“Why, what’s going on, are you being cheated on?”
She keeps flipping, without responding. Making more and more stupid mistakes, what came over her to make her say that? No matter what, never talk to him about Sébastien. Fortunately, Nicolas is absorbed enough in whatever he has to say that he doesn’t ask any more questions.
On the TV, a black guy wearing star-shaped glasses and platform boots sings and writhes in every direction. Cameras film girls dancing from behind, direct close-ups under their butts. Pauline asks, “So what’s going on with you? Usually, when we see each other, I can barely breathe you talk so much.”
“I’m not in the same mood as I usually am.”
“I’m not complaining. I prefer it when you’re quiet, actually . . .”
She thought that would get him started. He likes silly conversations, he’s good at the back-and-forth. But tonight he pauses. Ends up remarking, “You’ve improved your sense of humor since last time . . . At least I was useful for something.”
He says it jokingly, trying to keep his dignity, but he’s visibly depressed. So Pauline decides to facilitate things for him.
“‘At least I was useful for something?’ What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I screwed things up a little.”
Another few seconds of not daring to say it, a sheepish look comes over him, he probably knows it suits him, has used it often. He hits her with it all at once.
“It’s all bullshit, we don’t have a record label or a publisher, no one wanted to sign us, so we don’t have an advance, actually we don’t have anything more than the day we first met. I lied to you, I don’t really know why, since it was obvious that you would find out eventually . . .”
Then he stops talking, looks all around the apartment attentively as if he were there to fix things, the windows, the ceiling, the sink. Leaves Pauline the time to take in what he’s just told her.
She asks for clarification, “How long have you been lying to me?”
Trying to assess the damage, rapid inventory, in case there might be anything at all to salvage . . . He’s in a truly pitiful state, but not crushed with remorse: now that he’s spit it out, he could laugh.
He recaps, “Right after the concert, everyone was down, we were in business. But then, rapidly, we started to bomb. Monday there were five people who wanted to sign us. Next Monday they had no time for me. You should have come with me. I’m not saying that to exonerate myself, I’m saying it because it’s obvious: if you had come with me, they wouldn’t have switched off like that. That’s when I started to lie about things when I came to see you. At first only a little bit: when a guy told me, ‘I would need to see her perform,’ I said to you, ‘He needs to discuss the budget with the guy in charge.’”
“Your ‘a little bit’ is making me scared for the ‘a lot’ to come.”
“It’s been nearly a month since anyone took my calls.”
“Why did you tell me a week ago that we had signed a contract?”
“I think it’s my megalomaniac side. Honestly it’s so nice to tell you, even if now you know I lied, it feels so good . . . I had good intentions, I was completely convinced that one day or another everything would work out.”
“Where did you get the money that you gave me, then?”
“I took it from my mom. Don’t worry about her, she won’t miss it at the end of the month.”
“Why are you telling me the truth now?”
“I decided to tell you the other night, when you took the news of the monthly installments so badly. That brought me back down to earth. I couldn’t string you along like that for years.”
“I’ve had enough of people telling me the truth, to be blunt, I’d rather people lie.”
“Well, you should know it’s the same for me. If I hadn’t been sure it was going to end badly, I could have kept this up for another ten years before getting sick of it.”
He goes looking for two more beers, rediscovers his cheeriness, continues, “Seriously, this situation was perfect for me. You, shut in here, always there when I stopped by. I come over, I tell you whatever I want, I show off for two or three hours. After, I give you two or three pieces of advice on how to dress, behave, do your makeup.”
He asks her, in the voice of someone who knows that he’ll be forgiven for everything, “Are you mad at me?”
“No. I think you’re ridiculous, dishonest, and pathetic. But I can’t pretend that I’m surprised. And this party tonight, are we actually invited or is that also part of your grand scheme?”
“No, I have invites. We’re not blacklisted yet.”
“We’re just lightly disgraced, is that it?”
“We went out of style pretty fast.”
The truth was that, more than anything, he quickly got tired of taking care of all the contract bullshit. He took it seriously for two or three days, convinced that he could make the effort. But a leopard can’t change its spots. His natural state of being is not caring about anything. In rapid succession, he forgot about an appointment with one guy, showed up high to a meeting with a second, responded badly to a third. He screwed it all up in no time at all. And it didn’t surprise him, or eat away at him.
She goes to the fridge, crouches down. “Did we already finish all the beer?”
“I’ll go buy some if you want.”
“Okay. While you’re out I’ll change my dress.”
“That one’s nice, it looks good on you.”
“It’s not flashy enough. This is a dress you wear when you’ve already signed a contract.”
He follows her into her room, uneasy.
“What kind of thing are you thinking of wearing?”
“An astronaut suit, everyone will think it’s glamorous.”
She rifles through the heap of dresses. Raises her head, surprised that he’s still on the doorstep.
“Can I get naked without you being here?”
“Okay. I’ll go out. From day one I’ve found you unpredictable. But I mean that as a compliment.”
It’s hard to believe how well she’s taking the news. Closing the door behind him, he thinks to himself that it’s stupid—we have these lies we maintain that we think are so terrible, and once we reveal them it doesn’t come as a surprise to anyone. While other things that we thought were insignificant trigger huge catastrophes.
She puts on a series of dresses and looks at herself. Puts aside the ones that she likes. She’s picked up a few tricks about what makes an impression and what dazzles.
“Well this is just fantastic, this little piece of news.”
She thought she was making a joke but it was the truth: she had lost everything that she had, everything that she was. Now it’s all behind her. She has a hunger for everything that’s still to come. Now that she’s a new her.
Phone rings. The call doesn’t end but no one says anything on the answering machine. It cuts off when the machine deems that it’s been long enough. The phone rings again immediately after. She unplugs it.
Her good mood and big dreams deflate all at once.
TAXI, BARELY OUT of Paris, they drive through the middle of trees and grass, the smell of vegetation. For the first time, Pauline feels homesick. For places without twelve thousand cars, where you can see large stretches of clear sky. Her city, where people have an aperitif in the local bar, meet up frequently, without even calling, giving any heads-up, confirming. And on top of that, without getting angry at each other, doubting each other, judging each other.
Barely arrived at the party, she regrets wearing such a dress. Eyes on her, on the sly or blatantly, don’t mean her any good.
It hits her in a few seconds: it must be a big joke. Cameras hidden in the bushes. Gathering of caricatures, losers, and swindlers of all ages.
Around her: “Oh my dear, how beautiful you look!” and then grimacing and bursts of laughter at nearly every step, people thrilled to see her, boisterous. A lot of old men, rather overexcited on the whole. “Nooo
? You don’t know so-and-so? Come quickly, I’ll introduce you.” They don’t like each other. They all want pieces of the same pie, so they have to rub shoulders, but they have nothing in common besides the desire for profit, not their senses of humor, religions, convictions, or origins. Nothing brings them together and nothing makes them enjoy being together. They find themselves there out of obligation, hostile and uneasy. But they keep their eyes on the prize: the first person to touch my piece, I’ll kill them.
It’s a classy fucking reception, with a lake right in the middle and pretty barges floating on it, buffets of assorted colors, open bar, a lot of young and well-dressed girls to garnish the whole thing with a bit of vice.
Pauline and Nicolas hadn’t yet managed to get a drink at the bar it was so crowded, and it’s too funny to see how all these well-dressed people act like animals as soon as there’s a buffet involved. She warns him, “You’re going to find me painfully unpredictable, but I’m not staying longer than ten minutes.”
“As you like. I’ll go back with you, if you want.”
It’s always the same story: by her fifth drink she feels better. She’s less determined to leave, she says things to the people who pass, who turn out to be pretty cool. Though a bit stymied. Something is blocking their throats, nothing comes out directly.
The cream of the business elite who have work, money, lives that people think are so sophisticated. They only sparkle when seen from a distance.
A guy has just arrived who stops Nicolas. “So, that demo?”
“No news.”
But the guy isn’t listening to his response, he intrudes, “And the young lady here with you, don’t you want to introduce us?”
He looks at Pauline, undresses her with his eyes. Nicolas, anticipating her rejection of this man, gears up for a laugh.
But another Pauline emerges. Completely affable. Knowing her well, Nicolas can grasp, between two smiles, a small mean glimmer in her eye; she’ll rip him to shreds on the spot.
Even when the guy deploys his CV, as if to say, “I have ways of having you, you know,” she remains civil and charming. Though not wielding the weapon of discreet flattery, which Claudine swore was essential to any seduction, Pauline shows herself to be just as capable of hooking the gentlemen. Using a slightly cold distance, a paradox given her outfit. It suits her well.
Now that they’ve been introduced, the guy positions himself gradually and consciously with his back to Nicolas, quickly excluding him and busying himself with the lovely lady. He chats her up shamelessly, “We’ve never seen you in the office. Nicolas always came alone . . .”
“I thought that you were going to have us make an album, and that we’d have plenty of time to see each other . . .”
“That hasn’t been ruled out, by the way! I’m very, very interested in what you do. You have a very rare gift.”
Nicolas walks away from them, crossing his fingers that this asshole neglects to recount in detail his most recent visit to the record label. He’d smoked some excellent skunk beforehand, and found himself sniggering like an idiot right as they introduced him to the big boss. The boss had extended a virile hand, all business, booming, “I hope that you two will soon join our family,” which set off a little laugh that nothing could restrain. Nicolas left the premises doubled over, running away without even saying goodbye.
Before he’s out of earshot, he hears the fat oaf say very subtly and very originally, “With eyes like yours, you should really come out to talk business . . .”
And catches the smile Pauline blessed him with in response.
Nicolas remarks to himself, “When she starts acting, you’re in big trouble, boys.”
Fireworks. It’s late now. Nicolas doesn’t know the time, but given how wasted he is, he’s probably been wandering around for a while.
A brunette playing the predictable femme fatale has taken up residence at his side. At first he racked his brain trying to remember where he knows her from. Without any luck. She wriggles next to him, as women like to do, her shoulder grazing his and even her hips seeking him out. Yet he feels that if he were to make a move on her, she would recoil, alarmed: “That’s not at all what I had in mind.” It discourages him every time, even ends up putting him in a bad mood. She wants him to screw her, it’s obvious right off the bat. But you don’t know what else she wants, which makes things so complicated.
So he lets her twist and turn. Remains available, a bit curt, tender at other moments. He knows girls like this from experience. They always end up cracking. When they’re tired of moving closer for little touches—just so they can say, “What the hell is your problem?”—they jump right on him.
That’s when he pulls a David Lynch on them. Once he can slip his hand between their thighs without a struggle, make them stammer, “I want you to fuck me,” he steps aside for kicks, apologizing, “Some other time, I can’t right now.”
He only goes all the way with easy girls. They’re the only ones who get him hard. Because they’re ready to have sex in ten seconds, simply because they want to, without looking to profit from it.
He’s had this compulsion since he was little, from having grown up with his very beautiful mother and two sisters. Their conversations as stupid and vicious as they can be when someone mistakes their ass for a tool of twisted power.
The brunette is telling him about her breasts, which her ex paid for. She wants him to look at them, she’s even prepared to let him touch them.
It pushes girls pretty far in no time, a guy who remains unmoved in the face of their charms. There are some who would tear their hair out in frustration.
In the background, Pauline enters his field of vision. People are lined up to watch things explode in the sky. She’s next to the big boss. They’ve been talking for quite a while now.
Well played, Nicolas thinks, because the gentleman is not easy to deal with. He watches her from a distance.
She has Claudine’s body. An amusement park for men, her pussy full of magic and wonder. But, not very used to male company, she forgets to simper and show off the goods. It’s an irresistible flaw, a black hole.
Someone comes looking for the boss, pulls him discreetly by the sleeve, wants him to accompany them somewhere, slips a couple of words into his ear. The boss signals yes, okay, then turns back toward Pauline, and, before taking his leave, writes something down for her. Probably his direct line. Then hands her the piece of paper and she writes something too, probably her phone number.
Right away, another guy monopolizes her.
Seeing this, the little bit of guilt he was able to conjure up vanishes. Nicolas feels relieved. It’s not so bad that he screwed everything up with the labels. Not so bad, either, that he has absolutely no desire to spend hours glued to a computer mixing more beats. That girl there will take care of everything without him. She has a talent for making an impression.
More capable than Claudine was of clearing a path for herself to “the inside.” Partly because of the anger she’s not afraid to whip out, while her sister bottled it, let it fester, preferred to keep it banging around her guts rather than bare her teeth.
Also partly because Pauline keeps a cool head. She takes compliments like something owed, a slightly nauseating token. She shows no sign of knowing that men find her attractive, she doesn’t lose sight of what she wants. She doesn’t expect anything from the attention of others; she despises them too much.
He watches her off to the side, listening to what they say to her and responding vehemently, she must not agree. People around her raise their heads, surprised, now she’s really getting angry. Then they start to laugh, complicit. They embrace her.
The asshole who whisked her away earlier comes back to join Nicolas. He catches him watching her.
“Fuck she’s hot . . .”
Nicolas doesn’t say anything.
The other guy continues pensively, “Too bad she’s such a cunt, huh?”
Then he turns toward the brunette, and Ni
colas takes the opportunity to go for a walk.
Later on in the party, he recognizes the small group she’s with, she seems perfectly at ease with them. She’s managed to pull the wool over the eyes of Claudine’s friends the entire time. They passed each other at the buffet, Nicolas asks her, “Everything going okay?” She responds, “The worse the lie, the better it goes over.” Contempt protects her from everything.
She leaves the party with them. Nicolas watches her walk away. She doesn’t even look for him, doesn’t even think of him. That hurts a little, but he knows he’s already had his revenge: If you’d come to see me, I could have told you where you were going.
NIGHT, CAR, SHE’S completely wasted. She finds Paris really beautiful. She’s even a little emotional.
They were supposed to drop her off at her place, but they wanted to have a drink beforehand and insisted she come.
A girl next to her blabbers, “There’s a sexuality that we can only experience under the effects of alcohol. That’s what drinking is: welcoming what otherwise remains hidden. Of our own desire. And sure, it’s practical, not to know that about yourself. But drinking is to make a point of confessing, to shine a light in the dark.”
She’s a radiant redhead who must have known Claudine well and seems to adore her. Sometimes she puts her hand on Pauline’s, or lets it linger on her thigh. She sends charming glances her way, smiles of great understanding. She speaks with her hands to the boy who’s driving.
Pauline yawns, then sneezes loudly into her fingers. At the party, they kept passing around a CD with lines of coke on it. She tried it, her first time, without really knowing why. It didn’t do anything to her except make her sneeze.
The redhead continues theorizing, “I would never have known that I liked to be fucked like a whore if I hadn’t had sex while drunk. Sex with alcohol, it’s not the same as sober sex, you accept yourself more. It’s savage, actually.”
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