Despite my considerably longer stay on this earth, I could find no answer. When I went to speak it was as if I’d forgotten how. Lying to Philippe would prove incredibly easy but I couldn’t lie to Jean-Luc. I didn’t try.
‘Everything you say is true,’ I said. ‘I don’t know what to do about it.’
I was hoping my capitulation would bring him across the room. There was nothing cocky or triumphant about his smile – he just looked so happy. He wasn’t going anywhere, waiting patiently until I made up my mind.
As if my mind had any say.
‘We both know what I want,’ he said, opening his hands. It sounds crude, but I was struck by how earnest he was. What Jean-Luc wanted was not the issue. He was free, with a summer to spare. I pictured him at Philippe’s age, telling a future son about his brief fling with a married woman, a foreigner. In those stories I was supposed to be the one who ‘taught him a thing or two’ though that profile didn’t fit at all. ‘Mysterious’, yes. ‘Unreachable’, in almost every way. But mon Dieu, underneath that calm exterior… Believe me, I was amazed to find myself so in thrall to sensuality, finally a fully-grown sexual being.
It made no sense then, nor will it ever, but I did still love my husband. That should have been the beginning and end of it, I know. It should have been enough. If I didn’t care about him, it wouldn’t hurt so much that he was seeing another woman behind my back. Philippe was the only man who had brought me lasting happiness. I hated the thought of causing him pain, and yet I elbowed it aside.
There was no comparison between the nature of my dealings with him and Jean-Luc. Right then, in that cramped little studio, despite the doubts I’d previously held and my knee-jerk attitude to adultery, separating love and sex did make sense to me – they might be best together, but there were other ways. As long as this thing with Jean-Luc remained purely physical it could go in a box on a lower shelf. The main event – my marriage – would not be affected.
I actually convinced myself of this at the time. It’s amazing how any situation can be moulded to the shape you want to see. I read somewhere that humans aren’t naturally monogamous, that exclusivity is a convention stemming from the pressures of society, religion, economic necessity. Some find it too hard to live by, against their nature. They can’t see the advantages of fidelity, or they are greedy and want the comforts and the kicks. Here I was, not so decent and conservative after all. I had trouble dismissing the shadow version of myself because it excited me. She was hedonistic, assertive, impulsive; the rare woman who indulged her desires, regardless of cost or consequence. Objectively it was appalling; in the moment, electrifying. I wanted more danger. More euphoria. More me and him together, as much as I could get.
The desire of my body for Jean-Luc’s would have been more than enough to propel me across the room. But what made me do it was the sense that he stood on cliff tops with his arms flung wide to a storm, while I had always sought a cave to cower in.
Jean-Luc didn’t just make love like the world was about to end. It was how he did everything. I had a lot to learn.
Chapter Twenty Nine
After my meeting Philippe was in one of his morose moods, which went with the end of an exhibition, too self-absorbed to notice anything amiss. Neither of us was hungry, so I took a bath. I finished the last few pages of my book before immersing myself in visions that reminded me of the previous time I lay there with perfumed water lapping at my limbs, not knowing if I’d ever get to feel that good again.
Well, I did. For all my resolutions, I wasn’t strong enough in the end. I was no better than Philippe after all. Jean-Luc remembered everything that turned me on the first time. He already knew that if he made me come first I would hover there the whole time our bodies were in motion. I’d never been able to feel a man come inside me before. Maybe I still couldn’t. Maybe it was just the intensity of the way he looked at me in that penultimate moment.
The next morning Philippe picked a convenient Saturday to sleep late, still snoring rhythmically when I returned from my run. I wasn’t going to risk waking him – normally he’d be eagerly awaiting our weekend conjugation by now – so I wrote him a note to say where I was going, and left as quickly as I could.
The bells of Saint-Sulpice were booming nine o’clock as I set off on the short walk to Le Bon Marché. Sèvres-Babylone was one of my favourite corners of the city. The streets were quiet at this early weekend hour, a few small dogs being walked by the old ladies you see so often in Paris, bent almost double, wearing coats and cardigans even in the warmest weather. I stopped for a brief chat with Mathilde and her bedraggled terrier, Alphonse. We first met when she was ahead of me in the line at the post office and I tried to defuse an argument over whether she’d been short-changed. The mistake was likely hers but the man behind the counter was so mean I couldn’t just stand there. I was never entirely sure if she remembered me.
I pushed open the door to the Grande Epicerie, one of the city’s best grocery stores, with the usual relish. Philippe and I were comfortably off, as opposed to friqués. Unlike its regular clientele, we couldn’t afford to shop here often so every visit felt like a treat. I always visited the American section with the sense of committing culinary treachery. Any foreigner browsing here would assume that Americans have a bizarre obsession with condiments and items as far removed from raw ingredients as could be, for the offering mostly consisted of chemical-laden sauces and salad dressings, with very little that a French person would deign to call food.
I never missed the chance to sneak in a couple of boxes of Kraft mac and cheese. My homemade version – much refined over the years with French hard cheeses and a dash of white wine in an homage to fondue – was superior in every way but I had a sentimental attachment to this unlikely delicacy. Along with saltine crackers and grape Kool-Aid it is practically all I lived on between the ages of ten and twelve, which is to say between Christopher’s death and leaving for England. That was my father’s idea of a solution when he turned up and saw the state my mother was in. Look at her, Carolyn. This can’t go on. And to me: It’s for the best, darling. Boarding school will be an adventure.
The middle school counsellor had been calling my dad in Brazil because Mom wouldn’t pick up the phone. And she’d made it clear her next call would be of an official nature. When I arrived in Kent to find Coldwater as dark and creaky as a storybook haunted house, I was the only one who liked the food. It was hot and filling and best of all I didn’t have to go buy it or cook it myself. I was so skinny the anorexics tried to befriend me, before backing off in disgust. One time I accepted a bet from my classmates to lick the plate clean after a second helping, checking first that the staff weren’t watching. It took almost three years for me to fill out and develop some curves.
My mind was turning to perfect flaky almond croissants when I sensed someone close by. Invading my space in a way that was making me uptight.
‘How’s the leg?’
I stood up, the mac and cheese being at the bottom of the display, to see Daniel from the park standing there, his eyes roaming over every part of me except my left leg.
‘It’s healing well, thank you. I’ve almost forgotten about it.’ I didn’t want him to think there was any favour outstanding.
‘Ah,’ he smiled, looking down at my shopping basket. ‘We share a weakness, I see.’ He made a point of using the expression péché mignon, ‘sweet sin’, which always sounds far more exciting than what it’s being used to describe. I could have sworn I saw him lick his lips.
I was genuinely surprised at his taste, until he informed me he was Canadian. He spoke regular French rather than the indecipherable Québécois, which needed subtitles in the movies. Now he’d told me, I could hear a slight accent I’d not noticed before. I didn’t ask where he was from or anything else which would prolong the encounter, which felt more uncomfortable than usual despite the fact that today we were both fully clothed and not panting or drenched in sweat. He was more handsome than I
had realised.
Bumping into him was the limit. I was trying to stop myself spending every minute thinking about Jean-Luc, which was difficult enough. I was trying to get out of having sex with my husband. And here I was attempting not to be drawn in by Daniel’s shameless flirting, although it must be said that he was rather good at it. His lack of subtlety was deliberate to get women to laugh. We all want someone who’ll make us laugh.
‘So, will I see you out running again soon?’
‘Actually, I managed two laps this morning. Starting back gently.’ Since there was nowhere in the neighbourhood as pleasant and convenient as the Luxembourg to go for a run, it would not be possible to avoid him.
‘I’m glad,’ he said. ‘I’ve missed you.’
I glanced away and saw a woman in the neighbouring Tex-Mex section take a sudden interest in a jar of jalapeños.
That made me smile. That and the weird, spacey way I was feeling before Daniel even showed up. ‘That’s very sweet of you to say,’ I replied, so as not to sound utterly charmless. His persistent attentions may have been irritating but the other woman’s reaction made me realise I was flattered by them too. ‘But I should tell you, I already have a… I have a… I mean, I’m married.’
Sometimes you just are not safe from what’s really on your mind. Panicked by how close I’d come to saying I already have a lover, it now sounded as if I might be lying about my marital status. I sought to grasp my wedding ring as evidence but went for the wrong hand. Daniel laughed and shook his head.
‘I think you’ll find it’s here,’ he said, taking my left hand in his. By now, the only possible option was for me to laugh, excessively. And go bright pink, which would only get worse the more I thought about it.
When Geneviève rounded the corner she found me laughing, blushing and holding hands (albeit very strangely) with a man who wasn’t my husband or my lover, although what she saw would do nothing to contradict the latter interpretation.
‘Geneviève! How lovely to see you!’ We exchanged kisses. The look she gave me exists in every language.
I took a peek at her basket, which contained a small bottle of one of the single estate Italian olive oils displayed close to where Daniel and I had bumped into each other. It was a reasonable assumption that Geneviève would have lingered over her purchase rather than grabbing the first bottle she could lay her hands on. This wasn’t Monoprix.
For the love of God, how long had she been within earshot?
Daniel flashed a smile at us both in a don’t forget me kind of way.
‘Geneviève, this is Daniel. We sometimes see each other running in the Luxembourg. He’s from Montréal.’ I couldn’t summon the words to describe my relationship with her.
Before entering Philippe’s rarified world, her world, I wasn’t familiar with diplomatic ploys such as mentioning common ground when making introductions. It works well when you need to walk away and leave the other people to it. And it’s also a lifesaver when you want to do just that but have no choice but to stay right where you are.
Daniel and I exchanged the most transient glance as he greeted Geneviève. She knows Montreal and Daniel, who may have been from there or from some tiny fur-trapping village a thousand miles away for all I knew, played along beautifully. He chatted a bit about the city but kept coming back to running, making it sound as if that, rather than chasing women, was his main interest in life. He said he’d done the Toronto marathon and was not only training for New York in the fall but would soon be moving there, after spending three years in Paris.
Geneviève was clearly rather taken with Daniel despite being of the common belief that physical exercise (other than sex, although she probably included that) was vulgar and unnecessary. Daniel was delightful with her and now I’d seen how well he could pick up signals when he wanted to, I was curious to find out what he did for a living. Geneviève asked him.
He was an actor. Aren’t we all?
Chapter Thirty
As I checked the mailbox I gradually identified the shouting, which I’d heard as soon as I came in off the street. Instead of picking on one of our unsuspecting neighbours, this time Vanessa was yelling at Philippe for all she was worth and getting the same treatment in return. I stood still for a moment, the last of my high ebbing away. Philippe had hardly ever raised his voice in the time we’d been together. By all accounts Vanessa’s mother had known how to push his buttons but the man I’d married didn’t have especially strong opinions or a temper. Right now he sounded incandescent with rage. Despite the volume I couldn’t make out what he was saying but I wouldn’t have wanted to be on the receiving end.
Tempting as it was to head right back out again, I approached our staircase still clutching my groceries, a handful of junk mail, a letter from the doctor’s office and an incorrectly addressed envelope from the electricity company. I wouldn’t have taken Philippe’s name even if I could pronounce it and still went by Folgate. Mme Darrousier would have been a better wife to my husband, of that I was quite sure. Having absented myself from what should have been the good times that morning, I wouldn’t shy away from supporting him in times of trouble, even if he was heartily contributing to them. There had to be a reason.
The two of them took it down a notch when someone in one of the other buildings opened a window and told them to shut up. This was the third time we’d annoyed the neighbours and if it continued we would soon find ourselves regarded as undesirables. What might pass for normal where Jean-Luc was living wouldn’t be respectable in the neighbourhood where senators from all over France kept a Parisian pied-à-terre. We only lived here because a friend of the Malavoines let Philippe have it cheap for a quick sale when they were both getting divorced.
‘What is going on?’ I was in the hallway and nobody heard me. When I went into the living room Vanessa was jabbing a finger at her father, mad eyed, hair all over the place, wearing nothing but a huge man’s T-shirt, which left a lot of bare flesh on view.
‘C’est toi, le con,’ she said. You’re the jerk.
I didn’t have sufficient experience of watching French people row to figure out what was going on. It was beyond belief that Philippe would speak to his daughter like that, and in any case, he’d used the masculine form.
Registering my presence now, Philippe pointed at a tall blond boy standing in the doorway to the spare room wearing jeans, a pink shirt and a smirk. ‘I’m out of here,’ he told Vanessa.
‘Damn right you are! Make it quick before I sock you one.’ Philippe was breathing in snatches as if he’d run up all four flights of stairs to the apartment. I feared for his health – at fifty-two he was at that dangerous age for a man where a single instance of over-exertion or extreme stress can be fatal.
‘You don’t have to go, Boris,’ Vanessa said, glaring at her father.
‘Boris?’ I glared at the boy now. ‘Actually, he really does.’ I flung open the front door and took up position next to it until he got the message and left, still with that irritating smug expression.
‘I can’t take much more of this,’ Philippe announced. Ignoring the balcony, he went to the other window and leaned far too heavily on the low decorative railing that was the only thing between him and the street below.
‘You’re fucking well not the only one!’ Vanessa slammed the door to the spare room so hard that a picture in the hallway fell off its hook. After all that, the silence was ominous. Philippe and I looked at each other. With pure desperation, in his case.
I took a breath in. ‘Well, I guess it’s my turn to say the same. Something’s got to give around here.’
Philippe gave an enormous shrug, his hands held up and out like he was holding something long and tubular. ‘You deal with her then, I just can’t. I’m beginning to see what her mother means. She’s absolutely impossible!’
I tapped quietly on Vanessa’s door in the sincere hope she’d tell me to fuck off. She asked who it was and told me to come in. She was lying on the bed with her hands
behind her head, making the T-shirt ride up over her belly. There was something touchingly childish about her faded red underpants and lack of embarrassment about her body – for all that it was unmistakably that of a grown woman. What was going on in her head lay somewhere in between and that’s what made this so hard. The fact I knew nothing about teenagers obviously didn’t help.
I never used to gesticulate before I moved to France. It has its uses. Maybe my hands drew a question mark in the air. They did something that she understood. ‘He won’t listen to me,’ she said. ‘Dad just won’t listen.’
‘I’m not defending him shouting at you’ – I thought I’d start with that – ‘but you need to try to understand why he’s upset. Parents have views about friends sleeping over. To him, you’re still his little girl, remember?’ I kept finding myself embroiled in their inability to communicate, wishing there was some way they could get back what they’d missed of each other.
She turned to face me and I had to gather myself to go on. I couldn’t make it better but I had to do something. ‘Am I right that Boris is the boyfriend of that girl you got in a fight with? Because if so…’
‘It’s not what either of you think,’ Vanessa interrupted. ‘Boris was in the city with some potes last night. He got separated from them and didn’t have enough money to take a cab home by himself. He didn’t even get here until three a.m. Everyone always wants to think the worst of me.’
‘That’s not true at all.’ Nobody gives a shit what happened to me, she’d said when she showed me those scratches. But I did. I asked, and what’s more, she told me. And then she told me nobody else knew, as if that meant something, when maybe it was just me wanting to feel needed. To believe there was one small area of my life where I was doing good.
‘The point is that you can’t just do as you please and that includes letting someone we don’t know into our home in the middle of the night. And you can’t keep winding your father up – it’s driving him insane. To be honest, it might be a good idea for you to patch things up with your mom. It can’t be any fun for you staying here.’
Paris Mon Amour Page 13