‘I would love to believe that, Geneviève, I really would, but this was in a delivery from Guillaume and it’s more likely he’s making mistakes because he’s distracted by you know who.’
‘But they haven’tallcome from Guillaume’s deliveries.’
‘Right, and he’s a stickler for organisation, so if he can make the occasional lapse then so can other suppliers.’
‘Lilou, I think it’s someone from the market. They could easily pop in one of these treasures when a box is delivered by your door or dropped to a neighbour.’
‘Maybe…’
‘I wonder if it’s Felix? That Cupid card. This is just his kind of quirky. He’s the type that would do something like this, don’t you think?’
It is sort of reminiscent of his literary treasure hunt. It would be just like Felix to go out of his way to romance a woman.
‘I’m not sure, Geneviève. When we’re together I feel like a different version of myself. More spontaneous, more willing to try new things, but it’s more like a friendship than a real flirtation. I adore him, but like you pointed out, there were no fireworks. I don’t feel a spark…’ Our museum meet up had been a blast but didn’t feel romantic in the slightest.
Geneviève considers it for a moment and then says, ‘I’ve changed my mind about him after seeing this. Maybe deep down he’s shy and this is his way of wooing you. You need to take your own Paris Cupid advice and give someone a chance. Let things develop over time.’
There’s a mutual respectthere with Felix but is it enough? Shouldn’t it be more than that and more obvious? But Geneviève is right; I advise others to let that spark build and here I am wanting the thunderbolt. The weak knees. The arrow to the heart that shows me he’s the one I’ve been waiting for. The one I’m ready to risk my heart with. Is it Felix?
I head downstairs to grab lunch, a sandwich to eat at my stall because the market is so busy today. I order at the counter and, while I wait, I scroll on my phone when a Facebook friend suggestion for Pascale pops up. Intrigued, I click on his profile and am surprised to find it unlocked. And that he has friends – lots of them. Maybe outside of work, he’s the life of the party? I click on his photos. There are a lot of arty travel pictures taken around France. There are many featuring bookshops with disorderly piles on double-stacked shelves. I suppose if he’s writing a book, then it makes sense he enjoys reading them.Maybe he is the type to spend a lazy day in bed reading? A picture forms of him in my mind, shirtless, a sheet wrapped around his large frame, novel in hand. It’s appealing for some strange reason. I’m lost in thought as I flick through his albums and almost die, literally die, when a voice says, ‘Find anything interesting?’
Pascale smirks at me. I hastily pocket my phone, but it’s clearly too late; he’s caught me looking through his profile.
‘Nothing. I’m not sure why the algorithm suggests certain people and not others. It’s a mystery!’ I let out a gurgle of laughter that sounds forced even to me.
‘Is that so?’
‘Uh-huh.’ My face is aflame and I feel a little unsteady on my feet. He’s surely going to think I’m secretly obsessed with him or something.
‘Oh look, here’s my order.’
I hurry away. When I get back to Ephemera, I do my best to hide behind my desk. A few minutes later, my phone pings with a notification. A friend request from Pascale. I click accept, unsure how else to play it. As soon as I do there’s a message from him that reads:
You can stalk my profile much easier this way.
Mon dieu!It makes total sense that he would react in such a way. He probably thinks every woman on planet earth is in love with him!
22
On Thursday when the market is closed to the public, I’m at Ephemera catching up on paperwork. Paris Cupid work has been so much fun with Geneviève on board to help, but I’ve let things slide here. I have new stock arriving and need to shuffle things around to make room. I love working in solitude like this when the place is deserted and there’s only the faint hum of electricity. Once the bookwork is done, I shut down the laptop and survey the stall, wondering how to move the cabinetry around to fit a new glass display cabinet that will house my more valuable prayer books. I don’t get many shoplifters, but I also don’t want to tempt fate, and a collection of rare prayer books I have are worth thousands of euros.
I’m about to move a small shelf when I spot what looks like a rolled scroll. It’s bound with red ribbon. I unwrap it and read the beautiful calligraphy writing.
Why is love so difficult to share? I almost told you. I was so close to sharing how I felt and asking if there was any chance between us. Instead, I froze in the moment. Driven by fear that you’d laugh in my face. Fear you’d think I wasjoking. That you wouldn’t take me seriously, or worse, you would take me seriously and still say no. I write to you now and wonder if anyone has captured your heart like you’ve captured mine. If I knew how you felt I could act on this impulse. But I don’t know how you feel and I don’t want to make things awkward.
My pulse thrums as I roll the letter up and re-tie it with ribbon. Is this meant for me? And if so, who is the author? Is it Felix? The reference to joking makes me believe it must be him. But then it’s written in calligraphy, so could it be Benoit? I can’t see it being Pascale. It could be anyone from the market. The more these arrive, the more I can’t deny they’re being left for me to find. It’s wildly romantic. I can’t wait to show Geneviève and get her take on it.
‘Geneviève!’ I yell when I see her coming up the stairs.
‘I know I look fabulous for my age,ma Cherie, but these stairs require some careful manoeuvring on my part.’
She’s as spritely as they come. It’s more likely her killer stilettos are the culprit to Geneviève navigating her way up the flight of stairs.
‘What is it? You’re flushed. If I didn’t know better I’d say you finally got over your sex drought.’
I laugh and roll my eyes. ‘Not exactly a drought, Geneviève. Just a pause. I was here yesterday working and found this scroll. Have a read and tell me what you think.’
Geneviève takes the proffered letter and rummages in her handbag, vintage Hermès today, for her glasses, before settlingon the chaise to read. ‘It looks like we have ourselves a love… square.’
