Praise for
THANK YOU FOR THIS MOMENT
‘Quite a page-turner … no punches pulled and plenty of torrid moments’
Sunday Telegraph
‘An incendiary exercise in kiss-and-tell’
The Times
‘Totally compelling’
The Observer
‘Highly readable’
The Independent
‘She speaks loud, clear and without caution. Brilliant.’
Grazia
‘Her descriptions of the socialist politician’s snobbishness and weakness are hilarious’
The Guardian
‘Explosive stuff’
New Statesman
‘I have long thought Britain should follow the US and give an official role and speaking part to the leaders’ wives (or husbands), and this book reinforces this argument’
Independent on Sunday
‘A passionate cri de coeur’
Belfast Telegraph
THANK YOU FOR THIS MOMENT
VALÉRIE
TRIERWEILER
A story of love, power and betrayal
TRANSLATED BY
CLÉMENCE SEBAG
To you three,
To my three,
To all three.
‘The silence of your loved one is a quiet crime’
Tahar Ben Jelloun
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
PUBLISHER’S FOREWORD
FOREWORD
THANK YOU FOR THIS MOMENT
AUTHOR’S ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Copyright
PUBLISHER’S FOREWORD
THIS IS NO ordinary memoir. It tells the story of a love affair that went very wrong. The author bares her soul in a way that is at times painful and searing. It is a story that needs to be read by anyone wishing to understand the personality, character and motivations of the man who rules France, François Hollande. But it is no ordinary story Valérie Trierweiler tells. She cannot easily be dismissed as a woman scorned. Yes, she hurts. That much is clear. But in fifteen years of publishing, I have never come across such an honest account of a relationship which was so key to a politician coming to power and then seemingly not having a clue what to do with power once he had achieved it. It is a story of passion and rejection, of power-plays and grandstanding. When I first read it, I read it in one sitting. I found the story and emotion compelling and that is why I wanted to bring it to English-language readers.
This is the first book I have published which doesn’t contain any chapters. The original French volume had no chapters, so I felt it should be the same ‘en Anglais’. When Valérie explained to me why she had written it in this way, I understood. It is her story and she felt that it should be one continuous text with no artificial interruption. Who am I to disagree?
I want to thank Valérie for having had the courage to put pen to paper when many advised her to remain silent, for her fortitude in the face of onslaughts from a vicious French media, and, above all, for being herself. When I travelled to Paris to meet her, a few weeks before this book was published, I didn’t know what to expect. Would the woman whose words I had read bear any relation to the woman I was about to meet? We met over what turned out to be the best meal I have ever eaten, at a restaurant called Itinéraires in the Latin Quarter, not far from Notre Dame. Despite my lack of French and her lack of English, I hope she realised that Biteback and I are her perfect publishing partners in the UK. I’m very grateful to her for entrusting us with the publication of Thank You for This Moment.
I would also like to thank Clémence Sebag for her excellent work in translating the book having been given a very challenging timetable. She has done an excellent job, and has captured Valérie’s ‘voice’ in such a brilliant way.
Finally, let me pay tribute to a lady called Anna Jarota. She is Valérie’s literary agent and brought her book to Biteback. Let’s just say she has restored my faith in literary agents and has been an absolute pleasure to deal with. I look forward to a continuing working relationship.
Now, over to Valérie…
Iain Dale
London, November 2014
FOREWORD
‘YOU MUST LAY yourself bare before the public gaze.’ A piece of advice from Philippe Labro when François Hollande was elected. Philippe is someone I have a lot of respect for – a writer, a media man – but I never found a way to be an open book, as he recommended. I could not bring myself to show who I really was. Unveiling aspects of my life, talking about my family and my relationship with the President was out of the question. I did the opposite, in fact – I locked everything up and drew the bolt.
Which didn’t prevent journalists from writing and talking – about a woman who bore very little resemblance to me. More often than not, they simply did not know the facts; at other times they were angling for a scandal. A couple of dozen books, even more magazine covers, and thousands of articles were printed – distorting carnival mirrors that reflected second-guesses and hearsay, when they weren’t pure fantasy. The woman in the mirror had my name and my face but she was unrecognisable to me. It felt like it was not just my personal life that was being stolen but my sense of identity.
Protected by my armour, I believed I could withstand anything and everything. As attacks became increasingly violent, I shut down further. The French saw my frozen, sometimes tense face. They did not understand. It came to the point where I could no longer bear to go out in the street – I could not handle the way passers-by looked at me.
Then – in just a few hours in January 2014 – my life was devastated and my future shattered into a million tiny pieces. Suddenly, I was alone, stunned and grief-stricken. It became obvious to me that the only way of regaining control over the narrative of my life was to narrate it. I was misunderstood – sullied, even – and I suffered from it.
I decided to smash through the dam I had built – I decided to put pen to paper and tell my story, the real story. Where I had once fought tirelessly to protect my privacy, I now had to relinquish that in part – to hand over the keys to unlock me and make sense of it all. Every piece in this absurd puzzle fits. I was thirsty for the truth – I needed it to overcome this hurdle and move on. I owed it to my children, to my family, to those close to me. Writing had become a vital need. Night and day for months, I silently ‘laid myself bare’…
THE FIRST MESSAGE came in on Wednesday morning. A friend of mine who is a journalist sent me notice: ‘It looks like Closer is going to publish a picture of François and Gayet on Friday.’ My reply was brief – it hardly mattered to me. The rumour had been poisoning my life for months. It came and went, and came back again, and I simply could not bring myself to believe it. I forwarded the message to François, without further comment. He replied immediately: ‘Who told you that?’
‘That’s not the issue,’ I said, ‘the issue is whether you have done something wrong or not.’
‘No, I haven’t.’
I was reassured.
And yet, as the day progressed the rumour persisted. François and I spoke in the afternoon and had dinner together without broaching the subject. The rumour had already caused arguments between us – no need to make things worse. The next morning I received a text message along the same lines from another journalist friend.
‘Hi Val. The Gayet rumour is rearing its head again. It looks like it is going to make the cover of Closer tomorrow – but I imagine you know that already.’
Again I forwarded the message to François. This time there was no reply. He was away – just outside of Paris, in Creil – on business with the army.
I asked one of my old journalist
friends who still had some contacts within the tabloid press to keep an eye out for any news. Calls kept coming in to the Élysée from editorial staff. All of the President’s PR advisers were being harassed with questions by journalists about this hypothetical magazine cover.
The morning was spent talking to my nearest and dearest. I was scheduled to join the team of the Élysée nursery for a meal prepared by the children’s cook. We had started this ritual the year before. A dozen women took care of both the Élysée staff’s children and the children of the President’s advisers. A month earlier we had celebrated Christmas together with the parents of the children in the nursery. François and I handed out the presents – he had left in a hurry, as usual, while I stayed talking to everyone. It was like a harbour of peace I felt content in.
I was excited about the lunch but I felt stifled – as if I sensed that a danger was fast approaching. The nursery head was waiting for us by the door, across the street from the Élysée. Patrice Biancone, a former Radio France Internationale colleague who had become my loyal Chief of Staff, came with me. When I arrived I took my two mobile phones out of my pocket – one for work and the public sphere, the other for François, my children, my family and my close friends. The table was laid out for a party, the faces around me shone with happiness. I hid my unease and put my personal mobile next to my plate. Fred the cook brought us his dishes, while the childminders bustled around the tables, taking turns watching the little ones.
In 2015 the Élysée nursery will celebrate its thirtieth birthday. Nearly 600 children have been in that nursery, including the President’s children, back when he was an adviser at the Élysée. To celebrate this event, I had planned to reunite the former babies – grown men and women now. After twenty years working for Paris-Match I had no trouble visualising the pretty picture such a gathering at the Élysée would make.
We wanted to rename the nursery after Danielle Mitterrand, who had set it up in October 1985. Now that I was an ambassador of the France Libertés foundation, I was in charge of organising the anniversary. I promised I would soon send out a note to François Hollande’s Chief of Staff Sylvie Hubac so she could endorse the project and give us a budget.
My phone started to vibrate. My journalist friend had been ‘fishing for information’ and was messaging to confirm that Closer planned a cover picture of François just outside Julie Gayet’s flat. My heart exploded. I tried not to betray what was going through my mind. I handed my phone to Patrice Biancone so he could read the message. I did not keep secrets from him: ‘Look, it’s about that topic we were discussing earlier.’ I kept the tone of my voice as flat as possible. We had been friends for twenty years and a simple glance was enough for us to understand one another. I tried to sound detached: ‘We’ll deal with it later.’
I tried to focus on talking to the nursery staff, while thoughts tumbled through my brain. They had been hit by a chickenpox epidemic. Nodding enthusiastically, I sent François a text about the Closer info. It was no longer a rumour, it was now a fact.
He replied almost instantly: ‘Meet me at the flat at 3 p.m.’
The time came to say goodbye to the nursery school head. I had only one street to cross – such a tiny little street – but it seemed like the most dangerous road I have ever walked across. It felt like I was crossing a motorway with my eyes closed, even though only authorised vehicles were admitted.
I walked up the stairs leading to the private apartment at a brisk pace. François was already in our room – our room with its high windows looking onto the centenary trees in the park. We sat on the bed. Each of us on the side we were used to sleeping on. I was only able to utter a single word: ‘So?’
‘So it’s true,’ he said.
‘What’s true? You’re sleeping with that girl?’
‘Yes,’ he admitted, half reclining to lean on his forearm.
We were sat quite close to one another on the spacious bed. I could not get him to look me in the eye, he persistently avoided my gaze. I hurled questions at him: ‘How did it happen? Why? When did it start?’
‘A month ago,’ he claimed.
I remained calm; I did not get angry or shout. And there was certainly no broken china as rumour has it – I am allegedly responsible for millions of euros of imaginary damage.
I could not begin to imagine the tidal wave that was building up.
Could he say that he had only had dinner at her flat, I wondered?
It would never fly. He knew that the picture had been taken after a night he had spent in the rue du Cirque.
What about a Clintonesque scenario? Public apologies, a promise never to see her again. We could start over. I was not prepared to lose him.
His lies started to surface, the truth gradually emerged. He confessed that the affair had been going on for longer. From one month, we reached three, then six, nine, and finally a year.
‘We are not strong enough, you will never be able to forgive me,’ he said.
Then he went back to his desk for a meeting. I could not face keeping my appointment and asked Patrice Biancone to see my visitor for me. I stayed locked up in the room all afternoon. I tried to imagine what would happen, my eyes glued to my phone, checking Twitter updates for glimpses of the scoop that had been announced. I tried to find out more about the tone of the ‘photo-reportage’. I texted my closest friends and let my children and my mother know what was going to come out. I did not want them to hear about the scandal in the press. They had to be prepared for it.
François was back for dinner. We met in our room. He seemed more down than I was. I found him kneeling on the bed. He put his head in his hands. He was in a state of shock: ‘What are we going to do?’
He surreptitiously used the word ‘we’ in a story I no longer really belonged in. It was the last time – soon it would be all ‘me, me, me’. After our talk, we tried to have dinner in the living room, on the coffee table, as we normally did when we wanted some privacy or when we wanted to have a shorter meal.
I couldn’t eat a thing. I tried to find out more. I listed the political consequences. Where was the ‘model President’? A President cannot lead two wars if he runs off at every opportunity to see an actress down the road. A President does not behave this way when factories are shutting down, unemployment is rising and his popularity ratings are at their lowest ever. In that moment, I felt more concerned by the potential political damage than by our personal shipwreck. No doubt I still hoped to save our relationship. François asked me to stop my inventory of the disastrous consequences – he knew it all. He gulped down a few mouthfuls and returned to his desk.
He left me alone with my torment; meanwhile he had called a meeting I knew nothing about. ‘They’ prepared to discuss my fate, without bothering to keep me informed of the ins and outs. François came home at half past ten. He refused to answer my questions. He seemed lost, disorientated. I phoned the Secretary General of the Élysée Pierre-René Lemas and told him I wanted to see him. François asked me what I wanted with him.
‘I don’t know. I need to see someone.’
It was my turn to use the quasi-secret corridor that leads from the private apartment to the presidential floor. As soon as I arrived, Pierre-René wrapped me in his arms. I buried into his shoulders, and it was with him that I burst into tears for the first time. Like me, he could not fathom that François could be having an affair. Unlike many other advisers, Pierre-René was always considerate. Over the past two years – or close enough – he had often had to put up with François’ bouts of spectacular bad mood. In the evening I was the one who had to be a lightning rod. We would back each other up.
We exchanged a few words. I told him I was prepared to forgive François. I later learned that the idea of a separation statement had already been raised in that first meeting. My fate was sealed, but I did not know it yet.
Back to the room. A long, sleepless night was starting – insomnia had found a bed for the night. The same questions tormenting me �
� on repeat. François swallowed a sleeping pill to escape from that particular hell and slept for a few hours on the other side of the bed. I caught barely an hour’s sleep and got up around 5 a.m. to watch the news channels in the living room. I snacked on cold leftovers from dinner – they were still out on the coffee table – and tuned into the radio channels. The ‘information’ had made the morning news headlines. Suddenly, it was all very real. Just one day earlier, everything had seemed almost fantastical.
François woke up. I was not going to be able to cope, I could tell. My resolve weakened – I did not want to hear any of it. I ran to the bathroom and took the little plastic bag hidden in a drawer among my beauty products. It contained sleeping pills – several sorts, tablets and sleeping syrup. François had followed me into the bathroom and tried to snatch the bag from me. I ran into the room. He caught the bag and it tore. Pills tumbled onto the bed and the floor. I managed to grab a few of them and swallowed what I could. All I wanted was to sleep – I could not bear to live through the next few hours. I could feel the hailstorm that was preparing to hit me and I wanted to batten down the hatches – I did not have the strength to withstand it. I wanted to escape one way or another. I passed out. That was the best I could have hoped for.
Was it daytime or night-time? What had happened? I sensed someone was trying to wake me. I had no idea how long I had slept. I would later find out that it was late morning. As if through a bank of fog, I could see the faces of two of my best friends, Brigitte and François Bachy, hovering above me. Brigitte explained that I could be hospitalised, that she had packed a suitcase for me. Two doctors were waiting in the next room. The health adviser to the Élysée had taken things in hand and called the professor who headed the psychiatry ward at the Pitié-Salpêtrière hospital. Both doctors asked me whether I would agree to be hospitalised. What were my options? I needed to be shielded from the storm – at that point I hardly knew who I was or what was going on. I could not manage alone.
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