Geneviève shrugs. ‘Perhaps he’s got sensitive hearing and he forgot his manners because he was in the middle of a phone call?’
‘I hardly think so.’
While we’re arguing about what makes good manners, Felix does more trips up and down the stairs, carting in more boxes. ‘Do you need a hand?’ I ask.
He shakes his head. ‘Non, merci. I have the heavy stuff coming by courier. There’s only a few boxes left, but if you could watch my stall while I move my car from the loading bay that would be great.’
‘Oui, of course.’ Felix has one of those ready smiles and a boundless energy about him. As he goes back downstairs, I take a moment to see how Benoit is doing. He doesn’t seem to have many boxes to unpack. Maybe he’s waiting for a courier too. There’s a quiet indifference about him, as if he’s aware of his surroundings but separate from it. Lost in a daydream perhaps? I wonder what Benoit sells?
And as for Pascale, when I sneak a peek in his direction, he’s staring at me with utter contempt and motions for me to turn down the volume of my music. I’m tempted to give him some finger signs of my own, but I won’t stoop to his level. Instead, I roll my eyes and get back to work, feeling a strange sort of unsettled.
5
NOW
A month later our neighbours have settled in and set up their stalls which complement ours well with our literary and correspondence theme. Pascale manages to treat every workday as if it’s an exercise in futility. The man is never happy. In fact he’s downright surly. It bamboozles me how he stays afloat. For some inexplicable reason I can’t keep my eyes off him because it’s fascinating to see him behave so badly and get away with it.
It’s got me stumped why so many customers flock to his typewriter stall despite his bad attitude. He acts as if he’s doing his customers a favour if he takes a minute to stop typing to serve them. I push my display tables out to the common hallway and ignore his laser-like gaze. I’m well within my rights to use the area in front of my stall even though he’s complained already about them taking up too much room. He glares at me as I trundle past – no surprise there, the man put the steel into steely eyed – and motions for me to move my display table back inside. I shake my head –no. I will not be ordered about by this tyrant. Still, it’s a little thrilling and my heart beats erratically from these daily confrontations.
Once that’s done, I sit behind my desk, taking a breath and willing my pulse to slow down. What is it about the guy that makes my body go so haywire? Anger, probably. I’ve never met a man like Pascale before, not in the flesh anyway. You read about these types of guys all the time, and I can never understand why women fall for men like that. Who needs that sort of conflict in everyday life? I’d much prefer a man like Felix, who brightens each day, or Benoit, who is introspective and thoughtful. Both drama-free and happy in their own skin from what I’ve learned about them over the last month. I risk one last look at Pascale, who has moved from glaring across at me to setting up his own display table out the front of his stall and is loading it with vintage typewriters. I’m incensed. His table is twice the size of mine!
As I’m fuming about his double standards, Geneviève sashays in, wearing a fitted three-quarter length dress that accentuates her curves.
‘You just can’t get enough of him, can you?’ She peers down at me, tucked behind my desk.
‘Of who?’
She scoffs. ‘Pascale! Every time I get here, you’re staring over at him like he’s a nice juicy piece offilet de boeuf.’
I try to scoff but it comes out more like a gargle. ‘You couldn’t be more wrong! That man has no qualms badgering me about the size of my display tables and now here he is with his own that’s at least twice the size of mine. Someone isclearlymaking up for a lack.’
Geneviève ignores me, gazes over at Pascale, her flirty smile at the ready, and gives him a fluttery little wave.
‘Don’t encourage him!’
She lifts a shoulder. ‘I’m simply being a friendly neighbour.’
I huff and fold my arms across my chest. ‘Does it not bother you that he’s being a hypocrite?’ The more I think about it themore riled up I get. ‘It’s not fair I’ve caved in to most of his demands, and he’s put out a table that’s so wide we’ll all have to crabwalk to get around it.’ I steal a glance and notice he’s put candles on his display table. ‘You’re kidding me! He told me my candles were a fire hazard and I was violating the market code of conduct by having them, and now look!’ I hiss. Annoyingly, Geneviève just gives me a smug smile. What is she smiling about?
I have to get the upper hand this time, so how do I play this? Demand he use actual words when he speaks to me? All that grumbling and scowling is not conducive to a professional relationship. After all, work is my happy place and if I’m confronted by his glowering face every day it’s really going to dull my sparkle.
‘I’ll tell him he needs to lighten up if he wants to fit in here. Do you think that’ll do it?’ I pine for my former neighbours, a merry band of elderly men who were more like honorarygrandpères. Well, except one of them who treated me differently afterle scandale.
But they’re gone and here I am. I mustn’t allow Pascale to bully me. Internally I puff myself up and mentally prepare a script that will cut him to the quick and make him understand that I’m not to be messed with. I turn and run smack bang into a huge muscular chest. Specifically, his – ‘Aie!’ – with my nose, which from the velocity of the altercation and the taut toughened muscles involved I expect is now broken. Tentatively, I touch the tip and am surprised to find the appendage intact andnotgushing a river of blood. I must be stronger than I give myself credit for. I await a rash of apologies slung my way, but instead find myself staring up at him, his habitual scowl in place as ifI’mthe aggressor and not the other way around.
‘Did youplanto march over here and strike my nose like that?’
His behaviour is escalating, this, this… Frenemy! Not even that – just plain enemy! Pascale scowls down at me. He is a lot taller when we’re standing toe to toe. ‘You struckme. I didn’t expect you to turn around and launch yourself in the air like that,’ he says with a loose shrug. How can he be so blasé when he almost knocked my nose clean off my face?
I jab my index finger into his chest and am surprised when it feels as though I’ve hit stone. He must work out. He’s a veritable man mountain. Probably another intimidation tactic. ‘You snuck up on me, Pascale.’
He casually leans against the door frame, as if he’s visiting an old friend.
‘Uh… are you going to apologise?’ I ask.
‘Apologise for what?’ He lifts a quizzical brow.
‘The nose?’ I point to my appendage and bet it’s bright red and not being painted in its best light. But what do I care? This man is trying to intimidate me, and for what reason?
