Petite Anglaise

by Catherine Sanderson

  For a moment the dirty pavement faded from view as I pictured a very different life: a ramshackle country cottage, an unkempt garden, a small family car. We’d recently toyed with the idea of a move to the countryside outside Lyons after Mr Frog spotted an interesting job opportunity in a trade magazine. I’d embraced the idea, surfing the web obsessively for house prices and secretarial work, getting ahead of myself as usual. Mr Frog’s enthusiasm, on the other hand, had soon withered, and it wasn’t long before he began backpedalling.

  ‘The thing is, if I accepted a job en province, I’d have to be prepared to shift my career down a gear,’ he explained, taking a seat on the bed by my side, next to my desk, the night before. ‘And I don’t think I’m ready for that. Not for a few years, at least…’

  ‘A few years?’ I cried, turning from the computer screen to face him, tears of frustration prickling my eyes. ‘Well, I really hope this career of yours turns out to be worth it. Because right now you’re working all hours, and we don’t seem to have an awful lot to show for it…’ I looked back at my screen, which was filled with pictures of the bilingual school set in leafy parkland over which I’d been salivating for the past half-hour: mummy porn. ‘You shouldn’t have let me get my hopes up like that if you weren’t serious. It wasn’t fair!’ I closed the window with an emphatic click of the mouse.

  Mr Frog and I seemed to have reached an impasse: incapable of agreeing on whether to continue our long search for a flat, whether to try for another baby, whether to move away from the city. I kept pushing for change – any sort of change – pinning my hopes on the foolish, misguided notion that a new home or a new baby might be just what we needed, while Mr Frog dug in his heels, using his workload as an excuse to postpone any decisions. This charade was all very well, but I suspected we were both equally wary of further commitment. We shied away from saying so out loud, for fear of causing irreparable harm. Instead we stuck to our script – I pushed, he resisted – and we muddled on, uncomfortably, side by side.

  Luckily, on this particular spring day I had other, more cheerful things on which to focus my mind. I had a lunch date. Today, I’d arranged to meet a fellow blogger in the flesh for the very first time. A virtual friend, an American girl who I knew only by her pseudonym, Coquette, was about to become a walking, talking, lunching person, as opposed to a collection of emails bounced back and forth. It was a blind date, of sorts, I supposed, something I hadn’t experienced since I met Mr Frog eight years earlier, or Florence before him. And if I was honest with myself, I was wearing my new mac because I was dressing to impress.

  That morning at work, as my fingers raced across the keyboard, my mind wandered, my mounting excitement tempered by twinges of shyness. ‘Meeting someone who has previously been anonymous lends itself to an “I preferred the book to the movie” scenario,’ Coquette had admitted in her last email, although she only had good things to say about the other bloggers she’d got to know since arriving in Paris. Was I worried I’d disappoint in real life; that I’d be less interesting than petite anglaise? Or could it be the fact that Coquette was in her early twenties, in the first flush of her romance with Paris, and I was afraid of seeming old and jaded in comparison, my Paris-weariness thrown into sharper relief by her boundless optimism? My foot jabbed at the pedal under my desk, spooling the tape back to the beginning. It was no good: my concentration was shot to pieces.

  ‘Do you fancy grabbing some lunch and taking it to the Tuileries today, to catch some sun?’ said Amy, appearing suddenly at my elbow. I plucked the headset from my ears and turned to face her, flustered, casting around for an alibi. Amy knew nothing about petite anglaise, and I was reluctant to admit that I was meeting someone I’d only spoken to on the internet. It had taken me months to get used to the idea of meeting strangers from cyberspace. How on earth could I expect her to understand?

  ‘Actually, um, I’m meeting an old friend – from home – who’s over for a couple of days with her job,’ I replied, not quite meeting her eyes. ‘I haven’t seen her in years. She’s taking me out to lunch on her expenses, otherwise I’d invite you along…’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Amy’s face fell. ‘Well, don’t worry about me. I’m sure you have a lot to catch up on. I’ve got a book. I’ll be fine on my own.’ Things had come to a sticky end with Amy’s long-term French boyfriend recently and she’d taken it hard. The weight had dropped off her already narrow frame, and the skin around her eyes looked bruised, as though she’d been crying in the toilets again. I’d invited Amy over for dinner a few times, and she’d even got to know Tadpole, who loved having visitors. Amy had become the closest thing to a best friend I’d had in years, and I hated lying to her. I was tempted, for a moment, to come clean and tell her about petite anglaise. But if I didn’t get a move on I’d be late. I would tell her, I decided, but for now my revelation would have to wait.

  Coquette and I had arranged to meet at La Ferme on the rue Saint Roch, an organic café where the sandwiches were admittedly overpriced, but much more innovative than the baguettes with cheese, or ham, or ham with cheese on offer pretty much everywhere else. As I drew closer – ears filled with the mournful sound of the emergency sirens which are tested without fail at noon on the first Wednesday of every month – I had to make a conscious effort to unclench my jaw and relax the quotation mark creases forming between my eyebrows. Rounding the corner and adjusting my course to avoid the queue snaking across the pavement from a nearby cashpoint, I spotted Coquette straight away, recognizing her auburn curls from a photo she’d posted on her blog. There were no photos of me on petite anglaise, but apparently the description I’d given her – long blonde hair and distinctive, dark-rimmed glasses – was enough.

  ‘So you’re petite!’ she shrieked, as we both cracked open nervous smiles. ‘You’re not as, well, petite as I expected.’

  ‘You can call me Catherine, if you want,’ I mumbled, bemused to hear the name ‘petite’ spoken aloud.

  ‘And I’m Elisabeth,’ Coquette replied. ‘But you’ll have to forgive me if I slip up and call you petite. I’ve gotten so used to that name; it won’t be easy to reprogram my brain…’ We kissed the air by one another’s cheeks, awkwardly, as expats always do, and stepped inside the café. I was relieved to note that Elisabeth looked just as anxious as I felt, which was somewhat at odds with the confident voice Coquette adopted on her blog. Hastily I chose a quiche and salad, my fingers trembling as I fumbled for my purse. We scoured the room for a quiet nook with comfortable armchairs where we could talk as we ate.

  ‘Isn’t this weird?’ I said, conscious that I was already shedding my accent, mimicking Elisabeth’s American vowels and intonation. I’ve always been something of a linguistic chameleon: unconsciously adopting the speech patterns of the person I’m with. My French accent is almost pitch-perfect as a result, but I worry sometimes that people I imitate might entertain the suspicion that I could be mocking them.

  ‘I suppose it is, but weird in a good way,’ Elisabeth replied, pouring vinaigrette over her mâche and Roquefort salad. ‘I feel like I know you already. I’ve been reading about you for months now, and my whole family read your blog, back in the States.’

  ‘Well, do stop me if I start telling you something you’ve already read about…’ I quipped, aware that of my stock anecdotes, many had already been used up before we even met. Would we still find things to say, or would lunch be punctuated by awkward silences? But in her next breath Elisabeth dispelled my fears. ‘There are so many things I’m burning to ask you,’ she said. ‘Our blogs skim the surface, but there’s a lot we hold back, or just hint at…’

  Dispensing in one stroke with small talk, we dived straight into honest, searching questions, exclaiming over the common ground we quickly uncovered, laying the foundations for friendship. It felt natural: I’d known Elisabeth for only a matter of minutes but Coquette since long before we met.

  ‘Of course, I don’t talk about personal stuff in the way you do,’ Elisabeth said tho
ughtfully, setting her fork to one side, having just finished demolishing a slice of cheesecake with a gusto that set her apart from the French girls around us savouring cigarettes with their espressos. ‘I often wonder how your Mr Frog feels about what you write…’

  ‘Well, not that he reads it very often, as far as I know,’ I said cautiously, ‘but my theory is that he sees the blog as somewhere I can let off steam, anonymously, without causing any real harm… He likes the fact that it keeps me busy, too, because I probably give him less stick about working late these days.’ I paused, wondering whether I was speaking the truth, or just trying to convince myself. Mr Frog was a man of few words: how he really felt was anyone’s guess. ‘And yes, I do write personal things, but I hold plenty back too. I make the final cut. I decide what to show, and what not to show. All people really get are brief glimpses into our lives. They pretty much join the dots themselves, and somehow seem to wind up feeling like they actually know the real me.’

  ‘So, is the real me anything like you expected?’ Elisabeth quizzed me as we parted. My lunch hour had flashed by in a blur; I couldn’t remember the last time meeting someone new had been such fun. ‘Do you think the voice on the blog fits my face?’

  ‘Yes and no,’ I replied evasively, struggling to remember whether I’d had any preconceived ideas of how she would talk or behave. If anything, I was relieved to find out just how normal she was. Coquette was articulate, witty, opinionated… but, in person, Elisabeth tripped over her words from time to time, or fiddled nervously with her hair. She was, in short, reassuringly human. I didn’t quite dare ask how I measured up, but sneaking a peek at her blog later that day, I was delighted to read that she had described meeting petite as ‘awesome’.

  My confidence duly boosted, I signed myself up for a Parisian bloggers’ soirée taking place later that month and persuaded Elisabeth to do the same. The time was ripe to drag myself out from behind my monitor and let petite anglaise kickstart my social life.

  ‘I really, really need you to get home from work early next Tuesday.’ I plonked down a tray of cheese and charcuterie, a pot of cornichons and a demi-baguette on the coffee table by the sofa where Mr Frog lay. The Paris skyline twinkled behind him, an orange haze of light pollution blotting out the stars which should have been visible above the rooftops. Kneeling by the table, I poured myself a glass of Bordeaux, waving the bottle at him questioningly. Mr Frog shook his head, easing himself into a sitting position, ready to eat.

  ‘Remind me why again?’ He took up a knife and began paring thin slices from the block of Comté, arranging them across his bread.

  ‘But I told you the other night.’ I set down my glass sharply. ‘Don’t you ever listen to a word I say?’

  ‘You never stop talking,’ Mr Frog shot back, indignantly. ‘How on earth am I supposed to remember it all?’ I blame my parents for my verbal dysentery. They dangled me from the top of an Irish castle as a teenager so I could kiss the Blarney stone. In the evenings, when Mr Frog got home from work, I was invariably desperate for adult conversation, with a million things I wanted to share, many of them related to the blog. Unfortunately, his dearest wish was to unwind in peace, and more than once he’d begged me to be quiet, protesting that his ‘head was too full’.

  ‘Well, as I said last week,’ I repeated, ‘I’ve signed up for a Paris Bloggers’ meet-up. Paris blogue-t-il, remember? It’s all the way down in the fourteenth arrondissement, so it’ll take ages to get there on the métro. I had hoped you could try and make it home by seven.’ My wheedling tone made me cringe: I abhorred having to beg. Seven was hopelessly optimistic, but if I said that, there was an outside chance Mr Frog might just put in an appearance by eight, after which I could leap into a taxi and hopefully not arrive too late.

  ‘Tuesday… I don’t know, there’s this meeting on Thursday to prepare for now, I’ll have to see…’ Mr Frog’s sentence trailed off as he saw stormclouds gathering above my head.

  ‘This is important to me,’ I said, my tone now peevish. ‘I haven’t asked you to babysit since that mums’ night out a month ago.’ I didn’t need to remind him how on that particular occasion he had arrived home so late I’d had to ask a friend to order my main course and arrived just as the pepper sauce was beginning to congeal on my steak.

  ‘I’ve apologized for that. How many times are you going to throw it back in my face?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, feeling anything but apologetic, ‘but I’m just fed up with feeling like I’m the one making all the sacrifices. If you want to see friends after work, all you have to do is jump on your Vespa and go. I’ve forgotten the meaning of the word spontaneous. I have to plan ahead, ask your permission and, even then, I can’t be sure something won’t come up at your office at the last minute and ruin my plans. And when I do go out, first I have to dash around getting myself ready in between the feeding, bathing and story-reading, and I’m so exhausted by the time I’ve finished, I’m in no fit state to be sociable…’

  Mr Frog shrugged. He’d heard it all before. ‘Look, I’m sorry,’ he said quietly, not wishing to incense me further, ‘but Tuesday is going to be tough. I’ll have a better idea nearer the time…’

  ‘Well, if I can’t count on you, I suppose I’ll have to call the babysitter,’ I said, making it clear that it was the very last thing I’d wanted to do. ‘She probably needs a new handbag.’ Maryline, a student I’d recruited by pinning up an ad in the local boulangerie, always flounced into our apartment looking so impossibly glossy-haired that I felt frumpy in comparison. When we’d first met, she was never to be seen without her Dior handbag, a monstrosity with enormous dangling ‘D’s and a logo-print canvas. But last time we’d booked her, for one of our rare weekend outings to the cinema, she’d arrived brandishing a quilted white Chanel clutch in its place, which we had, no doubt, unwittingly co-financed. ‘Of course, once I’ve paid her, plus a taxi there and back, it will be one hell of an expensive night…’

  ‘I’ll pay for the sitter and the taxis, t’inquiètes pas,’ Mr Frog said wearily, seizing the opportunity to redeem himself and put an end to the conversation.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said grudgingly. ‘I’ll give her a call tomorrow. I hope, for your sake, that she’s free.’

  I withdrew to the bedroom, touched a random key and watched the computer screen flicker back to life. Hesitantly at first, I began writing a post about how frustrated our exchange had made me feel. ‘Motherhood has clipped my wings,’ I wrote, ‘but fatherhood seems to have left Mr Frog’s life essentially unaltered. Why are liberté, égalité and fraternité in such short supply when it comes to the business of raising a child together? Sometimes I feel as though Paris is constricting around me, as if the walls of my apartment are slowly closing in. Is it any wonder I long to crawl through my computer screen and escape along the information superhighway once my daughter is tucked up in bed?’

  It was the first time I’d turned to writing while my emotions were still so fresh that I could almost taste the bitterness on my lips, and it was all I could do to staunch the flow of words which welled up, my fingers racing over the keys, finding it difficult to keep pace. Writing them was exhilarating, but when the river finally ran dry and the mouse hovered above ‘publish’, I had a sudden change of heart and pressed ‘delete’ instead. My inner censor had spoken: it would be too easy to write things, in the heat of the moment, which could never be unwritten. I was wary of overstepping an invisible line: the next thing I knew I’d be sharing feelings with my readers that I dared not voice aloud, even to my partner.

  Turning off the computer, I undressed and turned out the light. By the time Mr Frog eased himself into bed beside me, I would be fast asleep, as usual. We might share an apartment, but often it felt as though we lived in different time zones.

  6. Persona

  ‘C’est un poisson, ça!’

  Tadpole held up a bath toy, an orange plastic fish which could be used to squirt water, although thankfully she had not maste
red the deployment of fish as weapon quite yet.

  ‘Yes, my love, it’s a fish.’ I leaned towards the fogged-up bathroom mirror to apply mascara, a delicate operation for a near-sighted person at the best of times. I’d just had a hasty wash in Tadpole’s bathwater – to her delight, she loved co-bathing – and was now putting the finishing touches to my make-up, although I had yet to pick out the clothes I would wear, despite the fact that Maryline was due any minute. The evening, so far, had been something of a struggle. Tadpole had daubed dinner all over her face, then hurled her dessert bowl on to the floor the moment I chose to leave the room to start her bath running, splattering the parquet and walls liberally with apple compôte. Once I’d sponged everything clean, I’d gathered up her protesting, squirming body and forcibly undressed her, plonking her unceremoniously into the bathwater where she had howled for a full five minutes until I joined her.

  Looking at her now, calmly playing with her toys, her face framed by damp corkscrew curls, you’d never suspect her of such devilry. My hasty make-up job finished, I threw on a pair of trousers and a sleeveless top – both in forgiving, slimming black – then scooped Tadpole out of the water and cradled her in my arms, covering her warm skin with kisses. There was something so delicious, so edible about her. It never ceased to amaze me that my daughter could exert such a physical power over me. All she had to do was snuggle up, or turn her smile on full beam and I was utterly disarmed, her tantrums forgotten.

  When the doorbell rang, I didn’t bother peering through the peephole: a familiar, cloying scent of perfume preceded Maryline, as always. ‘Bonsoir!’ I said, trying to sound welcoming and friendly, when really I was cursing her lateness under my breath. Few things are more frustrating than running around like a headless chicken to get ready on time, then having to wait. ‘Vous allez bien?’ It felt odd using the polite ‘vous’ with a babysitter more than ten years my junior, but she intimidated me, so ‘vous’ it was.