Thank You for This Moment

by Valérie Trierweiler

  Two minutes later, my phone started ringing non-stop. François and my security guard were both concerned for my safety. I did not pick up. I walked all the way to rue Cauchy. It took me almost an hour. It did me good to be back in the shelter of my own home.

  The next morning, the AFP issued an amended version of its article, François admitted that he had been wrong and recognised that my speech had been unfairly reported on.

  Now that we have separated, I can barely believe all those arguments. Some of them tore us apart. In May 2013, I decided to leave François. He was too hard, I could not take his cruelty anymore. I went back to the flat on rue Cauchy and forbade him from coming back to it. We did not see each other for three weeks. Every weekend I would go away with friends – I essentially toured France. But in the end I came back to him. I was addicted to him.

  Not for a minute did I imagine that he had made the most of his freedom to see another woman. Faithful women are forever naive…

  The man wooing me today – as he did when we first met – is nothing like the cutting partner I remember. He has become attentive again, as if he had managed to melt that ‘frozen sea’ inside him – Kafka’s metaphor for our inner fortress. The man who had become so stingy with his compliments has only words of praise about me these days. He notices everything I do, always knows where I am, encourages me with any initiative I take and has congratulated me on the short interviews I gave for Secours populaire, as well as those I gave about the Nigerian schoolgirls.

  When we lived together, he did not even know the name of the show I presented on television! The most surprising of all is that he even makes the effort to read my book reviews in Paris-Match … on top of the political pages!

  The overworked, overbooked and indifferent President has morphed into an attentive President who finds the time to read everything that is printed about me and send me dozen of texts – including when he is in a meeting at the Élysée. The mind boggles! Now that I am resisting his attempts to win me over, I have renewed market value in the eyes of a man whose motivation is to conquer.

  IN DECEMBER 2013, after Nelson Mandela was taken to hospital in a critical state, I told François that I wanted to accompany him to the funeral. In response he served up his now-famous: ‘I don’t see why you would be there.’

  I replied that I would go no matter what, I would use my press card and pay for my flight. On the morning ‘Madiba’ died I was too afraid he would send me packing and did not dare bring up the subject over breakfast. I sent him a text during the day. He agreed that I could come. I later learned that it had not been his decision. The diplomats insisted that I be part of the trip as Barack Obama and most of the heads of state were going to the funeral with their spouses.

  I was moved at the thought of attending the ceremony. We had just returned from Brazil and Guyana when we had to leave again, followed by a second plane that Nicolas Sarkozy chartered for himself. At the airport, François said he was thinking of inviting his predecessor in his car, while I would ride in another car. I served him straight up: ‘Do you think he would have stood Carla up for you?’ My answer left him speechless and I rode in his car with him. François ignored me in the stadium. In his eyes, Nicolas Sarkozy was the only person who mattered. I kept my distance to let them speak freely. The former President was the one who came to find me and introduced me to the other heads of state.

  François and Nicolas Sarkozy were both laughing. Their behaviour struck me as rather inappropriate, and I scowled at them. In pictures released in the press, I look like a mother keeping an eye on her misbehaving children… Like two veterans reuniting, they talked about the hardships of the job: the bad ministers, the lack of holidays, the attacks. Nicolas Sarkozy described the sumptuous property that the King of Morocco made available to him and his family. None of the pressing current affairs was more important than that to the two of them.

  Was this public bonding befitting, given the circumstances? We were at Nelson Mandela’s funeral, which was being broadcast across the world. And the two frenemies were having a ball. Nicolas Sarkozy was leading the dance. It made me uncomfortable to see François behaving that way with him. I said as much. In a raised voice, he swore he would never take me on an official visit ever again.

  Thankfully, the arrival of the US presidents – former and incumbent – helped ease the tension between the two of us. In a matter of minutes, I saw Barack and Michelle Obama, Bill and Hillary Clinton and the Bushes arrive – I was star-struck. I shook Barack Obama’s hand for the first time. He looked me straight in the eyes with his very own brand of unapologetic directness. But again, it was Michelle Obama who really captured my attention. She fascinated me: she was mesmerisingly charismatic.

  During the ceremony, a picture of the US President’s selfie with the blonde Danish Prime Minister started going around the world. Next to me, I noticed Michelle’s brooding expression, and I liked her even more! I was delighted to see I was not the only jealous partner.

  I will readily admit to it: I am jealous. I have been jealous with every man I have loved. I do not know how not to be when I am in love.

  I was jealous with François as I had never been before – because I loved him more than I had ever loved any man before him. I could not stand seeing other women put their heads on his shoulder and hold him by the waist to take a photo with him. I certainly did not like that. I have even sent a few of them packing. Would these women have liked me to cosy up to their husbands?

  Cécilia Attias, Nicolas Sarkozy’s ex-wife, has said that she would often see women give her husband their phone number. Her conclusion was that nothing will stop a woman attracted by power. What a sad statement, yet so true.

  I was unfairly tried as a woman drawn like a moth to the spotlight of power. Those prosecuting me must have forgotten that I fell in love with a man who – when the pollsters even remembered to include him on the list of potential candidates – only scored 3 per cent of potential votes in the polls. Had I been placing a bet, there were certainly horses with better odds! My relationship with François could hardly be compared with the way some women swoon over a President between two international summits.

  Oddly, none of those who criticised my possessiveness ever mentioned François’ jealousy, which was just as debilitating. He has more self-control and was therefore better at hiding it in public. But in private, he was unforgiving. To this day, even after having brutally offloaded me from his life, he cannot stand the thought that I could be with another man.

  The gossip columnists write that he feels liberated and is happy as Larry. Strange, then, that as soon as the media alleges I have a new lover, his messages take on an extremely aggressive tone… Once, after seeing a picture of me next to another man, he had the audacity to send me the following message: ‘It’s over between us.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I wrote back, ‘I’ve been aware of it since 25 January – as has the rest of the world.’ Double standards, as always. How many women does he need in his harem?

  On public outings François never had cause to worry, which meant he never had to keep his jealousy in check. No one ever took any liberties with me. I was often chastised for keeping my distance. Personally, I would have preferred François to do the same, and told him as much time and time again – as did all his advisers. ‘Being friendly’ does not a President make. But he could not help himself, it was second-nature to him – since childhood he had been the life and soul of a group, its jester leader.

  François was just as hopeless in his dealings with the media, which he flooded with messages. Political journalists started to keep track of how many of them were receiving text messages from the President. The figure is astounding: over seventy! Any journalist investigating a minister or a minor case is entitled to an audience with the President. Ever since he took his first steps in politics, he cajoles them, even those who have dragged him through the mud. He never gives up.

  He is a politician who likes to play journalist. Speaki
ng as a political journalist, such absolute fusion with the media is unheard of. Even Nicolas Sarkozy was more distant with the media, which is saying something!

  This frenzy absorbs much of his energy and plays against him. François simply cannot resist the appeal of a microphone placed in front of him, of a camera zooming in on him, waiting, expectantly, for a sound bite or a bon mot. Many a time I have watched him ruin a successful political Q&A by subsequently answering off-topic questions, badly framed by the camera, in a dark and dimly lit corner surrounded by a multitude of microphones. He might have given an excellent speech prior to that but all that would run in the media would be two or three badly strung sentences.

  I remember a scene in Moscow that would have had anyone tearing their hair out in despair. His team explained that he should not make any public statements before meeting Putin. ‘Obviously,’ he said. Only to run to the cameras ten minutes later!

  I soon threw in the towel.

  And yet it is abroad that I think he is at his best. Other than a couple of slips of the tongue caused by jet lag, he was never caught out on figures or the history of a country. He was impressive. And I do have reference points, having covered as a journalist some of former Prime Minister Lionel Jospin’s and former President Jacques Chirac’s official visits.

  On state visits, without fail, I was completely enthralled to see him reviewing the troops to the beat of various national anthems. His tie might have been a little wonky – I could not have cared less. All I saw was how far he had come. I could not take my eyes off him. I was like a spectator watching him in a film.

  There is something almost romantic about state visits: it is like being the hero of a novel, they are the rewards of a back-breaking role. The most wonderful of all was the state visit to Japan. I have enchanted memories of our welcome by the Emperor and the Empress. How could a little girl from a banlieue outside of Angers ever have imagined that one day the Empress of Japan would ask her if they could address each other by their first names? I could not bring myself to address her by any other title than ‘Your Majesty’. She was aware of the social work I did and gave me a kiss on the cheek in front of the cameras when we were leaving. I was expecting critics to berate me for not observing protocol. But, that time, they held back.

  When the French ministers went to pay their respects to the imperial couple, François and I shared a moment. The Chief of Protocol had briefed them on how to bow down slightly before walking away, never turning their back. Some of them were so flustered and clumsy that François and I started giggling uncontrollably.

  In late 2013, and despite our altercations and our fights, a strong bond still united us. Between two quarrels, we shared real moments of tenderness and were still attracted to one another. One minute we tore each other apart and the next we would make up, passionately. This is why I thought we were unbreakable.

  Before I saw the pictures of François on his way to meet his mistress, I would have staked my life on the fact that he would never betray me or abandon me – that he would never do such a thing to me, not in a million years.

  But he did and I still cannot get over it. I will not get over it.

  4 July 2014

  Twenty-nine. I counted them: he sent me twenty-nine text messages yesterday. All through his Friday as President of France, despite his timed-to-the minute schedule, François Hollande sent me twenty-nine text messages. I blame myself for having replied to him and stoked the fire. We are going around in circles, as we do every day. What he says to me is always the same: he wants me back and we should start over. My answer is invariably the same: he crushed me, he put me down, and did nothing to help me get back up.

  François still swears that he has not seen Julie Gayet since January or had any contact with her. What does he tell her? What does he write to her? What did he tell her about me during their clandestine affair? That he did not love me any more? That I was impossible? That our relationship was platonic? Cowardice is the great unifier of unfaithful men, and men in power.

  These last few years have made me far more committed. Where previously I only had opinions, I now act on them. I am involved. Though I no longer represent France, or anything else for that matter, I am almost as sought after by the media and various organisations as I was during my time at the Élysée. It rather amuses me to read, now, about Valérie Trierweiler ‘the ex-First Lady’; whereas when I had an office at the Élysée I was only ‘François Hollande’s partner’. I became a First Lady in the eyes of the media the day I effectively stopped being one. The role stays with the women who have embodied it. She may have divorced him six months into Nicolas Sarkozy’s five-year presidential term, but Cécilia Attias remains a former First Lady, just as surely as Anne-Aymone Giscard d’Estaing, Bernadette Chirac and Carla Bruni-Sarkozy.

  Should I have behaved differently? Some would have wanted me to be no more than a silent puppet, walking in the President’s footsteps, mute, submissive and essentially invisible. But I was not prepared to do that and while I was able to preserve part of who I was and say what I thought, I certainly paid a heavy price for it. The past two years have been marred by misunderstandings and the negative public image that clung to me like a bad smell.

  Since our separation, I have noticed that people no longer look at me in the same way. Women everywhere express support, in the name of sisterhood.

  My actions are heartfelt – I have not given up hope that one day my sincerity will no longer be under scrutiny. The seeds that I sowed at the Élysée have grown.

  Today, I received two bouquets. One brought to me in the street by a little girl called Elisa – her family had sent her; they wanted to let me know they were supportive of what I had been through. The second one was left in front of my door by one of my Twitter followers. I have never met her, she is a retired school teacher who defends me tooth and nail online. I am so touched. Every passing day brings with it a new solace.

  I could have shied away from the First Lady position – the thought did cross my mind. I could have refused to step inside the Élysée, I could have refused to accompany the President on his official visits. It would not have made much of a difference to the controversies, the insinuations and the basic serialisation of our story in the media. Besides, there would have been a missing piece in the puzzle. Protocol demands that France be represented as a twosome. And the symbolic function of First Lady is important in our country, even if it does bring with it scandalmongering and a whole host of unfounded assumptions and accusations – and the trial is never fair.

  I have not kept any of the magnificent presents I received. The Rolex watches and other Chopard jewellery have been safely stored in the official safes, at the Quai Branly Museum. I had three different witnesses sign the proof that I had returned these presents to the French Republic. You can never be too careful when, like me, you have learned that in politics everything – and I mean everything – goes.

  I do not represent anything any more; I am not a candidate for anything. Now that I no longer have an official title, I can freely back causes and struggles that I believe are just. I am a free woman and I want to continue to make myself useful. ‘Useful’ is such a beautiful word – humbling and empowering at the same time.

  Ukrainians living in France and Syrian refugees come to see me. ‘Help us,’ they say, ‘come to our country, see it for yourself.’ Of course, I have no scope for action in international crises. But I can use my voice to echo and magnify other voices. I am a journalist and I want to get out of my office, I want to see with my own eyes, and then describe what I have seen. I have visited refugee camps in Lebanon, slums in India, in South Africa and in Haiti – as well as in France, where some travellers’ settlements are worse still. I can write and say what I want.

  Until now, I have avoided broadcasting any of my political opinions about François’ policies. The way public affairs have drifted saddens me enormously. From what I see and what I hear, politics holds nothing that can attract me at
the moment. I cannot keep track of the number of times he has flip-flopped … I know how he hesitates and plays for time – only to quietly do a U-turn without feeling like he owes anyone an explanation. Does he still know which side is left?

  It is always the weak I think of first when an economic decision is made or when large-scale redundancies are announced – François once berated me for saying I was a ‘left-wing woman’ on TV. At the time, I had not understood what he was accusing me of. I was born on the side of the weakest social strata. Those who have to count every euro. That is where I come from. And those are the people I think of first when an economic decision is made or when large-scale redundancies are announced. I know that life is going to be that much harder on them.

  Would François Hollande have preferred me to say: ‘I am a right-wing woman’? Obviously not. I think what he wanted – above all else – was for me to keep my mouth shut. He wanted me to be nothing more than his lover – an immaculate, untarnished, mute figure. I had the misfortune of not being the rounded, polished and sweet woman he would have liked to have beside him when he finally obtained supreme power.

  I remember a conversation he and I had before the Socialist primaries. François had spent a few days in hospital for a minor operation. For a hyperactive man like him, it takes being stuck on a hospital bed to remember what is important.

  That day, he let his guard down and we had the most profound conversation we had ever had. He admitted having suffered from having been one half of a political power couple. He confided that it wasn’t his choice, that it had been circumstantial and compounded by Ségolène Royal’s ambition, which became more and more entrenched as the years went by.

  That day, François, who is usually so secretive and never opens up about his past, told me how much he had suffered from having to share the political spotlight with – and sometimes be in the shadow of – the mother of his children. It all started when François Mitterrand appointed Ségolène Royal – leaving him out of the Cabinet. His name had been struck off the list at the last minute because the President did not want a couple in his government.