‘Have you got the other correspondence they sent?’ she asks.
‘Oui, in my desk. Shall I close up? What if one of them walks in?’
Geneviève shakes her head. ‘Non, if they happen along, we can gauge their reaction. Get the letters, Lilou.’
I find the previous deliveries and open my phone to the picture of the delicate parchment with calligraphy from the copy of Madame Bovary that’s framed and by my bedside in my apartment. We study them all one-by-one. My posture stoops. ‘Not a match. Not even close to a match,’ I say.
Geneviève blows out a breath. ‘How can that be?’
‘It’s not one of them, I guess.’ Why then do I feel so deflated? I take a moment to piece it together. Is it because there is a man across the hall who makes my heart beat double time? Though apparently I can’t admit it, even to myself? Why is that? This is proof that making a wish for love on Buste Dalida is another Parisian myth. I’ve always admired Dalida and, even though it seems so childish, I really did hope my wish would be granted. Clearly desperation. Not only am I unlucky and hopeless in love, but my alter ego is about to suffer a mortifying public execution.
‘I’m sorry, Lilou. I was so certain.’
‘It’s OK. It’s probably a practical joke, and there is no secret admirer. That would be just my luck to start falling for the words of a ghost, a fake. I can add that to my repertoire.’
‘Absolutely not! But who else could it be? Another man from the market?’
‘It’s been a long day, Geneviève. I’m going to shut early and head home. Play with the cats before Guillaume comes to collect them. Consider adopting a third one. Maybe a fourth.’
She laughs. ‘Don’t let it get you down, Lilou. We’ll figure it out.’
I’m glum and ready to eat my feelings because I know soon enough the Paris Cupid news is going to break and then my secret admirer will probably run away screaming too. ‘Au revoir, Geneviève.’
I stop past Maison du Croquembouche and buy far too many sweet treats before continuing on foot to home. I head to Place Marcel Aymé, walking by the statue of Le Passe-Muraille, the sculpture of a man who can walk through walls. I love the quirkiness of the street art. He really is situated halfway between the wall, and his hand is golden from all the visitors who have tried to pull him out. Next I stop at Rêves de Champagne to buy a bottle of wine. A few months ago I matched the owner with a woman who works at the Louvre and I’m thrilled to see her hovering by the door to say hello to him as I leave. I recognise her by her bio picture, but in real life she’s even prettier and has love hearts for eyes when she chats to him.
Once home, the cats circle my feet as the cat sitter jumps from the sofa, eager to escape the confines of my tiny apartment. ‘They’ve been good today. Minou is a different cat with Marmalade here. I don’t want to put myself out of a job or anything, but I don’t think I’ll be needed here any more.’ Marmalade’s injuries aren’t as severe as Minou’s, it’s really only that she was dehydrated.
‘That’s great to hear. They are settling in much better now they’re together again.’
Her phone beeps. ‘Sorry, it’s my sister and if I don’t reply she’ll bombard me with messages until I do.’
‘Is everything all right?’ It strikes me I know virtually nothing about the cat sitter, having trusted the pet sitting site because I didn’t have much choice at the time.
‘Oui. She says she’s figured out who this Paris Cupid person is. Honestly, it’s all she ever talks about.’
Seriously! I double blink. ‘Who does she think it is?’
‘All she said is it’s someone who works close to her. A guy.’
A guy? ‘Where does your sister work?’ Have they turned their attention in the complete wrong direction? ‘Saint Ouen Flea Market. She’s a florist.’
Mon Dieu, what are the chances? I’ve only got Coraline’s younger sister pet sitting for me! We’ve never shared personal details. She usually dashes out as soon as I get home, off to do whatever it is teenagers do over the summer holidays. Other times, she leaves an hour or so before I get home because she has another long-term cat-sitting job to get to.
‘A florist. How nice. Did you reply to her?’
‘Oui. She’ll dangle that carrot now and won’t give me any details until I beg her for them. And really, who cares about Paris Cupid? It’s a matchmaking site for old people. Like, really old people. Who’d want to write love letters when you could easily text? It makes zero sense.’
I can only laugh at such a teenager statement. ‘Ah-huh. Texting would be a lot more efficient. So did she have a name for the guy?’ Who have they pinned this on?
‘No she didn’t say. Anyway, here’s your key. If you need me back let me know.’
‘Merci, I will.’ She gives the cats one last cuddle and leaves. ‘Now, where’s that wine?’ I say to my charges before I pour myself a large glass and tell the cats all about my day and the relevant drama in my life. Minou stalks off, as ever not the best listener, but Marmalade stands riveted to the spot as if fascinated by human life.