I contemplate the question. ‘It’s more that I don’t understand how as a society we’ve graduated from writing coded love letters, sending bouquets of flowers with their own unique language, to picking up a handheld device, squinting at a thumbnail-sized picture and finding love that way. I mean, if that works then great! But it hasn’t worked for me. I want a love story like the letters I sell.’ Why am I being so honest! ‘Not just me, obviously. There’s plenty of other singletons who want what I want.’
People brush past us, paying no attention to me, but Pascale receives many a double take. Really, can they not see he’s not interested? He’s more inclined to fall in love with his own reflection.
‘Why do you think you can’t find a love like that? Is it because you got burned by that guy?’
‘Ah…?’
‘That day in the market square. I heard the wife yelling at you. You looked so startled, so shocked. I really felt for you.’ So he does have a heart under all that muscle? And he remembered me from that small slice of time, like I remembered him. I suppose it was memorable; it’s not every day you seen a scorned wife berating the unintentional mistress.
‘He – he really broke my heart. He’d ticked all the boxes. The most romantic man I’d ever dated and it turns out it was all based on a lie. It definitely hurt. Perhaps that’s why I’ve sought refuge in other eras, other worlds with love letters and diaries from the past. They give me hope when I feel like there is none.’
Why am I even telling him all of this? By the unsurety in his eyes, he’s not romantic in the slightest and its evident now as another silence between us descends.
‘I suppose I’ve never thought about it like that before.’
‘It’s just one of the things that keep me up at night.’ I laugh, trying to lighten the mood.
‘Would you like to get coffee?’ he asks.
It occurs to me that maybe Pascale isn’t as intimidating as he pretends to be. Times like these, it’s almost as if he’s unsure of himself, or maybe it’s more that he doesn’t know how I’ll react to his invitation since we haven’t exactly been friendly with each other.
‘Sure. We can take a walk past the Stravinsky fountain too if you like?’
The Stravinsky fountain is a masterpiece featuring sixteen colourful sculptures that move and spray water. There’s a surrealist ornamental air to it. It’s close to the Centre Pompidou, an architectural phenomenon known as the inside-out building. Paris really has something for every taste.
‘Oui.’
We head to the fountain, Pascale with his hands deep in his pockets, me trying to keep up with his long-legged pace. ‘Are we in a rush?’ I walk Parisian fast, but Pascale goes at Olympic walk speed.
‘Sorry, I’m used to walking alone.’
‘No love interests for you then?’ I want to slap my own forehead. Where did that come from?
He gives me the side eye as if he’s also surprised I went there. ‘Why? Do I seem so unlovable?’
I make a face. ‘Erm…’
He lets out a bark of laughter. ‘It’s OK, you don’t have to answer that.’
‘Are you sure? Because I can if you want?’
‘No, thank you. I’ve learned quite enough about how I’m lacking today.’
‘Touché.’ There’s a current between us at times. He stares at me like he’s about to impart a secret or wants to know mine. It’s unusual and it sends a jolt through me.
We lapse into a companionable silence. I’m not sure what it is, but opening up to Pascale and him being truly interested in what I had to say has slightly changed my view on him.Slightly.Perhaps his gruffness is a defence mechanism? Could it be that he’s not as confident as I pegged him for?
When we come to the fountain, I offer to buy coffee. He checks his watch and says, ‘Sorry, Lilou, I just remembered an appointment I’ve got to keep. Let’s do this another time?’
And there goes whatever progress I sensed we’d made. The old ‘I forgot an appointment’ charade. Really, does he think I’m that dense? ‘It’s fine.’ I give him a blustery wave as if I’m too caught up with the stunning kaleidoscope of colour of the sculptures in the Stravinsky fountain.
‘No, I mean it. I really am very…’ He makes a show of lifting his watch again, as if he’s got somewhere to be.
‘It’s fine. I’m going to grab a coffee.Au revoir.’ I spin on my heel and join the queue for a nearby coffee kiosk, glad to be away from his unnerving gaze so he doesn’t see the hurt in my eyes. Really, how ridiculous am I? Suffering a slightly bruised ego because my work nemesis gave me the brush off. Why then was he the one to suggest a coffee only to change his mind? I suppose it fits with his fickle nature and I remind myself to be on guard around him. While there’s something intriguing about him, he’s just a walking red flag. Alpha males are off the list no matter how convincing they can be. Why does my brain compute that but not my subconscious?
18
It’s a blindingly sunny Wednesday when I take the funicular de Montmartre and disembark at the Sacre-Coeur Plateau. Right next to the Basilica is the famous Sinking House of Montmartre. It’s an optical illusion, helped by the position of an opportune grassy knoll so that when the camera is tilted just right it gives the appearance that the great big orange house is sliding into the earth. Well-informed tourists converge in the outdoor space to tilt their cameras to capture the shot, but I come here for the fresh air and the remarkable view over Paris. Most Parisians enjoy the parks and gardens around the city. While there are plenty of exceptions to the rule, most apartments are somewhat compact, so we live outside as much as possible when the weather is fine. As we’re coming to the end of August, I want to soak up as many summer days as possible.
