‘You were typing?’
‘And?’
I take a deep breath. Why is he so monosyllabic with me? ‘So, don’t you think you should have stopped typing for a moment and helped your customer find what she was looking for? Your customer service reflects on us all.’
He screws up his face. ‘How?’
‘We all get lumped together when tourists post reviews like “Upstairs at Marché Dauphine” so it would be nice if you were considerate of our businesses and the fact that while you might not care about turnover, we do.’
‘I care, just not enough to stop working when I get a bunch of customers asking me every little thing about vintage typewriters and then they go off and buy them online anyway. If they’re serious buyers, they’ll get my attention.’
I shake my head so hard I get dizzy. ‘How can you know that for sure? What if they’re shy, or hesitant to interrupt you while you’re typing?’
‘Then they miss out on my sparkly personality and witty repartee.’ He grins and it transforms his villainous face and makes him seem affable, but it doesn’t last and I suppose it’s not genuine since he was being sarcastic.
‘What are you typing, by the way? Your memoirs?’ I try and fail to hide my smile. He’s just the right sort of egotistical to pen a whole book about himself.
‘Something like that.’
‘How To Offend Customers and Get Away With It.’
‘I’ll take that title into consideration.’
Our chat is interrupted as a horde of smiley-faced shoppers thunder up the stairs. They’re wide-eyed and walking fast with that whole just-arrived-in-Paris energy I see so often.
‘Mon dieu.’ The fiery facade is back. ‘This is not going to be fun.’
‘That’s the spirit.’ I shake my head and jog back to my stall, greeting the influx of customers with a cheery ‘Bonjour!’
Later that afternoon, I’m tidying Ephemera after the whirlwind of visitors from the tour group. The money they spent more than makes up for the mess they left behind. Mostly, stock has been put back in the wrong spot, and there’s a few discarded water bottles and empty takeaway coffee cups. Not too bad considering. I’ve got a spring in my step after a busy day serving customers who were really taken by the idea of old diaries and love letters and purchased them as keepsakes of their time in Paris.
‘I found out something interesting just now.’ Geneviève slides on to the chaise longue.
‘Oh?’ I say.
‘I was just doing my usual drumming up of potential business for Paris Cupid.’
She knows very well that Paris Cupid is on hold for new matches at the moment while I catch up. I narrow my eyes at her. ‘Drumming up business for a matchmaking site that’s on hiatus, or putting your nose into other people’s love lives because you can’t help yourself when it comes that sort of thing?’ Honestly, Geneviève would make a fabulous matchmaker. When it comes to romance and, let’s be frank, sex, she is invested. She only wants everyone to be as content as she is in that department and doesn’t mind poking and prodding to get information out of people.
‘OK, fine, it’s a bit of both.’
I raise a brow.
‘So after the tour group left, I innocently glided over to that devilishly handsome Pascale and asked him if he’d heard of the site and what he thought of joining.’ She gives me a coy smile.
‘Innocently glided?I’d like to see that! You only did that to find out if he was single, didn’t you?’
‘Oui.’
‘And…?’ Not that I’m the least bit interested. It’s only if he is in a relationship, I’ll be very surprised. He doesn’t seem the commitment type to me.
‘He said he wouldn’t ever use a matchmaker and it didn’t matter anyway as he’s already met someone recently he has feelings for… What do you make of that?’
I glance over towards him. As usual, he’s at his desk, typing away. I didn’t have a moment in the rush to see if he was engaging with the tour group or ignoring customers as usual, but I can hazard a guess it was the latter. I’m intrigued as to what sort of type he’d go for. But I don’t dare admit that to Geneviève or she’ll be off and running, taking my interest as a sign I like the guy, which I do not.
‘I suppose everyone deserves love, even alpha males,’ I say with some reluctance.
‘What sort of answer is that?’
