I search through the latest delivery of treasures. There’s an unusual prayer book. The tissue-thin paper has a mauve hue, the script itself bronze. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. As I gently flick through, I have the sense it belonged to a teenage girl.
I unpack the rest of Guillaume’s finds. He really hit the jackpot with his latest trip near Neufchâteau. As I rifle through the goodies, I take photos for my newsletter as I go. At the bottom of the box is a type-written letter that isn’t familiar. Has Guillaume forgotten to show me this one? I double check his invoice; he hasn’t charged me for it either. It’s not like him to make a mistake. He’s nothing if not meticulous. I snap a picture and text it to him.
Did you forget about this one?
I take it from the plastic film.
I’ve never believed in love. Or the notion that love conquers all. As for soul mates, give me a break – it’s a ploy, marketing for gift card companies. That was until I met her. It felt like my world flipped upside down. Now my brain doesn’t function the same around her. I say the stupidest things. I’m suddenly unsure of myself and my place in the world because I can only think of her. But I keep messing things up, trying to be funny, or trying to strike up conversation, and things go awry. I’m really not sure how to fix things. If I told her how I feel she’d laugh in my face. What to do?
Like a cliché I find myself holding my breath as I read. The honesty! I can relate too. I often stumble over my words or say the complete opposite to what I’m thinking when I like a guy. It’s just that stupid sort of giddy that sometimes takes a moment to get a handle on.
As I fold the page, there’s a notification on my phone from Guillaume.
Non, I didn’t forget. That’s not one of mine.
How can it not be? Surely he’s made a mistake.
It was in the box, at the very bottom. If you’re sure, then…?
Then what? Can I sell a letter that I didn’t procure myself? But common sense says Guillaume has made a rare error and it’s probably best to count it as a win and move on.
Lilou, I pride myself on my organisational skills and I would never ‘forget’ a valuable item and I don’t appreciate you implying such a thing.
Duly told, I grin at his predictable response and put the letter away, not quite ready to put it up for sale just yet. It reminds me of the beautiful brittle calligraphy letter. Two letters, both featuring men who love a woman they don’t know how to approach. What are the chances? And what would the world be like if we didn’t cherish letters such as these?
13
A market friend from downstairs rushes into my stall. ‘Fair warning, a tour bus arrived an hour ago and they’ll be making their way up here soon. It’s a huge group and so far they’ve been buying up a storm, so get yourself ready.’
The market can be like one big happy family some days, where we all look out for one another. I suppose like any family, we can also have bad days, where certain sides aren’t talking, someone’s in a huff about something, a deal goes sour between two stalls, that sort of thing.
I thank my friend and rush over to tell Felix and Benoit, who are standing in the hallway chatting to each other. ‘A tour group is on its way up.’
‘Merci, merci,’ Benoit says.
‘Let’s hope they aren’t those destructive types.’ Felix sighs.
Big tour groups can be hit or miss. Sometimes they do more damage than they’re worth with an influx pouring into our small spaces and taking photos and moving stock around without buying a thing. Other times, they spend up big and find our unique stalls a marvel. It’s always a little stressful having somany people arrive all at once but it’s part of Parisian life, and without tourists our businesses would struggle to survive.
‘I hope so too.’ I give them a wave and go to tell Pascale. ‘A big tour group is on the way.’
He groans and cups his face. ‘Should we close up, pretend we’re not here?’
I shake my head, as always slightly baffled by him and the way he actively avoids customers. That doesn’t stop them buying though, even if he treats them appallingly. I just don’t get it. He spends more time bashing at his typewriter than anything else.
‘Are you joking?’
‘Should I be?’
‘Don’t you need to sell a typewriter or two to survive?’
‘I sell plenty.’
‘You could probably sell more if you didn’t ignore customers all the time. Yesterday, I saw a woman hovering behind you for a good ten minutes before you finally acknowledged her.’
He leans against the door frame and folds his arms, his biceps bulging all over the place like he’s some kind of muscle man. Urgh, that’s probably why he draws so many people in – that animal magnetism of his. While I admit it isslightlyalluring, it’s also obvious to me that he’s the type of guy that would stomp all over a heart and not have a care in the world about doing so. He’s just so one-dimensional with his gruff exterior and fiery temperament. I can’t see Pascale ever wooing a woman, and as for romance, I bet it’s not in his vocabulary.
‘So…? I was busy.’
