I spread out a picnic blanket on the lush green grass and sit, taking in the view from the high vantage point. I’ve lived in Paris for a big chunk of my life but there’s still so much to explore. Today the outdoor area isn’t too busy but come sunset that will change. It’s a great spot to watch the blue sky change colour as the sun sinks over the sprawling city below.
Now, however, work beckons. I open my laptop, tether it to my phone for internet connection, and commit a solid hour doing Ephemera bookwork, reconciling accounts and answering customer emails and social media queries.
Once I’ve caught up, I log on to Paris Cupid to work through previously uploaded applications. I scroll through the emails and so many hopefuls who’ve sent their unlucky-in-love stories that really tug at the heart strings. There’s a couple of people who don’t want to join but are emailing to say after hearing about Paris Cupid, they’ve been writing love letters to their husbands or wives and it’s given their relationship a boost. I feel a pang of regret as I come to many an email pleading for a chance to get matched even though applications are closed.
How can I steal the chance of real abiding love away from lonely hearts such as these?
Emmanuel Roux might have made my life ten times more difficult by shouting Paris Cupid’s praises, resulting in me having to weed out the genuine from the not, but surely I can figure out a way to manage it. But how? I don’t want to rush choosing matches. I want them to work, and when they don’t, I want time to find them another match.
I feel a renewed sense of purpose this morning because, according to Geneviève, chatter in the online groups has quieted down. Have they become bored of the hunt? I hope so. I hope I can continue doing what I love without worrying about my identity being exposed.
I open one with the subject line:Paris Cupid:Aide Moi!
I’ve been completely obliterated by love. Destroyed. Demolished. Yet again, I fell for a pseudo-heart who disappeared with no explanation. Why do I keep choosing the wrong men? Is it me? I resolved to give love one last chancewith Paris Cupid only to find the site closed for applications. If you’ll accept one last application, I volunteer! Kiki.
Gah! Kiki is the perfect candidate for Paris Cupid. My fingers hover over the reply button before I stop short. What if Kiki mentions this to others and it creates a furore? Especially if it was shared on one of the online groups. I must be fair to one and all and remember to tread carefully while things are so uncertain.
Which reminds me – I encouraged Coraline to email and plead her case. What was Ithinking?
I scroll through looking for an email that could belong to her and find it.
I send this appeal with a tender heart. A friend – actually ‘friend’ is too strong a word. She works in the same vicinity as me, but I digress. This acquaintance reminded me that as a florist, that I used to care about the language of flowers, their hidden meanings, their secret stories. What could be more enticing than learning by bouquet alone what the sender feels for you? A heliotrope is an expression of eternal love. A Carolina rose warns that love is dangerous. A spider flower is an invitation to elope. But it’s so much more than that. You can share your innermost desires with a colourful posy without having to say one single word.
I shake my head at Coraline’s description of me but she’s right, we’re not exactly friends. I get swept away in the evocative language of flowers. I read on:
Exactly two years, one month, and eleven days ago, I lost the love of my life. He vanished and all he left me was a note to say things weren’t working out. He wasn’t the firstto do this, but I vowed he’d be the last. But still, it crushed me. Looking back, that’s when the language flowers speak also went silent. Work became a chore, life became bleak. It’s almost like the sun switched off and I slowly shrivelled without that warmth on my face. Without love, what’s the point? I’m missing a key nutrient, and that imbalance is causing bitterness to leech into my soul. I’m wildly envious of customers who visit my flower stall, choosing bouquets for their lover; excitement shines in their eyes, radiates from their smiles. It’s like a gut punch every time. Romance is alive and well in Paris for those in the light, but not for us left in the dark, wilting, drooping, becoming brittle. Is there any hope for me, or is this it?
Matches always write a brief history about their love life and give reasons why relationships haven’t gone the distance. Reading those is one of the hardest parts of the job – Ifeeltheir sadness, I relate to it. Usually, they lay the blame at their own feet, their confidence at an all-time low. While Coraline and I might not be the best of friends, my heart still goes out to her. For all her gossiping, I never knew she’d been ghosted in such a callous way and, by the sounds of it, more than once. She’s suffered in silence, turned inward. Don’t we as humans need solace in times such as those? Why do we attach a sense of shame to it? Outwardly pretend everything is fine, when inside we’re crumbling? Everyone deserves love, including Coraline. I might not agree with the way she tattles, but that could very well be a coping mechanism, and who am I to judge?
I’m in a bind. How can I say yes to her and no to the other enquiries?
What to do?
‘Hello, stranger, you use this place as your office too?’
I snap my laptop shut and paste a smile on my face. ‘Bonjour, Felix.’ I shade my face with a hand and gaze up at him, as his red curls blow about in the breeze. ‘Oui, I like the view over Paris.’ Did he see what was on the screen? I survey his features for any sign he did, but he’s just smiling that same impish grin of his.
‘Are you meeting a friend?’ I ask. Felix has a laptop bag in one hand and a picnic basket in the other. He shakes his head. ‘Figured I’d need stamina to get through all my invoicing while I eat my body weight in camembert and then maybe read a book, all under the guise of working outdoors to soak up some vitamin D.’
‘Late night?’ I ask as he unsuccessfully stifles a yawn.
‘Always. Actually, I went on a literary treasure hunt! One which resulted in finding a hidden speakeasy in the 10th. We then had to solve a riddle to gain admission.’
‘Wow, that sounds incredible. What did the treasure hunt itself involve?’
He points to my blanket.
‘Sorry, yes, sit, sit.’
Felix takes a corner of the blanket. ‘We started at the bookshop Shakespeare and Co.’
Shakespeare and Co is the most famous English language bookshop in all of Paris. An eccentric by the name of George Whitman opened the shop in 1951 and invited all sorts of literary enthusiasts into the fray. He was well known for inviting aspiring writers to work and live in the bookshop. They’d sleep in beds crammed between shelves. These guests were called Tumbleweeds and could stay as long as they liked on the condition that they’d help customers, read a book a day and write a short biography to be filed away with all those who came before. A beat generation, bohemian enclave where all were welcomed as long as they pitched in and loved the written word. The disorderly charm is still evident inside, with double-stackedbooks and hidden nooks and crannies. Even now you might pull out a book that’s been signed by a literary great, hidden in the stacks for all those years.
‘We had to find a clue inside, one word that would lead to the next literary venue and the next clue. Harder than first thought, when a bookshop isfullof words.’
‘Sounds like so much fun! Where did you find the word?’
‘One of the floors has the tiniest alcove with a desk and a typewriter that had a piece of paper in the reel with only one word:Procope. I only found it because I can’t see a typewriter just sitting there and not have a go on the keys. As I squished into the small space, I came face to face with it. That word led us to the next place, Café Procope, a café rumoured to be the oldest in Paris, that famous writers such as Voltaire frequented. There we foundhisdesk on display and another word. We trekked to the apartment F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald first lived in near the Arc di Triomphe, and on it went. Let’s just say, I have a new respect for all the plaques around Paris. I’ve never paid any attention to them before.’
