The maid’s room? Could Margot have gone on to become a maid? Swapping her own life at a grandiose chateau to work inside one for another wealthy family? All I know so far is she had the desire to leave her stuffy, supervised life. So many diaries, so many extraordinary stories from ordinary lives.
Guillaume continues to squint in the morning sun. ‘Don’t you feel like you’re trespassing on the dead when you read their most intimate and private thoughts, their secrets, their sorrows?’
I contemplate his question, searching for the truth. ‘It could be seen as an intrusion but if so, then why leave the diary where it would be found? Why not burn it, shred it, throw it in the river? To me, this is the same as reading a memoir; the narrative of a stranger’s life told honestly. These people live on, through the very words they’ve written. Their storiesmatterand if we were to discard them like junk, wouldn’t that be a form of sacrilege? Why did they write them if they didn’t want them shared one day?’
He shakes his head as if he doesn’t comprehend such a notion. ‘You’re a hopeless romantic.’ If only he knew about my alter ego.
I laugh. ‘Oui, I am. But Guillaume, these written diaries are often full of love in all its complicated glory. Unrequited love,like a punch to the heart. The devastation of lost love. The joy of second-chance love. First love. Love at first sight.’ I’ve read them all, different decades, eras, in French and in English, and been swept away by real-life romance stories about people I’ll never know or meet.
What a strange honour it is, to be able to become part of their story, an outsider peeking in for one moment.
As it’s expected, we haggle back and forth over the price for his latest discoveries, but I trust Guillaume implicitly and appreciate the lengths he goes to in scouring the countryside for these marvels, when really there’s a lot more money to be made for him in sourcing antique furniture for his other clients. We make arrangements for delivery for this coming Friday when the market is open to the public. The anticipation of what’s to come is a heady thing indeed. Waiting for delivery is going to be torturous, but that’s the way Guillaume works. Deliveries are on Fridays, no exceptions.
‘Speaking of romance…’ I say. ‘Did you give any thought to trying out Paris Love or whatever it’s called?’ Guillaume is in desperate need of a sweetheart.Widower finds love after loss.
With a weary sigh he says, ‘Not that Paris Cupid lecture again?’ There’s always a lot of head-shaking when we meet, as though I’m a pesky fly around his face. But if I don’t encourage him, then who will? ‘Lilou, I’ve told you a hundred times, love is off the menu. I’m old. Tired. Set in my ways. No one can replace Mathilde.’
Six years ago, Mathilde succumbed after a long illness. Before she got sick, she had a stall at the bottom of the stairs in the Marché Dauphine so we met for lunch often and got to be great friends over the years. I miss her still.
Loneliness has left its mark on Guillaume; it’s evidenced in every line and plane on his face. His shoulders stoop withthe heavy burden of grief. Love would lift his spiritsandhis shoulders, I’m sure of it.
Guillaume is special to me, and loveisthe tonic for what ails him. However, I must tread carefully so he doesn’t suspect I’m Cupid. ‘Why not give love a chance? You deserve it as much as anyone.’
He makes a great show of harrumphing. ‘You’re a busybody meddler whose brain has been turned to mush reading too many private diaries.’
‘See, look at you throwing compliments around like confetti!’ I bite my lip and hope I’ve managed to convince him.
Lost in thought, he folds his arms across his once ample belly. Without Mathilde, Guillaume has taken to eating convenience meals, avoiding the long lunches they used to favour, making him a shadow of his former self.
‘Who would they find for tête-à-têtes, do you suppose?’ He feigns disinterest but his eyes sparkle as if the possibility of sharing a conversation oversoufflé au fromageappeals to him. No one will ever replace Mathilde, she was such a darling woman, but that doesn’t mean he can’t enjoy companionship and see where it leads.
I pretend to consider what Paris Cupid might offer when I clearly know very well. It strikes me that we’rebothdoing a lot of feigning today. ‘I’m not exactly sure on how that site works, but I’d expect there’d be some sort of application you’d fill out, to help match you with a companion who shares the same interests as you. From what I’ve heard from others who’ve joined is you write to your match first, get to know each other the old-fashioned way.’
Surprise dashes across his features. ‘That’s the way to do it. Everyone is always in such a hurry these days.’
I tip my head in agreement. Paris Cupid is designed for people just like him. A man who lost his twin flame, but still haslove to give, who just needs encouragement. Needs reassurance that finding love after loss is perfectly acceptable.
‘Once you’ve established a solid connection with your match you can meet in person. You used to love dining out, and long walks after your meal. Why not aim for that? No strings necessarily attached, just a friendly face over the dinner table?’
What he doesn’t know is that I already have the ideal woman in mind. Clementine D’Amboise from thefromagerieon Rue Damrémont.Guillaume is a cheese enthusiast and Clementine enjoys simple pleasures, taken often. Her husband left her for his assistant a few years ago and she’d sworn off love until recently, when a friend suggested she try Paris Cupid, which she did with great reluctance. I’ve held off matching her because I feel it in my bones that Guillaume is the man for her, so now it’s just a matter of convincing him to join.
I can already picture them sharing a wedge ofBrie de Meauxand a bottle of Beaujolais. Basking in the sun on the bank of the Seine. Walking arm in arm around Luxembourg Gardens and taking a tour of the beehives. Humble pursuits with the sun on his face and a gracious woman on his arm.
He contorts his mouth into a moue. ‘Well, I suppose if it’s good enough for the likes of celebrities, it’s good enough for a mere mortal such as me.’
‘Celebrities?’ I ask, my spine stiffening. Of all the people I’d expect to have heard about Emmanuel Roux, Guillaume would be the last.
A tabby cat we call Marmalade does figure eights around his ankles. Guillaume bends to tickle her ears. Marmalade is his favourite of all the cats with Minou a close second, probably because the ginger cat is affectionate and the tabby cat Minou prefers to be left alone – even if despite his frosty demeanour we’ve come to love him. Minou tolerates us and that’s enough.
‘Yes, that rather annoying man – from that TV series that never seems to end, despite every character dying in some unfathomable way. Last night he did an interview on theLate Show.’
Pas encore!I mute my shock and say, ‘What was the interview about?’
Guillaume picks up Marmalade, whose meows turn into a purr when he rocks her like a baby in his arms. ‘It was him gushing over an incredible woman he’s met on Paris Cupid. He claims she’s changed his whole outlook on life. Really, I detested the man before, but after watching his interview, my opinion changed somewhat.’
‘Ooh, interesting.’ I don’t believe a word of it. Emmanuel Roux is many things, but faithful clearly isn’t one of them. Is he using this latest tactic to stay relevant in the media? Anything to get more attention in the press. I’m stuck between a rock and a hard place.
I’ll call Émilienne again and ask how she’s going with her new love. Since she sent me the text confiding she’d fallen madly in love and encouraged me to try Paris Cupid, I haven’t heard a word back. I’ve texted her a few times but she hasn’t replied. She must know by now he’s not Remy Tatou. There is no Remy Tatou! It appears this isn’t going to blow over as quickly as I’d hoped. The next logical step is to reach out to ‘Remy’ as Paris Cupid and remind him of the clause in the application that says you must be honest about who you are.
