In my other life I’m a merchant at a flea market. I sell love letters, diaries, ephemera from the past. That’s where real love looms large. Men from bygone times who wrote sweeping promises in elegant prose, women who declared their mutual adoration. These couples from the past always fell in love, achingly slowly through words penned on thick parchment, the memory of them standing the test of time. Why can’t I recreate that sort of romance for my matches?
It’s always bothered me that we won’t have love letters like these in the future because these days most correspondence is digital. Email doesn’t quite cut it when it comes to looking back.
Paris Cupid will remedy that injustice by bringing back the lost art of handwritten love letters. My matches will partake in a slow-burn romance, with no need to swipe right, or Netflix and chill. My first goal will be to help Émilienne believe in love again.
I make a detailed list of everything I’ll need to do to get the business up and running, including building the website, writing the questionnaire, the rules and requirements for matches, and advertising to find clients. The plan is to make Paris Cupid exclusive and only accept those who are genuinely searching for the one.
Anonymously, under the guise of an advertisement for Paris Cupid, I email Émilienne with a free introductory offer and then set out to find others like her. People, who love had left bruised, wary and abandoned. People just like me. I’m a walking dating disaster story, so I happen to know a fair bit about what not to do in the course of true love. I’ll have to keep the fact I’m Cupid quiet. I’m still reeling fromle scandaleat the market a month ago with the married man’s wife. The man I was dating at the time.
2
SEVEN MONTHS AGO
Le Scandale
Hugging my jacket tight, I chitchat with acquaintances from the flea market while we wait in the queue at the outdoor café in the square. Soft rain falls as we huddle close. The queue grows steadily, as if almost every market vendor is desperate for a warm drink before their workday begins. It’s a freezing January day but even the bitter weather doesn’t steal my smile as I tell a work friend all about my date with Frederic last night, a man whoknowshow to romance a woman. I feel a poke on the shoulder. A rather forceful poke. I turn to find a pretty forty-something woman who shoots me a look that’s so venomous I can’t help but recoil. When I look closer, it’s obvious she’s been crying. Her mascara is smudged, and her eyes are puffy.
‘Are you Lilou?’ she demands, her voice so loud it draws the eyes of most of my market friends in the vicinity.
‘Oui.’ I can’t place her. I’m sure I’ve never met this woman in my life but hostility radiates from her glare and is directed squarely at me.
‘Do you enjoy sleeping with a married man? Did you think I wouldn’t find out?’
My heart leaps into my throat. A married man? It can’t be! ‘Excusez moi, are you sure you have the right person?’ Frederic isn’t married! We’ve been seeing each other off and on for months, including every second weekend when he stays at my apartment. A married man couldn’t go missing for an entire weekend, surely?
Her face reddens. ‘Are you or are you not sleeping with Frederic Beaumont?’
Humiliation cuts me to the quick as there are audible gasps around me. How embarrassing to have this play out in front of my market colleagues. ‘Ah – I…’ I close my eyes against the shock. I had no idea he was married. None. There must be some sort of mix up, a misunderstanding.
‘Well?’ The woman demands as she pulls her phone from her pocket and swipes until a picture of Frederic appears. That’s him. Curled locks, crooked smile, playful gaze that makes me woozy. The woman flicks to another photo. There he is as a groom. How could I have missed this!
I cough, clearing my throat, wishing I could teleport myself away. My mind spins with scenarios and the dots suddenly join up. All those last-minute cancellations. The sporadic schedule due to his corporate job that had him flying all over France. He always switched his mobile off in my presence which I’d put down to good manners and a reprieve from business calls.
When I’d phone him late at night he’d whisper sweet nothings, his voice low and sweet. He wasn’t talking softly because he was in bed and sleepy, he was whispering so he didn’t get caught by his wife! I’m a fool!
And worse, this woman is as mad as hell and rightfully so. ‘I’m so sorry. I had no idea. He said his marriage ended a year ago.’ He’d told me they’d rushed into matrimony and realisedsoon after they weren’t a good fit. He glossed over it as if it was a small speed bump on the road to finding real love. Opposites attract until they don’t, kind of thing.
The woman lets out a bitter laugh that sends a shiver down my spine. More vendors stop to watch the show. ‘Did he neglect to mention his children?’ Her voice rises. ‘All seven of them?’
Seven children! There are murmurs around me, and many shakes of the head. I’m never going to live this down. My reputation is ruined even though I had zero clue Frederic had a family. Not one. As much as this shameful public display hurts, I canfeelthis woman’s pain. It’s a hundred times worse for her. I soften my voice and say, ‘I didn’t know he had children.’ That pig! That swine! Here I am believing I’ve finally found the one, and he’s just as bad as the rest.
‘Convenient.’
I swallow back tears. ‘Ididn’tknow.’
‘You’ve destroyed my family. I hope you’re happy with yourself.’
‘Non– I?—’
‘Save it. I don’t want to hear any more lies.’ She spins on her heel, cursing me as she leaves. Colour races up my cheeks as the crowd eyes me suspiciously, including my market friend who I’d been reminiscing with about my date. Now she turns her back to me, but not before she shoots me a withering glare. Do I continue to voice my innocence? Will they believe me?
Just as I’m debating flight, Coraline, a slightly prickly woman in her forties, who has a flower stall near the entrance of the flea market, rushes over to me. ‘Are you OK? I only caught the tail end of all of that.’
My tears finally spill as Coraline pulls me in for a hug. ‘I swear I had no idea. I wouldneverdate a married man with a family!’
‘Shush, shush. I know you wouldn’t.’ Out of everyone I’m familiar with at the market, Coraline is the last person I expected would comfort me. She’s known for being a gossip and relishing in other people’s misfortunes, but there are rare times when she shows a whole other side. I’m grateful for it today. ‘Go,’ she says. ‘Go to your stall and I’ll bring you a café crème. Shoulders back, chin up. You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of.’
I give her a small smile, trying to ignore the shake in my legs. How can I ever trust a man again? Not only has he lied and cheated but my hopes for finding the one are dashed again. Now I’ve got this woman’s broken heart on my conscience. I scrub my face and look beyond the crowd to avoid their stares and somehow I manage to lock eyes with a tall mountain of a man who surveys me long and hard like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle. ‘Whoisthat?’ I hope it’s not the wife’s brother or someone on her side ready to admonish too. I can’t take any more today.
