‘Ha!’ She opens her handbag and removes a compact mirror, checking her lipstick. ‘You’re right. I’m not a morning person. Is that a crime? But truthfully, I snuck in early to pop Paris Cupid brochures in the vendor pigeonholes to see if we can drum up some love around these parts. What do you think?’ Geneviève is always thinking of new ways to spread the word about Paris Cupid and often helps delivering marketing material of her own accord.
‘Great idea.’
I’ve set up around thirty couples since Paris Cupid began back in February. Of those, a handful weren’t compatible, so I matched them again. A few people have decided it’s not for them for various reasons, one said he found the process too slow,another woman said she found it dull. Not everyone will make it, or find true love, but I’m willing to help the ones who are in it for the long haul.
‘Would you ever try Paris Cupid for a match?’ I ask, as I’m genuinely curious. It’s not that she has any trouble finding paramours, it’s more that I wonder if this way of seeking out a partner intrigues her.
‘Non, ma Cherie. It wouldn’t be for me. I like my men with a bit of grrr. Those robust, take-charge types who keep me on my toes.’
‘I’m surprised by how many men have signed up who yearn for romance too. It’s not that they’re beta at all, it’s more that they like the idea of a slow seduction. It’s quite sensual this way of meeting someone and opening up to them.’
‘Huh. I do like the sound of slow seduction. I must admit, French men can be deliciously romantic, and wildly poetic, so it makes sense this would appeal. That goes for menandwomen.’
‘Oh, here’s one of our new neighbours.’ A mussed ginger-haired thirty-something guy bounds up the stairs, carrying bags and boxes that don’t seem to weigh him down. He gives us a cheeky smile as he deposits his things before dashing over to us. ‘Bonjour, je suisFelix.’
‘Bonjour, bonjour,’ I say. ‘I’m Lilou and this is Geneviève. What do you sell?’
Felix nods, acknowledging us both. ‘Lovely to meet you beautiful ladies. I sell vintage printing press parts. And I design posters, cards and other paraphernalia using movable type to paper. It’s a lost art form and using traditional printing methods is time consuming but a worthy endeavour, if I do say so myself.’ He speaks fast and gesticulates wildly as if he has an abundance of energy that has to go somewhere. I like him instantly.
Felix the flame-haired printer is just the type of personality we need around here to bring customers up those stairs. We tellhim about what we sell and about the amount of foot traffic we get in the Marché Dauphine, which is decent compared to other parts of the market but could always be better. He just might be the answer to that. I’d hazard a guess that he’s the type of person who makes friends with everyone.
‘I’mthrilledto have been chosen to move here,’ he says, running a hand through his hair, which sticks up in all directions. ‘I’ve been in the north corner, tucked away behind the maintenance office. A spot rarely visited and also difficult to find. This place is going to be much better for business.’
‘Let us know if you need any help with… anything.’ Geneviève gives him an exaggerated wink. She cannot help herself if there’s a good-looking man in her presence.
Felix waggles his brow. Great, now we have two incorrigible flirts in our midst. Like Geneviève, Felix is a breath of fresh air, who I know will make market days just that little bit lighter. ‘Merci, Geneviève. Perhaps we can all share a drink after work sometime and get to know each other better?’
We chat for a bit until there’s more footsteps on the stairs. ‘Au revoir, I better get myself sorted,’ Felix says while looking intently at the newcomer.
‘Bonjour,I’m Benoit,’ the man says when he reaches the top of the stairs. He gives us a shy smile and continues to his stall, which is right beside Felix’s and across the small hallway from Geneviève and me.
With eyes comically wide, Geneviève motions with her head in Benoit’s direction in case I haven’t latched on to the fact that he is rather beautiful in a bookish, intelligent kind of way with his neatly parted hair and spectacles, and his hot, introverted bookworm kind of vibe. Has the universe heard my pleas for love? Suddenly there are two very handsome men in my vicinity.
Just as I’m about to tell Geneviève to cool it, there’s a commotion on the stairs. A mountain of a man speaks angrilyinto his phone as he takes the steps two at a time, shouting curse words in French. The quiet calm has been replaced by this hulk who has managed to get all of our attention yet is blithely unaware of us.
‘Ooh, that alpha male energy,’ Geneviève says, fanning her face.
‘Seriously?Non.’ How can she be taken in by a man like that? Is he really so self-absorbed that he doesn’t know his bellowing might be considered rude in a workplace, and that he’s really not making the best first impression with us, his new neighbours? I sneak a peek at Felix and Benoit to see what they make of it and find them sharing a small smile, as if they find the guy slightly amusing rather than rude.
‘Lilou, that man is gorgeous, can you not see that?’
That surly alpha male energy is exactly the thing that Paris Cupid is designed to be the antithesis of, and for very good reason. Those highly combustible types who breathe fire are just such a cliché, are they not?
‘Well?’ she prods. I don’t want to agree on principle, but I can’t deny the man is rather… hot. ‘If you’re into tall, muscular bad boys, then yes, I suppose so, but I could never be into someone so lacking in manners like he clearly is. Who do you think he’s yelling at like that?’ I debate whether to politely inform him that he’s creating a nuisance when he shoots a glare my way. My breath catches as I recognise him but can’t place from where. Oh no. The man in the market square the day ofle scandale. The one who locked eyes with me for so long I swear he could see into my very soul. Coraline, the florist, told me his name that day, but I struggle to recall it. ‘Pascale,’ I whisper.
‘Why are you whispering?’
‘He was there the day Frederic’s wife confronted me.’ How embarrassing. I’d hoped for a fresh start with new neighbours,ones who didn’t know that particular rumour about me. Homewrecker. Destroyer of families.
Before I can break his gaze and turn away, he stomps over, glowering at me. ‘Can you turn that music down? I’m on a phone call and can’t hear a thing!’ He turns away then stops abruptly and faces me again. ‘Where do I know you from?’
‘You don’t.’ There’s no way I’m going to remind him. He narrows his eyes suspiciously. Surely he’s not going to remember a passing look he shared with a stranger who had just been publicly humiliated? ButIrecognisedhisface, didn’t I? Perhaps because every detail of that day is burned into my mind.
He presses his phone to his ear and resumes his call, albeit slightly less angrily. Why is he still staring at me? Ah, he’s still trying to place me, so I spin on my heel and hide behind Geneviève, pretending to fuss with some trinkets on display.
‘Ooh, he is afeistyone.’ Geneviève grins. ‘The perfect bad boy ready to set a heart aflame, but whose heart, eh?’ She jabs a finger into my shoulder. ‘You?’
‘You can’t be serious?’ Does the woman not know me at all? ‘Our very first conversation is him ordering me to turn my music down, music that is barely discernible, I might add. Not a singlebonjour, not a singles’il te plait.’
