Coraline follows my gaze. ‘Oooh la la,he’s got the looks and the body to match. All I know is his name is Pascale and he sells vintage typewriters in a stall in the middle of the market. Doesn’t look like the approachable sort though, does he?’
‘Non, he looks the exact opposite.’ And why the intense stare? Has he never seen a woman being publicly humiliated before? There’s something almost primal about the way he’s locked his eyes onto mine. It’s almost hypnotic. I find myself unable to look away even though the desire to flee is strong.
3
NOW
I’m woefully late to my day job after a long night of matching the lost, star-crossed and broken-hearted of Paris. The early July summer sunshine boosts my mood and makes the long walk to the market an enjoyable one.
I find myself thinking back to when my little side business came to life. That wintry day when I met with a despondent Émilienne who had all but sworn off love.
Her sadness felt like a plea for help. A call to arms. And it gets me thinking: why do we get punished when we set standards for love? It’s not as though Émilienne was asking for too much. All she wanted to find in a relationship was kindness, monogamy and the hope of building a future together. And now she has, thanks to the art of love-letter writing.
Since that fateful coffee catch up, Paris Cupid has flourished although I’ve had to keep my role anonymous. My name is still mud afterle scandale. Not everyone has forgiven me, despite my protestations of innocence. And it didn’t help matters when Frederic recently visited the market and told me he still loved me. I had to resort to using my broom to drive him away and it dredged up the whole scandal again. There were whispers thatI must be secretly seeing him otherwise why would he drop by like that? The market is like a petri-dish when it comes to gossip, and left unattended it grows, multiplying until everyone hears an exaggerated version of the story that just isn’t true.
Having Paris Cupid to pour my time into has been good for me in more ways than one, since men aren’t exactly beating my door down to ask me on a date. Love has truly blossomed for a number of my matches, including Émilienne. Her kindred spirit is a man named Remy, who I found to be sensitive and soulful. He has a good understanding of healthy boundaries which, according to her application, had been an issue with men in her past. Émilienne is the type of woman who needs her space, quiet time to retreat and reflect, and Remy agreed that was important to him too.
It’s been a whirlwind since start up six months ago and it warms my heart that future generations might one day unearth these Paris Cupid love letters, sit with a mug of tea, settle in and read a sweeping romance, just like in the books. The only problem is, these days my bespoke little matchmaking biz is taking a big chunk of my time and I’m finding it hard to balance both worlds, my market stall and my secret Cupid life, hence my lateness this and every morning.
Matching lovebirds also makes me yearn for my own love affair, but I still feel at odds with how to go about it for myself. Short of the universe throwing a man in my way, I don’t see how it’s ever going to happen now that I’m working more than ever. To get enough matches so I could faithfully promise people a chance at love, I’ve had to come up with all sorts of advertising campaigns for social media. It’s where most of my clients have found Paris Cupid, and I’ve tried other avenues of advertising like letterbox drops, podcast ads, even a tiny little billboard at a Montmartre bus station and posters glued up around Saint Ouen Flea Market. Word of mouth referrals have been big aswell. The income Paris Cupid is producing has really helped when I have slow weeks at Ephemera, so I remind myself the extra work is worth it when I’m feeling the pressure of keeping everything afloat. As I increase my pace, I passun kiosque à presseand catch sight of a magazine headline that stops me in my tracks.
TV star Emmanuel Roux is engaged – thanks to Paris Cupid!
What!My heart leaps into my throat. I dig through my handbag for my purse and hand over some euros with a shaky ‘Bonjour, Monsieur’.Once I’m far enough away from the kiosk, I duck into an apartment doorway to read the article.
Self-confessed ‘Playboy of Paris’ Emmanuel Roux from Twilight Dream TV fame has found ‘The One’ and proposed atop the Eiffel Tower. ‘She’s not from show biz,’ he says. ‘We were matched on a new underground site called Paris Cupid.’ We asked Emmanuel why the Playboy of Paris would need to use a relatively unknown matchmaking site to find love. ‘For anonymity,’ he claims. We did a little digging into Paris Cupid, a small Parisian start-up that claims to find love for the lost, the lonely and those who feel they’re unlucky in love. This is no insta-date hook-up site. Members commit to writing love letters and getting to know one another slowly by good old-fashioned courtship. ‘My days as a bachelor are over,’ Emmanuel says with a determined set to his jaw.
This cannot be! I vet every single member as assiduously as possible with the skills I have at hand. I search their social media accounts and their online presence. So it comes as a nasty shock to find that I’ve matched the so-dubbed Playboy of Paris without being aware of it.
I’d never approve membership to a man who dates and dashes like Emmanuel Roux famously does. Did he use a pseudonym? Photos can easily be doctored these days, but I wouldn’t have paid much attention to his pictures anyway. I’m more interested in what they write about love than their physical appearance. Whatever social media accounts he’d given me must have appeared legitimate when I did my first round of checks.
My mind spins with worry. Who did he claim to be, and worse, who did I match him with? For all his protestations, I don’t believe for a minute that Emmanuel Roux’s playboy days are over. This is an unmitigated disaster for Paris Cupid, which I genuinely built for those who had given up on finding love. I also kept it exclusive so I could cope with the workload. I quicken my pace and head to Paris Saint Ouen Flea Market, to my stall Ephemera, where I sell my love letters, prayer books and scribed diaries.
4
I open my stall, switch on my laptop and glance up to make sure I’m alone. Satisfied there’s no chance of being caught out, I search for Emmanuel Roux’s pseudonym on Paris Cupid. As I scroll through the membership list, my frustration increases. I’m breaking a cardinal rule by working on Paris Cupid at Ephemera and risking my anonymity. Worse, I can’t see a single man who doesn’t appear real. Their stories are all so touching, I get lost down the rabbit hole, checking their statuses and making notes on couples I have to liaise with. Finally at the very end of the list, I see a potential and my heart judders to a stop.
Merde.How can I have made a mistake as epic as this?
There in bold is the name of the woman I matched Emmanuel Roux AKA Remy Tatou with. Émilienne Lyon. My friend, and the first ever member of Paris Cupid. I cup my face and resist the urge to wail. Émilienne, the unwitting inspiration behind the matchmaking site, now believes Emmanuel Roux of all people is her soulmate. The power of suggestion is a heady thing. Have I exposed her to a man who will break her heart and publicly humiliate her? So far, he’s kept her name out of the press, but now the media have caught the scent it won’t be longuntil they hunt down the newly engaged couple and splash their pictures all over the internet.
What have I done?Emmanuel and Émilienne.It even sounds farcical!
How did he persuade Émilienne that he’s truly retired his Playboy of Paris status? It boggles the mind, but if the article’s to be believed he must have convinced her well enough that she’s accepted his hand in marriage. Or is it becauseI,playing my part as Paris Cupid, told her in no uncertain terms Remy Tatou AKA Emmanuel Roux is compatible to her in every way? The slippery snake has really done a number on me. I bring up his application and reread. It’s poetic, heartfelt and honest (ha!). The lamentations of a man who claims to be ill-fated when it comes to love, despite his best intentions. The fraudulent application makes my teeth grind. But really, I’m responsible for any fallout.
There’s nothing I can do about it at the moment, so I shut down my computer and distract myself with my morning routine at Ephemera. I wheel out my display tables and arrange stock. Water my plants. Give the rugs a quick vacuum.
Soon, the market is filled with shoppers; laughter, shouting, chitchat. Outside, horns are blaring, sirens wailing, the soundtrack of our market days.
Feather duster in hand, I make my rounds when I spot the arrival of one of my neighbours as he stomps up the stairs, his familiar scowl in place. I hide behind a postcard carousel and spy on prickly Pascale as he unlocks his stall. In the month or so sincela réorganisation du marché,the big market vendor reshuffle, Pascale has managed to find fault with me numerous times. Allegedly my display tables are too wide and it’s not fair to the others who share the hall. My rose-scented candles give him a headache. My lavender plants attract bees even though we’re indoors and upstairs, and on and on it goes. Each complaint hascaught me unawares. I’m not used to such criticisms. I’ve done my best to remedy these issues but then he comes back with another problem.
‘Who are you hiding from?’ A velvety voice rings out and manages to snare Pascale’s attention. He looks over in my direction. I do the adult thing and drop to the wooden floor, hoping it will open and swallow me whole. The last thing I need is him storming over here again.
‘Geneviève! Shush!’ Glamorous Geneviève is one of my neighbours in Marché Dauphine and my very best friend, despite being twenty, or maybe even thirty, years senior to me. It’s hard to gauge exactly what age she is as she has a timeless quality about her and is the least grown-up person I know.
‘Lilou, honestly, that’s no place to sit.’ Geneviève shakes her head as if I’ve lost my marbles. Maybe I have. ‘Get up this instant.’ She’s bossy at the best of times, but Geneviève has the sort of presence that commands a person to do as they’re told.
I’m sure I can feel Pascale’s laser-like gaze on me. Like the ultimate grown-up I am, I edge backwards on all fours like a hunted animal, which is surprisingly difficult, and take cover behind my desk.
