‘Are you goading that cat?’
‘Oui. But trust me, I’ll pay for that later when I’m asleep and he springboards off my nose.’
Minou regally assesses Geneviève. ‘So what are your thoughts?’ Geneviève asks. I take a sip of wine and consider it from both sides.
‘It’s really not fair to make you the focus of their scrutiny in whatever way that plays out. I couldn’t do that to you, no matter how much I’d hate the scrutiny on myself.’ Geneviève would probably kill for me, but it doesn’t mean I’d ask her to.
‘OK, option two: we acknowledge that people are curious to the identity of Paris Cupid but we’re not sharing that information because the person in question wants to maintain a level of privacy in their everyday life.’
‘I’m wondering if that will flame the fire.’
‘Sleep on it tonight and we can chat tomorrow. Now, to happier subjects. How are you going with finding out who your secret admirer is?’ She waggles her brow suggestively and says ‘Could it be Benoit, or could it be Pascale?’ I laugh at her theatrics as I think about the two men. I realise that only a few weeks ago, I’d been annoyed with Pascale and his tense behaviour, but perhaps with everything going on with Paris Cupid, that has somehow evaporated. He’s more of a friend than foe now, or at least we’re heading in that direction.
‘Honestly, Geneviève, they’re both wonderful. They really are. Even Pascale is slowly opening up, or at least he isn’t just using grunts to communicate.’
She inhales deeply, which I know means a monologue about love is coming.
I put a finger to her lips to stem the tide and say, ‘Also… another diary appeared this morning. Another item that I didn’t purchase. It was just sitting on a shelf in Ephemera.’
‘And clearly you didn’t see who put it there?’
‘That’s just the thing. Pascale and Benoit both stopped by this morning, in a short space of time. It could have been either one of them.’
She taps a finger to her chin. ‘Or… both of them! Maybe they both wrote in it! Have you looked? The plot thickens!’
I frown. ‘Wouldn’t that be a stretch? I haven’t looked inside yet. Let me find it.’ I go to my room and take the diary from my handbag. When I return, Minou is sitting in Geneviève’s lap, kneading her dress, what’s left of his claws hooking the material. ‘Ah, Geneviève, isn’t that raw silk?’ Geneviève is one to wear designer labels, always promoting the fact I should invest in quality that will last a lifetime, not fast fashion.
‘It is, but look at his little battle-scarred face. I don’t have the heart to stop him.’
It appears that Minou’s charms are endless. I find one of his rugs and place it on Geneviève’s lap to help save her dress. ‘Here’s the diary.’ I hand over the notebook, which has the most beautiful floral-embossed cover.
‘OK, so if you don’t think it’s both of them conspiring, best guess who penned this one?’ she asks as she dons her diamante specs.
I go to the fridge and take a range of cheeses and some fruit and assemble them on a platter. ‘I’m really not sure. Benoit came over the other day and said he wanted to ask me something, butthen Minou jumped up and the moment was lost. Do you think he was going to confess it’s him?’ I bring the platter back to the table and have to wrestle Minou away from the brie.
‘Could be. Why don’t you ask him out? You’ve got extra time now that I’m helping with Paris Cupid. I’m having far too much fun helping with that, but what’s more important to me is that youcontinueto date and mingle and put yourself back into the path of love. And don’t think I didn’t pick up on the fact you avoided answering my question – who wrote this one?’ Geneviève waggles the diary in the air as Minou tries to paw at it.
I don my own thinking pose. Pascale is still an enigma, but today’s visit chipped away at my former opinion of him. He could see I was struggling, and he dropped his usual peeved act and checked in on me. Can I really trust in that? For all I know, he could be in cahoots with those who chitter chatter around the market and has noted the change in demeanour and pounced. I’m not usually one to catastrophise like this, but it’s an unnerving feeling not knowing who to trust.
The impatient tap of Geneviève’s fingernails on the table reminds me I haven’t answered. ‘Forcedto guess, I’d say Benoit. His job is romantic; he writes other people’s love letters all day every day.’
‘Right. But this kind of diary, this is the sort of thing Felix prints, isn’t it?’
Is it? I hadn’t thought of Felix hand-pressing diaries before. ‘Can he do work like that? I’ve only seen him print cards, posters, wedding invitations, that sort of thing.’
Geneviève sneaks Minou a slice of Comte. I’m about to rebuke her when she says, ‘I’ve known Felix has bound handmade diaries before. He made a range for the teachers at École de Musique in Paris.’
‘When was that?’
‘A year ago, two? When he was on the other side of the market. I only know because I’m friends with the principal and he asked me to help him with the design.’
‘We know it’s not Felix, though. But are you suggesting that Felix must know who it is?’
‘Yes, he must. You don’t think it’s Pascale?’
I shrug. ‘He doesn’t seem the type.’
‘I can’t handle the suspense any longer.’ She opens the diary and gasps.
