His security guards stayed outside the building. Since Closer had printed pictures of one of them bringing croissants – bright and early – to the flat François and Julie Gayet used, the security guards knew better than to cross paths with me.
We set the table like an ordinary couple, but we weren’t hungry. It all seemed unreal. At the end of the meal it was as if nothing had changed: he got up and made some coffee, then he laid it out in the living room. It was time to discuss some important issues.
I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me whole. I was scared of the unknown, of what would happen after we separated – not least financially. I shared my concerns with François. Since the divorce from the father of my children, the financial burden of my three boys was 100 per cent my responsibility. It was the price I had to pay for my freedom – to be with François. At the time, I had not hesitated. I had also decided to keep the name Trierweiler, my pen name for over fifteen years. I wanted to bear the same name as my children. I was divorcing their father; I did not want to feel like I was separating from them.
François knew that I could not manage alone on my Paris-Match salary. There was the rent of our flat on the rue Cauchy and my children’s expenses – their accommodation and their studies. When we took on the rental, I had income from both Paris-Match and TV – I had been working with Direct 8 (now called D8) since the channel launched in 2005.
Once he became President, François demanded that I give up television. I had been in talks with the channel’s executives about launching a new humanitarian show that would be compatible with my role as a First Lady. We had planned to make a series of documentaries featuring me interviewing celebrities on themes of general interest: girls’ education around the world, water protection, refugees. For each programme I would have travelled to two or three countries.
I was very excited about this project, which was well on its way. But the French authorities had just greenlit the purchase of Direct 8 by Canal+. Some journalists had complained that there was a conflict of interest there. One sunny Sunday in September at La Lanterne he ordered: ‘You have to give up TV!’
His curt tone was not one that left any room for negotiation and I agreed immediately. There had been the ‘tweet business’ and Ségolène Royal’s electoral defeat in the spring. I did not want any more arguments and problems between us. But by giving up that day, I had lost two-thirds of my income and he knew that.
Money has never been what drives me, but I have always had an almost visceral fear of what lies in store. I am afraid of being in a position of instability. I am worried I will not have a roof over my head when I am too old to work. I know that one of my grandmothers was utterly destitute when she died. I have always been independent. I remember my mother, before she found a job as a cashier, was forced to ‘ask’ my father for money – out of his meagre invalidity pension. As a child, I viewed these scenes as a humiliation, a complete deprivation of freedom.
I built my identity around the rejection of a single thing: I would never be financially dependent on someone. Not once in my life have I ever asked anyone for money, least of all a man. I have not forgotten the time my mother realised in a supermarket that she had lost her wallet. I remember her panic: she was wondering how she would feed us over the following days. I cannot remember how old I was at the time but her expression of despair has always stayed with me.
I come from a family that does not believe in overdrafts. In my family, you don’t spend money you don’t have and we are still attentive to the price of things. It is how we live. I was shaped by that upbringing and it is still part of who I am: I do not know how to ‘go all out’ and ‘splurge’. I always use the example of a day I was shopping in the sales with a friend, at a factory outlet. I was buying clothes for my sons and the sales assistant mistakenly greeted me with an ‘Oh, Mrs Sarkozy!’ that made me smile. I waved my hand to tell her she was mistaken. She corrected herself – ‘Oh, yes, you are Hollande’s wife’ – and I heard a couple buying clothes just in front of me comment that ‘if even wives of presidents come and do their shopping here, then we really are in a crisis!’
On another sales day – what can I say, the leopard does not change its spots – I bought a pair of trainers for one of my sons. The sales assistant recognised me and said: ‘So here you are living at the Élysée Palace and you work too?’
‘Sir, how would I pay for these trainers if I did not earn a living?’
He understood and took my credit card with a smile.
Though I agreed to give up my TV show for François, I was adamant that I would keep my job at Paris-Match. I could not begin to imagine no longer having a job or a salary. I was the French President’s partner, I had an office in the Élysée, just like the other First Ladies before me. It was an entirely voluntary function, heading a small team of official representatives dedicated to humanitarian and social work. Why on earth should I have given up my job and income? Why should I have been the only woman in France who wasn’t allowed to work?
When we made our relationship public in 2007 I had already given up the politics column of Paris-Match two years earlier, in favour of the cultural pages where there was no conflict of interest. How could the fact that I was writing about novels possibly bother anyone?
Over the past eight years I have never once claimed to be a literary critic. I merely tried to give Paris-Match readers a taste for literature. I tried to convey my own reader’s sensibility. Books opened up new horizons and endless possibilities for me. Without literature I would never have become the woman I am today. I have loved reading ever since I first learned to decipher words. As a child I would spend hours in public libraries. My mother had got into the habit of leaving my sister and me there while she did the shopping, because when we were surrounded by books we were happy.
The unmistakable dusty smell of books that have been on the shelves for aeons is my own personal madeleine de Proust. For me, that is the perfume of childhood.
When my big sister Pascale – I was six at the time – was in charge of ‘running errands’ she would hide away a couple of francs to buy me those flimsy little books that were worth next to nothing. Growing up, I literally read everything and anything. I had no one to guide me.
Like many French families, my parents had taken out a France-Loisirs book subscription. Every quarter, a new book was sent to our house. I read, dreamt, learned. Since my thirteenth birthday I had kept a notebook in which I jotted down the titles of the books I read. As I flicked through the first pages of my notebook, I remembered that pick ’n’ mix of classic novels and run-of-the-mill books – though many of them have not stood the test of time, I read everything that was sent to me.
I always asked for books at Christmas – I could not imagine a better present. The books I got for Christmas were mine to keep, I did not have to give them back to the library.
Through my work for the culture pages I received dozens of books every week. I still felt the same emotion every time I opened the large envelopes the editors sent me and discovered the book that was hidden inside. There were so many that I lost my proprietorial instinct. I gave the Fleury-Mérogis prison for women 95 per cent of the books I received.
It was a real joy to write my book column for Paris-Match every week or so. It was even more precious than the time I spent at the Élysée. I saw it as a victory over all the people who denied me the right to work, as well as a personal victory. Had I not been forced to prepare for my column, I would no doubt have allowed myself to get caught up in a whirlwind of meetings, trips and receptions without ever opening a single book. How sad! Powering up my computer, finding myself alone with my thoughts in front of the blank page, disconnecting from the world, concentrating, helped me get past many a hurdle.
Just not this one.
It was a dark day, a Thursday, when François left me. I was in no state to focus on more than a couple of lines in a novel. I stood by, helpless, and watched our relationship unravel. The Pr
esident assured me that I had nothing to worry about – I would no doubt receive job offers that would help me get back on my feet.
After discussing the financial side of things, François brought up all the points that concerned him. He wanted me to give up on the idea of writing a book, an idea I had been toying with for a few days and one I had shared with him.
Being made to give up anything that belonged to ‘my life after him’ was absolutely out of the question. He insisted that we should announce ‘our’ separation in a joint statement. I refused. I did not want that separation. There was nothing ‘joint’ about it. He was forcing it on me. The tone of the discussion was calm and cold.
It was all so sad.
Before he left, I demanded he return his key.
‘You are throwing me out of your life, this is not your home anymore, I want the key. I want to be free to invite whomever I want whenever I want.’
I knew he would not like hearing that. He had been cheating on me for over a year but could not stand the idea of me living my own life. Men are like that. He tried to argue.
‘I’ll have it sent over to you.’
‘No, I want it back now.’
François called the security guard who had the key and met him in the corridor. He came back with the key but he needed it to go down to the basement where the car was parked – the building was secured and you couldn’t get to the car park without using the key in the lift.
Not a problem. I decided to go down to the underground car park with them to get the key back immediately. There we were, François and I going down six floors in the company of the croissant courier – the policeman who had been immortalised by the paparazzi. ‘So you didn’t bring croissants today?’ I asked, looking him in the eye. ‘Is that what you think your job as a policeman is? I can’t even begin to understand how you can still be here.’
He looked down at his shoes and said nothing. His eyes filled with tears. François did not say a word.
I went straight to La Lanterne. It had been agreed that I would stay in Versailles until Saturday, the day before my trip to India. I had made a commitment with Action contre la Faim2 several months ago. We were supposed to push on to Madhya Pradesh, several hours’ drive from the airport, down chaotic and dangerous roads, but I agreed to cut the trip short because I wasn’t sure I was physically sound and strong enough to cope.
For days, everyone had been trying to make me give up the trip. The President was more insistent than most. But it was not my health he was worried about. In his mind there was no longer a First Lady. (It begs the question: was there ever one?) What mattered to him was that I kept my mouth shut.
I had a few days to rest in La Lanterne before my trip. I was not looking forward to spending the last evening, Friday evening, alone with my sorrow. I had invited several close friends over for dinner, as if to prove to myself that life would go on. They all came to wrap me up in their friendship. What would I have become without my friends? We spent a hearty, joyous evening. I had asked the doctor permission not to take my medicine so that I could drink a couple glasses of wine. I did not get much sleep that night.
On Saturday I had planned to meet François late afternoon to agree on the statement. Three of my friends stayed the night. I emptied my things, gathered the summer clothes that I kept at La Lanterne, my books and a few personal belongings. My friends helped me. After a quick and simple meal, it was time to go. I went to say goodbye to the caretaker couple, Josyane and Éric: ‘So … I just wanted to say that this is the last time we will be seeing each other.’
They protested – they thought I was joking.
In a broken voice I answered: ‘The President and I are separating, it will be announced this evening.’
It was their turn to show their emotion. With tears in their eyes they took me in their arms and cajoled me with words of comfort. I cried with them. I will never forget that moment. Ever. Nor will I forget saying goodbye to the two cooks who came into work that day. When they started crying too I had to excuse myself: ‘I’m sorry, I’m not going to be able to hold it in.’
I could no longer hold back the tears. I wanted to leave with dignity but those demonstrations of affection moved me very deeply and I had to save some strength for what awaited me. I dived into the waiting car. The TV cameras were already there, on the prowl. The journalists were waiting outside the gate on their motorbikes, ready to follow my every move as if to witness my public execution.
Our first stop was rue Cauchy – our home, which would now be only mine – followed by hordes of photographers and cameramen. We went in through the underground car park to avoid pictures. To avoid being followed all the way to the Élysée, a strategy was needed – not one but two decoy cars were used. By the time we left, the hounds were long gone. One of the cars had even gone back to La Lanterne, dragging behind it part of the press. I managed to smile about that.
I am not sure what went through my mind as I entered the Élysée gardens through the Marigny gate. I had made a habit of always coming into the Élysée Palace through that discreet entrance rather than through the ceremonial courtyard. I never really allowed myself to go in through the ceremonial courtyard. It was as if, deep down, I had always felt illegitimate. Yet I lived there for twenty months with the President – whose life I was officially sharing.
On Saturday 25 January 2014, my heart sank. This time it was the end. When I arrived in the private apartment, I started to put together the outfits I would need for India, then I sent François a text to let him know I was there. Like the last time, there was tension in the air – each of us sat at our usual place in the living room. Again, he pushed for a joint statement. Again, I refused – sticking to the same arguments. We replayed our previous scene.
Again, he asked me to give up on my trip to India: ‘You’ll get all the journalists.’
He was preparing to dismiss me and the only thing that mattered to him was that the press should follow him, rather than me.
‘So what? Maybe I will get more than you got in Turkey.’
It was a pathetic attempt but I was trying to provoke him. He was worried about what I would say to the press. I said I had not yet decided.
Squirming uneasily in his seat, he read me the separation statement he had planned to hand in to the AFP. Eighteen cold and proud words on a small piece of paper, each of them like a stab in the heart. I crumpled at the harshness of the phrasing, at the contempt with which he ‘made it known’ that he was ‘putting an end’ to his ‘shared life with Valérie Trierweiler’…
I stood up and left screaming: ‘Go on then! Send your bloody statement out if that’s what you want.’
He tried to stop me, to wrap me in his arms: ‘We can’t say goodbye this way. Kiss me.’
He even suggested we spend the last night together… I tore myself from his arms forcefully and left without turning back, tears streaming down my face.
I would later learn that it took three official advisers to draft my statement renouncing our relationship. The death certificate of our love, sandwiched between two piles of current affairs that needed to be dealt with speedily.
We are not always in control of our emotions. The two of us fell in love when we were not free. It was not a meaningless affair. What was going on now? Why was he acting with such inhumanity? Such violence? Tenderness was apparently not an option; he could at least have shown some consideration for me.
I had to meet my security guards who were waiting for me in the car. I was in floods of tears and tried to hide behind a tree so they would not see me in that state. One of the butlers kindly handed me a handkerchief. I was the handkerchief that had just been thrown out a second before.
I did my best to grin and bear it and joined the team. All I could say was that we were going back to the rue Cauchy. No one dared say a word. We had just crossed the Alexandre III bridge when I received a message from my executioner. He had just released the guillotine and was sending me a love note: �
��I want your forgiveness because I still love you.’
All it achieved was that I started crying even more. Why was he doing this? Was he being sincere or was it just further evidence of his cowardice?
It took us a little while to get back to the rue Cauchy flat. Alexandre, my security guard, followed me up in the lift. Seeing me in such a state made him as miserable as me.
He was worried about me and asked me if I was going to pull through.
‘Yes, I’ll be all right,’ I said.
Avoid switching on the television or the radio no matter what. My phone kept beeping with messages. I barely looked at them. The news was spreading like wildfire. Just as – when I was in hospital – I had not seen the magazine covers in the international press after the scooter pictures were published, now I was not aware that the news of our separation was going around the world already. I did not want to hear it; I needed to protect myself from this media storm.
It wasn’t the first storm I had weathered but it was the worst of them all and I was not very strong. I rifled through my DVD collection. There was only one thing I wanted: to get into bed and take my mind elsewhere. Anywhere as long as it was far away from reality.
I picked Sarah’s Key as I had wanted to watch the film adaptation of Tatiana de Rosnay’s novel for a long time. It tells the story of a US journalist who pieces together the life of little Sarah, arrested as part of the Vel d’Hiv Round-Up.3
It was barely 8 p.m. and I was under the duvet with no inclination whatsoever to eat dinner. I watched the film with my laptop on my knees. I shut the world out, unsure whether I was crying over the sadness in the film or over my own life. By the time the credits rolled I was completely drained. That evening, I truly understood the meaning of the expression ‘crying your eyes out’.
Like a trapped bee bumping against a windowpane, the same thoughts went back and forth in my head. How could he have done this to me? If we still loved each other, how had we reached this point? I reminded myself that the following day I would be on my way to India – I held on to that thought like a drowning person clinging to a raft.
Thank You for This Moment Page 3