‘A truthful one.’
She guffaws. ‘Well, I also asked Felix and Benoit if they’d heard about Paris Cupid and if they liked the idea of writing love letters to woo a new flame.’
I perk up a bit. I’m keen to know what they thought. There’s something rather sweet about both men. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I feel a real sense of ease around them. Felix the cheeky flirt, and Benoit, shy and handsome. ‘What did they say?’
‘They both said they’ve got feelings for someone they’ve recently met.’
‘All three men said the same thing?’
‘A version of it,oui.’
‘Interesting.’
‘I found their use of “recently”veryinteresting indeed.’
‘What do you…’ I study her expression to see what she’s getting at. ‘Oh, Geneviève, only you could put two and two together and wind up with ten.’
‘What?’ She puts a hand to her heart. ‘Think of the market reshuffle. Suddenly they work across from two very beautiful women, and while I’m all for dating younger men, in fact I prefer it, I don’t sense they’re attracted to me, more’s the pity.’ She gazes lovingly over to Pascale and gives him a saucy wink when he catches her looking. He laughs and sends an exaggerated wink back. Why is he so laid back when it comes to Geneviève and always irked around me? It’s infuriating.
‘You’re reaching, Geneviève.’
‘I’m not. I’m telling you now, I can feel the sexual tension in this place and eventually something is going to gobang.’
I can only laugh. Geneviève is desperate for me to find love that she’ll magic it up if she can. Still, while I clean around Geneviève, I think of Benoit, the man with the soul of a poet, and wonder who he’s crushing on. Perhaps Geneviève could do a little more digging in that regard…
14
August arrives, the last of the summer months. Part of me pines for autumn. I love the cooler weather, the crunch of fallen leaves and the cosiness reading a good book in front of the fire. I briskly walk to Saint Ouen Flea Market, having overstayed feeding the cats at the cemetery on my way to work. Blame Marmalade, who curled up on my lap like a baby. I didn’t have the heart to move her as she primped and preened.
I avert my gaze as I pass the flower stall, but Coraline clocks me. She never misses a thing, that woman, and she practically chases me as I dash past her with a look on my face that implies I’ve got places to be. Her footsteps quicken and she yells for me to stop.
Honestly, she’s a menace to society. There’s no getting away from her. ‘Are you actuallychasingme, Coraline?’
‘What? No!’ Spots of pink appear on her cheeks.
‘What is it? I have to open Ephemera.’
‘Emmanuel has left Paris, gone to an ashram in India. I’m guessing whoever this new fiancée is, she’s really bad news. What do you say to that?’
‘Namaste?’ While I’m teasing Coraline, my mind is reeling. Émilienne regularly goes on retreats to India and takes them very seriously. There’s no way she’d invite Emmanuel if he wasn’t the genuine article. The retreats are a religious experience for her. Even his celebrity status might have given her pause as she wouldn’t want to create any fuss at an ashram.
‘Very funny, Lilou.’
‘How did you find out?’
‘The tabloids – how else? He did another interview about finding enlightenment. Do you think they’re paying him for the interviews and that’s why he’s doing so many?’
‘Probably.’ How can Émilienne be buying this? The woman I know would recoil at her significant other sharing to the world their every movement. Just what is going on? And why haven’t they completed their feedback survey? Perhaps there’s no internet at the ashram, and she usually switches off, unplugs from society for a while. But wait… How is he still doing interviews then? Her brief text about switching off for a bit was a week ago, so they must have left then. The frustration of not knowing how Émilienne really feels builds. ‘Why do you care?’
Coraline’s face falls. ‘You think I’m an overzealous fan, and maybe I am, it’s just that Emmanuel Roux has been on my TV screen for the last fifteen years. How strange it will be coming home and not seeing his face. It’s a comfort to watch him being flirtatious, charming, using all those funny one-liners only he could get away with.’ There’s a sag to her shoulders as if her body has deflated alongside her mood. ‘It’s like losing a best friend, a friend you can never ever speak to again. I feel a sense of abandonment…’ At that confession, she flushes deep scarlet.
It all clicks into place. This is a clear case of an imaginationship: a crush that develops in your mind and builds up over a long period. Ah, how I’ve misjudged Coraline’s motivations. Emmanuel’s character on TV is the Emmanuel sheadores from afar, a fictional man who she has grown to love. But haven’t we all done that? I’ve fallen for many an author of letters from the past because of the way they wrote about love and desire. I’m annoyed at myself for not seeing it sooner – Coraline is lonely, just like the rest of us.
I give her arm a useless pat. ‘Oh, I get it now. It makes sense you feel the way you do, and honestly, I think we’ve all been there.’
She gives me a wobbly smile. ‘Now he’s chanting “om” instead of learning his lines. I’ll miss him. Miss him more than is probably healthy.’
I don’t dare say, but it won’t be long before they’re back in Paris, eating buttery creamy foods and drinking carafes of wine. My friend Ém is happy to escape every now and then for healthier pursuits but it’s more of a circuit breaker, a detox from life for a bit. I toy with an idea, not sure if I should suggest it or not. After all, Coraline is still a gossip aficionado, and I’m opening myself up to all sorts of issues if she finds out about my alter ego. As I survey the sadness in her eyes, and can almost hear the breaking of her heart, the choice is made for me. Everyone deserves love, and this type of bruised heart is exactly what Paris Cupid caters to. We’ve shared a confidence, a secret of hers that has changed my opinion of her in some significant way.
