‘Next we’ll have Paris Cupid for Cats.’ She laughs. ‘Mimosa?’
‘Geneviève! If I have a mimosa at this hour, I’ll be asleep at my desk. Minou prefers to sleep during the day, so I’m already running on empty with all his nighttime high jinks.’
‘Pah!’
‘OK?’
‘Sit, sit while I pour you an orange juice then.’ She saunters to the bar fridge and comes back with our drinks. Honestly, how the woman has the energy to get through long market days when she has a mimosa for breakfast and wine at lunch most days is beyond me. ‘What did you decide to do about Paris Cupid?’
I blow out a breath. ‘I decided to face it head on myself. If it happens, it happens.’ I shrug. ‘I might be a laughingstock for a while and people will judge me for the married man thing, if they find it out, but I know the truth so…’
‘Lilou, if they judge you, that says more about them than you. Though the offer is still there if you’d like me to take ownership.’
‘It’s fine. And anyway, I’m still hoping it might all go away.’ I would much prefer sinking my energy into finding love for people than worrying about being outed as the face of Paris Cupid.
‘Ohma Chérie, this is why we drink champagne for breakfast. It won’t go away, but the bubbles make it easier to digest.’
I laugh. ‘That’s terrible advice, Geneviève, but thanks for the sentiment.’
‘You’re welcome. Now, I need breakfast, would you like acroissant aux amandesfrom Lumière Boulangerie?’
I’m about to agree when I see a customer waiting at my stall. ‘No, thanks. I’d better go, but let’s meet for lunch?’
‘Oui.We’ve got a lot to discuss.’ She drops her voice. ‘I’ll get those handwriting samples today.’
I nod, wondering just what scheme she’ll use. I say goodbye and dash back to my stall. ‘Bonjour, bonjour.’ I take my keys from my handbag and unlock the door. ‘Come in. Sorry I’m late, I was chatting to my neighbour and didn’t see you waiting.’
There’s something cagey in the man’s eyes. It’s the way he’s squinting at me like he’s trying to get a read or something. ‘Are you Lilou Babineaux?’
‘Oui,’ I say slowly. ‘And you are?’
‘Jorges fromParis Scandale. I’d like to ask you about your part in Paris Cupid. Can you confirm you’re the owner of the site?’
The ground beneath me tilts. I freeze, unbalanced and unsure of how to answer. Why areParis Scandaleinvolved!
‘Well?’ Jorges prompts. ‘I’d love an exclusive with you. You can get your side of the story out first.’
Eventually my brain catches up. ‘What do you mean “myside of the story”?’ Is there any point denying it at this stage? All I can do is try and minimise the damage.
Jorges gives me a sly smile that makes my skin crawl. ‘Well, it’s not going to look good, is it? A matchmaker with a rocky love life according to your social media posts going back the last few years. There was the married man and seven children. The catfish from America. The engagement that lasted all of three weeks before he stole your bicycle and ghosted you. The list goes on. You really should have used your privacy settings if you didn’t want that sort of thing found.’ He glances at a notebook in his hand and flips a page. ‘With that sort of history, what makes you think you’re capable of finding love for other people?’
I want to slap my own forehead. Why didn’t I delete all those old posts? But he’s not simply going back a few years, he’s also going back to my early twenties, a decade ago. When Ishared online in detail all about those silly heartbreaks just like everyone else did.
My dithering is replaced with white-hot fury as anger roils up inside of me. ‘Dating mistakes aren’t a crime, last time I checked! Yet here you are making it seem like it’s my fault for believing in what a man tells me on face value. Shouldn’t you be doing an exposé on men who date and dash? Men who lie about their identity, their marriages? Isn’t that a much moreimportantstory?’
He lets out an impatient sigh as if the truth is boring him. Pen poised, he says, ‘So you admit you’re Cupid?’
I’m so taken aback, my mind a scramble as I desperately try to think. ‘I admit no such thing.’
He slips his pen into his jean pocket. ‘OK, then we’ll run the angle we want and you won’t get a say how this plays out.’
‘You’re threatening me?’ How dare he! ‘You’re a scourge on society, you know that? You’re the reason people stop believing in love, when you write shallow exposés about innocent women trying to find the one.’ I’m surprised to find my eyes fill with tears. If Jorges fromParis Scandaleis this brutal, how is everyone else going to react when the news gets out? Jorges stands there as if rooted to the spot. ‘I want you to leave. Get out of my stall!’
There’s a thunder of footsteps and I turn to find Pascale stomping towards us, glower at the ready. ‘Is everything OK, Lilou?’ he asks me, shooting daggers at Jorges, who is suddenly looking a lot less confident with Pascale breathing down his neck.
I swipe at my eyes, hoping Pascale doesn’t notice my tears. ‘Not exactly. I’ve asked this man to leave, but he’s not listening.’
‘It’s not that,’ Jorges says jovially as if he wasn’t just threatening me. ‘I was giving you one last chance to tell your side of the story, that’s all.’
