A subject change is in order or else I’ll be stuck on a mouse wheel worrying about Emmanuel Roux all day. ‘If you were to choose, where would your first dream date be?’ Marmalade spots her best friend Minou and springs off Guillaume’s lap to play. They impishly swat at each other before somersaulting onto the grass in a messy heap, tumbling and turning likeacrobats. Eventually they give up and stare into each other’s eyes. Even the Parisian cats are in love!
‘A simple bistro dinner. It mustn’t be too noisy. The youth of today treat these outings as if they’re performing for a crowd. Like they’re on display. Taking photos of their food, those blinding flashes, those silly pouts they do. It’s just bad manners, is what it is.’
I hide a smile. ‘You should mention that when you join.’ When it’s time, I’ll suggest La Maison Rose, an iconic bistro in Montmartre known for its pink walls. A famous haunt back in the day for the likes of author and philosopher Albert Camus and singer Dalida. Guillaume won’t care a jot about that, but the seasonal food is well regarded and it’s a charming, quiet spot to dine. The pretty pink façade is a popular tourist spot to take pictures, but rarely do they venture inside, so it should fit his criteria.
‘Fine. If you insist, I’ll join later today.’
‘Magnifique.’
‘I’m only agreeing to this so I can prove to you that I’m far too old for love.’ He can lie to himself all he wants if that’s how this is to unfold – gently like a flower blooming in the midday sun.
As we say our goodbyes and head out of the cemetery, Minoustares regally from his high perch, sunbaking on a tomb while Marmalade sleeps curled up beside him.
Later that evening, I log into Paris Cupid, curious to see if Guillaume has joined. I reel when I see membership applications have exploded. The Emmanuel Roux effect! I scroll through the many hopefuls, searching for Guillaume, and eventually find his application. He writes a heartfelt passage about his belovedMathilde, how the world has lost all colour since she’s been gone. It brings a tear to my eye, knowing my faux-gruff friend has been so lonely. I accept his application and tell him I’ll be in touch with his match in the fullness of time. It can’t be seen as too quick, or he’ll doubt the process. I call Émilienne but her phone goes straight to voicemail. It’s not unusual for her to have periods of quiet; if she goes on a retreat or is on a health kick, she often disconnects from technology for a while, but I find it strange it’s happening now when all this has blown up. Perhaps the media have already found her so she’s in incognito mode.
I send her a text:
When can we catch up so I can hear all about your Paris Cupid match? I’d love to know more about it myself! Liloux
Next, as Paris Cupid, I pen an email to Remy, AKA Emmanuel Roux, and ask him to kindly refer to his membership agreement which has a whole paragraph about being honest during the application process, which he clearly was not. I ask him to email me to discuss these rules once he’s refreshed his memory. I remind him that Paris Cupid is a small matchmaking platform meant for genuine people who feel they’re unlucky in love or wanting to up their romance game. It was never meant to become part of a media circus, which the small team cannot cope with.Small team. There’s just me and my alfalfa plant and, between us, it’s really not pulling its weight. I hit send.
7
On Friday morning, I lock up my apartment on Rue Tourlaque and head on foot to Saint Ouen Flea Market, ready for a bustling three days of trading. It’s a thirty-minute walk, long enough to blow out the cobwebs after a long night of reading Paris Cupid applications. Still no reply from Emmanuel, but the influx of membership applications seems never ending because the man won’t stop shouting Paris Cupid’s praises. In any other business this would be a marketer’s dream but it’s the antithesis of what I want. Émilienne hasn’t responded to the text I sent a few days ago. Perhaps she’s in a love bubble and the rest of the world has faded to black, but I’d really like to find out how she feels about dating the Playboy of Paris.
I stop to buy some blooms from Coraline, the florist, outside the market. Every July she has the most amazing selection of summery flowers.
While I’m taking a great big sniff of a bouquet of wild roses, Coraline says, ‘Did you hear about Emmanuel Roux?’
My heart sinks. If Coraline has heard, that means every second resident of Paris has too. ‘Ah…?’
‘You do know who he is, don’t you?’ Her eyes narrow as if not knowing who he is would be a sin. ‘A singer?’ It’s best if I play coy with Coraline; she’s a wily one. She lets out a frustrated sigh at my apparent lack of celebrity knowledge. ‘Mon Dieu, Lilou! He’s only France’s version of a Hollywood heart throb! Well known for performing his roles wearing very little, claiming that clothing is a construct and one he doesn’t subscribe to?’ She makes a show of scoffing and harrumphing to the point I’m about to ask her if something is stuck in her throat when she says, ‘You don’tknowhim?’
I cock my head, as if I’m trying hard to conjure this anti-clothes-wearing actor.
She rolls on the balls of her feet, jittery and hyper. ‘The silver fox with the steely eyes?’
‘Oh – uh, that sounds vaguely familiar.’
She waggles her thin Edith Piaf-style brows. ‘He used some silly little site to find love!Incroyable!Now he’s off the market for good, engaged, or so he says. But we all know what he’s like.’
I frown. Silly little site?
She continues. ‘It’s more likely a publicity stunt…’Agreed!‘…Now we’re all trying to work out who the mystery fiancée is. But if she’s not “in showbiz” how will we ever find out?’
Just how far will they go to find Émilienne? Lovely Em, who is not a fan of the spotlight and really only wanted to find a genuine guy who wouldn’t try and change her. She will not appreciate being found, not like this. ‘Best to leave them to it, is my advice.’ If I didn’t know better, I’d say this so-called scandal has given Coraline a strange energy boost.
With her tongue in her cheek, she gives an exaggerated shake of the head before saying, ‘Impossible, not when it’s news as tantalising as this.’
‘Is it though?’
Coraline gives me a gleeful nod. ‘It’s downright scandalous!’
While my mind is in a furious battle figuring out some kind of damage control, I continue picking up bouquets, as if I’m having trouble choosing. I settle on a bunch of soft pink peonies and hand over some euros, doing my best to pretend this is any other day, but eventually curiosity gets the better of me and I ask, ‘How is finding love scandalous?’
She makes a great show of rolling her eyes as if I’m too simple to understand such matters. ‘Because it can’t be real! He’s probably being sponsored by Paris Cupid. That’s the only scenario that makes sense to me.’
‘Then why are you ruminating about who his fiancée is if you think it’s simply a sponsorship deal and not actually real?’
