The Man of Their Lives

by Françoise Bourdin

  He had everything he needed, except Francine, who became more important to him by day. He’d barely noticed her when she came over to give Frédéric French lessons, but now she completely enthralled him. With Marianne, he’d never felt anything of the sort. Love, complicity, yes but he’d never needed her. He needed Francine, her stability and her serenity, the violent desire he had for her. He needed to protect her, as well as place himself under her control. He needed to abandon his defenses one after the other and let himself be open, for once, instead of hiding behind notes.

  The phone was ringing inside but he didn’t move. If it was Alix, he preferred not to pick up. He’d hated her cruel comments the other day. That Francine was not a socialite didn’t bother him at all. She wasn’t supposed to be some sort of escort or press agent for him. On the contrary, he hoped that she’d never change. In any event, he felt good lying in the grass this way, he didn’t want to move.

  * * *

  Resigned, Romain had to put up with the sales lady’s compassionate smile. The welt under his left eye had gone from blue to yellow, his cheek wasn’t as swollen, but he still looked like someone who’d taken a beating. Frédéric’s quick violence had surprised Romain. If their friends hadn’t stopped them, he eventually would’ve won the fight.

  Standing in front of the mirror, his mother waited for him to say something. She’d insisted that he come shopping with her, convinced that he’d give her good advice.

  “I like the other one better,” he finally said. “Don’t you?”

  “Try it on again,” the sales lady suggested. Her patience seemed to be limitless.

  Francine disappeared in the fitting room for a moment, and then stepped out wearing an elegant dark blue outfit.

  “You look super,” Romain said.

  “The young man is right,” the saleslady said.

  After one last look in the mirror, Francine nodded. Louis hadn’t told her exactly what this evening in Paris was all about, except that they were meeting some American film director in a luxury hotel. When asked, Romain had tried to explain to her that Frank James was a director known for his excesses. His movies were often controversial, but he’d also won a lot of prestigious prizes.

  Francine paid for the clothes wondering whether she’d made the right choice. Then she suggested that they go out to eat.

  “Your father would say that I’m throwing money out the window,” she said once they got to the restaurant.

  Right away she regretted making the comment. She’d promised herself, after she left Antoine, never to say bad things about her ex in front of her son, not even indirectly.

  “I’m just kidding,” she said. “Money is hard to come by.”

  She knew too well, having to manage her budget with pretty limited means. They ordered salmon cream tagliatelle with a bottle of rosé from Provence, and then Romain asked, “You’re not going to the hairdresser, I hope?”

  “No, I didn’t plan to…”

  “Good. You look much nicer when your hair is natural, without a ridiculous blowout. And I like those locks that are a bit long, there…”

  He reached out and grazed her hair.

  “I’m sure you’re going to have a great time tonight,” he said. “If you want, we can stop at the video store on the way home so we can get one of James’s movies. That way you’ll know what he’s about!”

  Moved by her son’s kindness, Francine gave him a tender smile. Since the beginning of her relationship with Louis, Romain had been her ally against all odds, in spite of Antoine and especially in spite of Frédéric.

  “And since you’re fully bilingual, you have nothing to worry about.”

  For many years, she studied English, a hobby that her ex-husband had supported completely. She read and spoke the language fluently and had never stopped perfecting her skills, even subscribing to an English newspaper.

  “Say, Mom…” Romain said in a hesitant voice.

  He let his sentence trail off, and began fiddling with his knife, head lowered. When he finally lifted his eyes to his mother, she caught a glimpse of his anguished expression.

  “You have a problem, my love?”

  “No… Just something I need to ask you…”

  His embarrassment was worrisome as he was always very direct. Francine patiently waited for him say what was troubling him.

  “Since you’re not going to be home tonight, I thought… I mean, I suppose that you’ll be sleeping at Louis’s?”

  Typical for teenagers, he had a hard time bringing up the topic. She saw her son blush.

  “Yes, I’ll be back home tomorrow at noon or so. We might go to bed very late tonight.”

  Her eyes still on him, she took a sip of rosé. She was almost certain what he was going to ask her, but she knew better than to guess.

  “Would it be okay with you if I invited a girl over to the apartment tonight?”

  There, he’d said it. Francine right away felt a twinge of sadness. Romain was seventeen. He was quickly turning into a very handsome man who would become a stranger.

  “For dinner and the night? Yes, it would be okay.”

  “It’s Élise,” he whispered.

  Now he was being forthright, like himself. With his mother gone for the night, he would take the opportunity to finish what he’d started at Richard’s. Since that terrible evening, Élise had been perfect. She and Romain had seen each other twice and they’d flirted like crazy. He didn’t want her first experience to be rushed, like his had been. He preferred having time, a relaxed atmosphere, a real bed. He was too in love with her to risk disappointing her.

  “You deserve it, I suppose,” Francine said, calmly.

  She wondered whether she should say anything more. Her son was mature enough so she could trust him and yet she was hesitant to do so. Antoine hadn’t had the talk with Romain, she’d bet anything on it.

  “Well, there’s all kinds of things to eat in the fridge,” she said. “And in the bathroom, in the cabinet, you’ll find a box of…”

  “Yes, I know, Mom.”

  “Okay, good. And don’t forget to use one, for you as well as for her.”

  Relieved, she smiled at him once again. She had a stupid urge to take him in her arms and reassure him, cuddle him even. He would never be a little boy again. There would be arms other than hers from now on. It wasn’t his mother he needed now.

  “To Élise,” she said, raising her glass.

  Romain did the same, smiled at her and said, “To Louis.”

  “Why do you say that?” she asked, a bit worried.

  “Because I like him.”

  Louis had been classy enough to call him the day after the fight, just before Francine got home. He’d apologized and had asked how Romain was doing, hoping he wasn’t in too much pain. He didn’t mention Frédéric, of course he would take his son’s side no matter what. But he addressed Romain like an adult.

  After emptying their glasses to the last drop as though they were sealing a deal, Francine asked for the bill.

  * * *

  At about seven in the evening, Alix realized that she had nothing really to do, which was extremely rare for her. No dinner date, no premiere, no urgent phone call to make. Her assistant had left, the agency was empty.

  Pensive, she looked at her agenda and noted the meetings she had scheduled for tomorrow. It was going to be a full day. The smart thing would be to go home early and relax. Only, there was nothing to eat at her place other than coffee and crackers. She spent virtually no time in her duplex, mostly living either at the agency or at restaurants.

  The ambient silence drove her mad, so she picked up her things and buried them in her handbag. When she stepped out of the building, she was surprised at how hot it still was. Summer was soon going to be here alongside the longest days of the year, the ones you don’t want to spend alone. She walked to her car parked two blocks away, and found the inevitable ticket under her windshield wiper. She thought of driving to Notre-Dame-de-la-Mer, but
remembered that Louis wasn’t going to be there. Tonight he was meeting Frank James. Without her…

  Traffic on the Champs-Élysées was horrible and even though the windows were down, the air in the MG was stifling. Instead of heading for her apartment, she turned on la Concorde to reach the Boulevard Saint-Germain. Might as well go have supper at Grégoire’s, where she didn’t have to call in advance. Of course, she could’ve given Tom a call, but she preferred to keep him in the dark. Every time he called her, she found an excuse to turn down his invitation. She’d only accepted one lunch date in eight days, satisfied to see him really suffering from their separation. She was going to make peace with him after he paid for their pseudo-breakup long enough.

  In Luxembourg, she had to drive around for a long time before she found a parking spot. At eight she finally rang the bell at her father’s. Laura opened the door, bemused to find her sister on the landing.

  “What’s wrong?” she said.

  “Nothing at all. The smells from your cooking wafted all across Paris and into my office, so I decided to invite myself.”

  “Good. We actually were about to sit at the table. Come…”

  With Laura, things were simple. She never asked questions. Grégoire was also surprised by his daughter’s impromptu arrival. Hugues just set an extra plate on the table.

  “We’re having braised ham with Madeira sauce and broccoli gratin,” Laura said. “Is that okay?”

  “Sounds amazing,” Alix whispered.

  A sudden pang of sadness overcame her, leaving her lost. She knew this dining room intimately, this apartment, her nice little nieces who were smiling at her. No one had asked her why she was here, nobody pestered her about it. Why did a busy 40 year old woman feel the need to take refuge among her family instead of going home? She raised her eyes to the wonderfully rococo glass chandelier that had lit the meals of her childhood. How many times had she sat at that same table, next to Louis, involved in one of their endless conversations? At age ten, they were both chatterboxes, what had make Grégoire and their mother laugh, as well. Her mother’s memory was a blur now. She’d died right after Louis’s wedding, before Frédéric’s birth, when the twins were twenty-three and Laura only eighteen.

  “Come on,” Hugues said, “have some food.”

  Snapping out of her reverie, Alix reached for the ham dish. She’d had no reason to think about her mother. She was very good at pushing any memories to the back of her mind, always busy thinking about tomorrow instead of the past.

  “Business is good?” Grégoire asked her.

  “Too good! I’m drowning in work.”

  “And what about Tom? Have you heard from him?”

  Laura stared daggers at her father, who put up an air of perfect innocence.

  “He’s doing fine,” Alix said, lightly.

  Tom wasn’t bothering her now, she was at least certain of that. She took a few bites of the ham topped with a mushroom sauce which she thoroughly enjoyed.

  “I hope that Louis is not going to do anything foolish when he’s with that American director,” she suddenly blurted. Accept some bad deal or something.”

  “He won’t,” Grégoire said. “Trust him.”

  While she went for a second helping of ham, Alix didn’t notice Grégoire, Laura, and Hugues giving each other knowing looks. It was obvious why Alex had joined them tonight.

  * * *

  Frank James made quite a splash when he arrived at the Scottish bar in the basement of the Plaza-Athénée, Tall and gangly, dressed in a badly rumpled alpaca suit, his pale blue eyes in stark contrast with his tanned face. James looked like what he actually was: an American movie director on a business trip in Paris. He was accompanied by Billy, head still shaved, wearing tight white jeans with a notepad sticking out of the front pocket of his shirt.

  “Hello!” Frank screamed as soon as he spotted Louis.

  He ran to him, leaving Billy in his wake. He came to a screeching halt when he saw Francine.

  “The real blonde?” he said, pointing at her. “Ah, Lou-iss, you have better taste in women than in music!”

  His howling laugher must’ve been heard all the way up the street. Nonplussed, Francine held out a hand. Frank bowed and grazed the tips of her fingers like a perfect gentleman. As he straightened up, he gave Louis a vigorous slap on the back, obviously enjoying their reunion. Discreet as always, Billy nodded to no one in particular.

  “Champagne?” Louis suggested.

  “French?”

  “Certainly not the Californian swill you call ‘champagne’…”

  Louis flashed his irresistible kid’s smile that came out when he was truly happy.

  “That sounds good to me,” Frank said. “And where are you taking me for supper? I don’t want to go anywhere stuffy and pretentious. What I really feel like is tasting your abominable cheeses. After that, we’re barhopping, if Madame is okay with that, it goes without saying…”

  Frank let his gaze land on Francine, as if to make sure she understood English.

  “That sounds like a great plan to me,” she said, without a trace of a French accent.

  “You speak better English than Louis,” Frank said. “He butchers everything.”

  Louis got up and asked the bartender to make a reservation for four at Androuët’s. When he came back, he had a cigarette in his hand. Billy gave him a light while Frank continued chatting with Francine.

  “And so, here I am taking him to L.A.’s most secluded bar, the most expensive, too, because you can smoke in there and Louis has to smoke. You have no idea how much the owner of that bar has bribe the cops so they’ll turn a blind eye when they see cigarette smoke coming out of the place. In California, tobacco is considered much worse than weed. Anyway, what does your little friend do once we get there? He makes a big, rowdy scene! And all because a fine, gigantic athlete put his hand on his shoulder. Nowhere else, just the shoulder. Well, Lou-iss here utters a five-word sentence, for once in real English, with three curse words in it!”

  Frank spouted the story quickly, testing Francine without giving Louis time to intervene. He was thrilled when she burst out laughing.

  “And how did the athlete feel about it?” she asked.

  “We didn’t stick around to find out!”

  Frank grabbed his glass of champagne, downed it, then turned to Louis with an amused expression.

  “I want another,” he said. “You guys drink in such tiny, little glasses! So, Louis, are you happy to work with me again?”

  “I didn’t say yes,” Louis replied.

  “I knew you’d be thrilled!”

  Louis gestured at the bartender and then said, “It’s going to be a nightmare…”

  “Especially since I know exactly what I want.”

  “Really? That’s a surprise.”

  “Something light, like Wagner!”

  Once again, his laugh halted every conversation in the bar. Louis leaned toward Frank and asked, in a low voice, “So, what’s your romantic movie about?”

  “It’s a story about vampires.”

  “Vampires?”

  Louis looked at Francine, then at Billy, then at Frank’s once-again empty glass.

  “I was expecting Gone with the Wind,” he said, “not Dracula!”

  “What, Lou-iss? Ever heard of Coppola? He made a great vampire movie. Then there’s the one with Tom Cruise and Brad Pitt. That was awesome! My vampire is a remarkable guy, very sad because he’s been bored for centuries.”

  “Amen,” Louis sighed.

  “I’ve found a medieval castle, in the Dordogne region. That’s where we’re going to shoot the movie.”

  “Why Wagner? Why not Mozart’s Requiem? It seems more appropriate to me.”

  “That or whatever you come up with. I want something… disturbing, filled with anguish. We’re talking about a main character who’s terribly cruel…”

  “Frank…”

  “Don’t start arguing with me now, we’ll have plenty of oppor
tunities to do that when you’re sitting at the piano. So, are we going out to eat or are we going to be stuck here all night?”

  He’d gotten up. Excessively tall, he looked tired, though his eyes were on fire. He held out a hand to Francine. Standing next to him, her head didn’t even reach his shoulder.

  “Do all French women dress as well as you?” he asked.

  “It’s a question of fashion, taste, and money,” she said.

  “And looks, too. You’re beautiful. What’s missing, though, is a little hat.”

  “French women haven’t worn hats since the Liberation. You’re fifty years too late.”

  “Impossible!” he said, chuckling. “California is always ten years ahead of the rest of the world!”

  Francine headed for the exit, followed by Billy. Frank stayed a couple of steps behind with Louis. He wrapped his arm around his shoulders and said, “I like her a lot. She’s cheerful, positive—the total opposite of you. She make you happy?”

  “Very happy and very worried.”

  “Good! This way you’ll do great work. Please plan to spend a month on this. I want you on location to watch some of scenes being shot.”

  Louis didn’t even try to argue. He knew he was going to work and that Frank was going to give him a horrible time, but in the end he was going to come up with music they’d both be proud of.

  From Avenue Montaigne, they walked to Rue Arsène-Houssaye. The early evening air was pleasant. It was still daylight, and the sidewalks were crowded. At Androuët’s, going over the menu sparked an animated discussion. Francine explained to the two Americans the different types of French cheeses. Her vocabulary seemed limitless. Louis understood only every three works, but smiled as Francine spoke with such confidence. He hadn’t been worried about her, but he was very pleasantly surprised by English. Even reserved Billy seemed to fall under Francine’s spell.