Coraline reels back as if I’ve slapped her face. ‘Because the fake fiancée is responsible for hearts breaking all over Paris right now! Real or not, we’ve been blindsided.’
Now I’ve heard it all! Poor Em. What have Idone!‘What if his new fiancée is genuinely in love? A witch hunt would be well out of order.’
A frown mars her brow. ‘Who said anything about a witch hunt?’
I cradle the bouquet close to my chest. ‘It’s best you leave well enough alone. Maybe Emmanuel Roux really is in love too. Have you ever thought of that?’ Her mouth opens and closes like a puffer fish before she eventually says, ‘Your peonies will need water, Lilou.’ And she turns her back, dismissing me just like that. I shake my head and walk into the market, hoping Geneviève has arrived so I can debrief and ask her advice. This could well spiral out of control and truly leave broken hearts in its wake, the very opposite of what I’d hoped to achieve for Émilienne and so many others like her. My pulse thrums with worry, so I try my best to breathe through it so I canthink. There must be a solution.
I wave to acquaintances as I make my way to my stall. The flea market is enormous. There are 1700 merchants spread over seven hectares, comprising of fourteen unique market areas. Locals and tourists alike can spend many a day hunting for bric-à-brac.
There are all sorts of eclectic shops here. Tapestry and carpets from Persia, Asia and Europe. Funky watches and vintage jewellery. There are art workshops to learn mediums such as ceramics, leather-working and upholstery. Stalls full of curios andobjets d’art. Records. Pop culture. Recycled fashion. Whatever your heart desires, it is here somewhere. It’s simply a matter of finding it.
In the middle of Marché Dauphine is Futuro House. The bright orange UFO landed here ten years ago and is a popular attraction for visitors. The flying saucer was one of sixty-three designed by Finnish architect Matti Suuronen who originally intended them to be used as holiday homes for skiers, because they were lightweight, easy to transport and small enough to heat quickly. However, things didn’t go according to plan and now they’re spread around the globe in the most unlikely of places. I take great pride in our alien craft, which is used for book launches, conferences and pop-up bar events.
I continue up the stairs. There’s no sign of Geneviève at her antique furniture shop.
While we are all required to open our stalls at regimented times, Geneviève does not conform to such trivialities. Some days her shop remains completely shuttered. She plays by a different set of rules, and I envy her ability to not give a damn and get away with it. ‘Bonjour, Felix!’ I greet the ginger-haired printer who is bent over his work, in full concentration mode. It’s a painstakingly slow process to set a book, or pamphlet, which – as I’ve recently learned – is just about the only time you’ll see Felix stand still.
‘Bonjour, Lilou.’ He steps back from his work with a devilish sparkle in his eye. ‘Is your heart broken too?’
‘My heart is just fine. Why?’ While the market might be seven hectares long, gossip spreads faster than wildfire ever could.
Felix fidgets with a printing implement while tapping his foot, as if his body, mind and spirit runs on a higher frequency, a different bandwidth to most. ‘Every woman under eighty seems to be heartbroken over the announcement that Emmanuel Roux is engaged. He’s a bit of acause célèbre, non?’
I shrug. ‘I don’t understand the appeal of the guy. Why would anyone fangirl over a guy who calls himself the Playboy of Paris?’ His popularity has never made sense to me.
‘Do you think it’s real? I always figured it was just talk. One of those men who exaggerate every story for attention.’ Felix shakes his head, dappled sunlight landing on his ginger curls, making them shine. ‘The whole “look at me with my extra-large…apartmente”.’ He gives me a wicked grin.
I laugh. ‘Could be. Do you think the engagement is real?’
Felix scoffs. ‘Hardly. He’ll never settle down – and who would want to? From what I heard, his life is a never-ending party.’ There’s an element of awe to Felix’s statement. Is he too taken by the Emmanuel Roux persona: live and love, fast and hard?
‘A never-ending party sounds exhausting.’ I tuck a stray hair back. ‘Are you saying you’d never settle down?’
‘I’d settle down for you, Lilou.’ Did I mention Felix is the flirtatious type? In the short time he’s been my neighbour we’ve discovered a lot about each other during our morning catch ups. Felix is curious, and quirky. An over sharer. Really, he’s a mood booster.
But he’s also high energy and lives a high-octane life. I’m a homebody, whose nose is either pressed into a diary or else matching lovebirds behind a screen. We’re as different as can be.
I shake my head. ‘You would do no such thing.’
Felix places a hand over his heart as if it’s broken. ‘It’s still a no then?’
I grin and shake my head. ‘It’s still a no.’ At least once a day he asks me on a date, and I turn him down. He told me his idea of a fun night out is dancing under strobe lighting inside some club at all hours. Mine is being in bed with a book before midnight calls. I’m tempted to say yes, but I presume his invitations are made in jest so I don’t want to look foolish by taking him up on his offer. Not to mention he’s my neighbour now, so any fallout would be awkward.
He lets out a long sigh. ‘But I love you and only you.’
‘You don’t mean a single word.’ Felix doesn’t take life seriously and everything is always a joke. Still, there are plenty of women who’d swoon in his presence. He’s gorgeous in that distracted, just-rolled-out-of-bed way. The cheeky spontaneous type who makes you feel that adventure is around every corner.
He waggles a brow. ‘I guess you’ll never know, Lilou. Café crème?’
‘Oui. Extra hot.’ With a salute, Felix dashes off to buy coffee, while I stand there pondering where he gets his energy from. I’m tired just watching his brisk pace down the stairs. I open the door of my stall, inhaling the scent that sits heavy in the air. The musty, dustiness of times gone by. The perfume of inky secrets and hidden desires. I recently redesigned it with old-fashioned opulence in mind, furnished the space with replica Louis XVI gilded chairs, pink velvet chaises, thick brocade curtains and well-worn Persian rugs – all given to me by Geneviève at a criminally discounted price.
The space appears intimate, almost boudoir-like, in ode to the letters, the words, the thoughts penned in private so long ago. While I wait for my café crème, I take a duster and make my rounds. Righting prayer books and tidying shelves. By acollection of poetry books I find a pressed red rose. Did someone drop this here yesterday? It’s just my sort of whimsical and I’m lost to wondering about it. Did it come from a secret admirer before being hidden between the pages of a book? Did it leave a rose-shaped imprint and scent? I’m saddened for whoever misplaced a rose that clearly belongs in a special book to be opened and reminisced over. For now, I put it in my own personal diary behind the counter to keep it safe.
Felix returns with two keep cups in hand and motions for me to join him outside. ‘Mademoiselle.’ Felix hands me a coffee. ‘Have a lovely day.’
‘Merci.My turn tomorrow.’
‘Make it avin rougeafter work, eh?’ he says over his shoulder as he heads off to open his shop.
