Since then, I’ve tried calling four more times. In vain. In the end, I left a message asking him to call me back. “We need to talk about what happened.” As soon as I said it, I realized that I couldn’t possibly have come up with anything more clichéd.
Edith also refuses to take my calls. I haven’t been able to tell her that my involvement with her association was sincere. But even if she had listened, I doubt she would have believed me.
Today, after getting Gabriel’s voice mail yet again, I summoned the courage to do something. I have to see him. He needs to hear what I have to say. I can’t give up without a fight, even though the odds are against me.
At a quarter to seven that evening, the time when Gabriel usually leaves work, I was waiting across the street from the Société Générale branch on Rue Clemenceau, leaning discreetly against the bus stop. I had a clear view of the entrance to the bank as I tried to ignore the drizzle that was leaving a fine layer of freezing cold raindrops on my face and clothes. I pulled up the collar of my leather jacket and shoved my hands deeper into my pockets without ever looking away from the glass doors.
As the minutes trudged by in slow motion, I realized I hadn’t prepared anything, that I had no idea what I was going to do once Gabriel came into view on the other side of the street, no idea what I’d say. A rush of anxiety washed over me as I tried to find the right words, words that might actually get through to him.
A woman approaching quickly in a long dark coat with shiny metal buttons suddenly caught my eye. I moved aside to let her pass; she was using her umbrella like a shield against the gusting rain and must not have seen me. Strangely, though, as she neared me, the click of her high-heeled boots on the sidewalk slowed. When I looked up, the face in front of me was painfully familiar. I’d never seen her in person, but I immediately recognized Gabriel’s wife. She held tight to her umbrella as I watched the rain drip over the sides in the light of the streetlamps. We sized each other up for what seemed like an eternity, like two boxers waiting for the perfect moment to throw the knockout punch.
“What are you doing here?” she finally asked curtly.
“I . . . I was in the neighborhood, and . . .” I exhaled calmly, telling myself not to be intimidated. I couldn’t let her get the upper hand. “I need to talk to Gabriel.”
I held my head up high and ran my fingers through my damp hair. I suddenly realized my Converse-clad feet were soaked. Chloé was clearly unshaken and sure of herself despite the uncomfortable-looking heels, which raised her several inches above the ground.
“I get it . . . He won’t pick up when you call or answer your messages, is that it? So you’ve decided to make him listen to you, whether or not he actually wants or needs to see or hear from you. It’s pretty sad to be reduced to something like this, don’t you think?”
Chloé’s gaze was full of pity, almost compassion. And all of a sudden I felt pathetic for spying on Gabriel outside his office.
“I just wanted to explain myself . . .” I said, hating my voice and suddenly submissive attitude.
Chloé’s smile was almost kind.
“We played the game, Emma. But it’s been over for a while now, and you know it. There’s nothing worse than a sore loser. Those people who refuse to admit defeat, to accept that they weren’t good enough, that they were bested by their adversary. It’s downright embarrassing.”
I feigned calm as my nails dug into my palms inside my jacket pockets. Chloé carefully replaced a few strands of her glossy hair before going on.
“But you know what? Instead of meeting up with my husband in a few minutes as planned, I’m going to turn around and go home. That way, you can try to talk to him, though I seriously doubt he’ll even slow down when he sees you. I’m a good sport, so go ahead, try your luck. If you can manage to work up the courage, that is . . .”
Before I even had the chance to mumble anything in reply, Chloé had turned around and started walking back the way she’d come. Her stride exuded the confidence of a model on the catwalk. She must have known I was watching; she was used to turning heads.
A few minutes later, a man left the bank in the shadows. Gabriel. Without a glance at his surroundings, he turned left and headed up the street, into the wind.
My feet refused to move. There was no point.
As the weeks go by, I feel more and more like a pariah, hiding out in my tiny apartment, waiting for God knows what. I still haven’t told my parents about the show. I’m too afraid of my mother’s reaction. She would have understood, or at least accepted my choice to participate in the show if I’d won the five hundred thousand euros, but now I’m sure she’ll see it as a waste of time at best. “Emma, how could you have toyed with someone else’s feelings like that? Didn’t your father and I teach you better?” I still have a bit of time before the show airs to find a better way to explain the whole thing. Or maybe by some miracle my parents will never hear about the show?
After my run-in with Chloé, I decided to accept the job in Gaza, but when I called the HR guy who contacted me back in December, a metallic voice told me the number had been disconnected. Could I have been any more naïve? Did I honestly think that the manipulation would stop with Gabriel?
All’s fair in love and war, I suppose.
So what do I do now? Stay in Saint-Malo and keep hoping against hope that Gabriel will let me explain myself—that we’ll get our happy ending? Go back to the boring life I had in Arles before coming here? Finally leave the country for anywhere but here to realize my dreams, without any money?
CHAPTER 16
MARCH 2014
CHLOÉ
Exactly a year ago, I was signing my contract at Interference.
I read through its dozens of clauses, my lips pursed in fake concentration, trying really hard to hide the fact that I didn’t understand much of the legal jargon it was full of. Eager to get on with things, Lucille Bellanger asked casually if everything was clear. The only thing I took away from the stack of papers she’d given me was that thanks to Gabriel, I was going to be rich. I didn’t realize that I was also agreeing to have cameras film our reunion and daily life for several months after the end of the contest. And it turns out that Gabriel also stupidly signed all the papers, when he thought he was instead choosing my casket and the location of my grave.
So we have no way out.
The circumstances make rekindling our relationship pretty difficult . . . I didn’t plan on having to live my life on camera, in my own house, every second of every day.
I try to call Gabriel during the day so we can talk freely, but he rarely picks up. When he does, he gives me a curt, “I’m busy.” In other words, “I don’t want to talk to you,” and “Leave me alone, I don’t need you.” I know, I read too much into the few words he actually says to me. To be honest, with every passing day I feel more lost about how to approach him. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I regret signing up for the show, but almost.
It’s ridiculous, isn’t it?
The five hundred thousand euros showed up in our checking account last week. Gabriel didn’t mention it, but I know he must have noticed. I haven’t dared bring it up again—when the studio’s accountant called two weeks ago to tell me the transfer would be going through soon, Gabriel didn’t react at all like I expected.
“You do realize you’re completely delusional, right, Chloé?”
“What do you mean?”
“I feel like you must live on a different planet. Do you know what five hundred thousand euros buys today?”
I frowned, caught off guard.
“I don’t understand what you’re getting at. We can do all sorts of things with the money, the list is too long to go through!”
Gabriel, who was sitting on the couch, crossed his arms across his chest in a sign of contempt.
“Like what exactly? Go on vacation and buy some clothes and a new car? Really, please, tell me what you had in mind when you signed that contract.”
His eye
s went cold and the smirk on his face made me cautious.
“I don’t like your tone, Gabriel.”
“Oh, well, excuse me. I just think that maybe you didn’t think it all through, that maybe some advice from someone who works in finance would have been useful at the time. But, hey, it’s not like you’re married to a ‘banker’ or anything, right?”
I somehow managed to keep an indifferent expression on my face and let him continue.
“I mean, do you really want to know what we can do with half a million euros? Let’s say we buy a house here in Saint-Malo. We’d still have about two hundred thousand left. So, if we assume we can get by on two thousand a month, since the house would be paid for, it would last, oh, not even ten years. And that’s if we don’t change our daily life at all: we stay in Saint-Malo, don’t spend unreasonably, don’t take any trips, and don’t make any big purchases. Nope, sorry to burst your bubble, but the truth is that five hundred thousand euros doesn’t really change anything. We can’t quit our jobs and leave everything behind. Champagne cocktails will not be a nightly occurrence. ‘Half a million’ might sound great, but nobody lives like a prince on so little.”
I clenched my jaw, furious. I wanted to tell him to shove his numbers. There was no way I was going to let him win.
“Do you really think I didn’t go through the figures myself? I’m afraid you’re sadly mistaken. You know what, Gabriel? I think you’re just bitter.”
I turned around and left the room before he could continue his demonstration. And, more importantly, before he could see how shaken I was.
So this morning, weary of our stalemate, I’ve finally decided to ask him if he’d rather I leave.
“We don’t have to live together if you can’t stand me anymore. I don’t know what else I can do to get my husband back. What’s done is done, Gabriel. I want us to move forward together, but if we can’t, then we should go our own ways . . . We can’t keep on like this. There’s no point. I can’t snap my fingers and suddenly make you forgive me. I wish I could change everything with the wave of a magic wand, but that’s not the way the world works. So if you can’t stand to be around me anymore, just say so, once and for all.”
He continues to wash the pile of dishes in the sink without looking up.
“I’ve put up with your anger, your sadness, and now your indifference. I’ve been tiptoeing around you, wondering how to get you to come back to me. What do you want me to do? What could I say to get you to listen, to forgive me? I made a mistake. Is that what you want to hear?”
Tired of talking to his back, I step closer and turn off the running water. He keeps scrubbing a pile of silverware, without even glancing at me.
“All right, get out a recorder, then: I made a mistake! I thought you’d be strong enough, that you’d also think participating in the show was worth it once it was all over, and I was wrong. Yet more proof that we never really know our loved ones as well as we think. I’m sorry.”
No reaction, just the infuriating squeak of the sponge against the dish he’s washing. My eyes start to fill with tears despite all my efforts.
“Please, I’m begging you, forgive me . . .”
The water in the sink is so hot that columns of steam fill the small kitchen.
“Did you hear me?”
I’m a ghost. How ironic.
I decide not to push him just then and head out for a run before going to work. I turn the volume on max and a rhythmic melody fills my eardrums. I time my stride to the heady bassline. I’m in the zone.
Could I even make sense of my life without Gabriel? When I decided to take the plunge with the show, I never thought for a second that the separation might be irreversible, that an irremediable rift would grow between us. But as the weeks fly by, I’m starting to doubt his ability to get over it all and forgive me. Maybe I overestimated him. He’s so much more fragile than I am. So much more idealistic.
But every time I dreamed about what I would do with half a million euros, I imagined myself with Gabriel. I imagined the life we could build together if we were suddenly free of financial obligations. If money no longer factored into any of our decisions. Before Gabriel spelled it out for me, I didn’t realize that five hundred thousand euros wouldn’t really make us rich. That all we’d be able to do is buy a house—in some small town—and go on a few trips. I really thought we’d be able to quit our jobs and give our bosses the finger if we wanted.
Before I signed up for the show, I dreamed about everything we could do together.
Together.
I wonder if any of it was worth it if he’s not by my side. What’s the point of being rich without Gabriel?
I don’t know how to tell him all this. I feel like he’s forgotten who I am, like he doesn’t know why he chose me to be his wife, why he loved me. I wish he would remember us rather than letting these few months erase everything we had together, but I’m powerless against his indifference. I want to stand up and scream, “It’s me!” but I’m too afraid of his icy stare, which looks right through me without actually seeing me. “It’s me . . .”
When I come home at the end of the day, exhausted after several cardio classes in a row, Gabriel has dinner waiting. Salmon lasagna. I recognize the enticing aroma wafting from the kitchen.
I drop my purse on the entryway floor and hesitantly make my way to the kitchen to join him. He comes over to me and looks directly at me, his face unreadable. I have no idea what he’s feeling.
Then his lips finally move. “Truce?” he murmurs.
I nod suspiciously and sit down on one of the bar stools. Truce? Really? I feel like a fifth grader playing tag whose adversary has finally admitted defeat. Will this be a temporary break in hostilities, or a real end to the war? I guess only time will tell.
I keep my questions to myself and smile shyly. There’s no way I’d risk ruining the moment with questions that could antagonize him. I prefer to take what he’s willing to give. I almost feel like I’m on a first date. When you’d do anything to get the other person to like you and are so afraid of committing the slightest faux pas or letting conversation lag.
Gabriel pours me a glass of Sancerre and holds his glass to mine to toast.
“To us?”
GABRIEL
Gabriel had been tempted to rip out the cameras hidden in every room of the house, but Chloé convinced him not to if he wanted to keep the five hundred thousand euros. Though the money is of little interest to him, Gabriel is practical; he understands that it would be stupid to have gone through the entire masquerade for nothing.
Having spent his childhood with parents who started yelling and glaring at one another at breakfast every morning, he hates conflict. He always promised himself he’d never go through that again, no matter what. He’s told Chloé everything he feels he needs to say, and isn’t the kind of person to keep nagging her with the same critical comments over and over. And he can’t stand the idea of their home becoming a theater of trench warfare. So he’s decided to loosen up a bit and let Chloé slowly make her way back to him. He hopes that his overflowing emotions will abate with time, that soon he won’t be so sensitive anymore. He hopes he’ll be able to move forward.
He studies Chloé’s bottles of nail polish lined up along the edge of the bathroom sink and runs his hand over her clothes, which are back in their closet. All around the house, he notices her things strewn about: her charcoal-gray sweater on the banister, a bar of white chocolate on the coffee table, her mug with a used tea bag on the kitchen counter. It’s like nothing has changed, like nothing even happened.
As if everything were just like before.
He distractedly clears the table from dinner last night. While he waits, powerlessly, for the studio to finish filming, he feels like they’ve suspended his freedom. The only thing he’s been able to do is refuse to be interviewed for Till Death Do Us Part. Chloé went along with their little charade, went on and on about how happy she was to have won, how excited and hopeful sh
e was about being reunited with her husband and starting a new life together. For Gabriel there was just no way. He had been duped and refused to support any of it.
He’s having lunch with Geoffrey today. Sandwiches and a walk in the park halfway between their respective offices. The weather is particularly nice for this time of year and the park is full of people out for a stroll.
“So, buddy, what’s it like to be rich?” asks Geoffrey, eager to hear Gabriel’s take on things.
“Doesn’t change much.”
“Doesn’t change much? Hang on a sec! You must realize your life is going to change dramatically! Just think of everything you can do with that much money! If I had half a million euros, I’d leave everything behind. First of all, I’d stop slaving away five days a week for a pittance. Seriously, I’m sure that if you invested it you could live off the interest alone!”
Gabriel smiles. Geoffrey sometimes seems to forget that Gabriel’s the financial advisor. He’s already done all the calculations. He painted a particularly bleak picture for Chloé, to put her in her place. He talked about using most of it to buy a house outright, when in fact he knows all too well that it would be more advantageous to take out a loan. But trampling her exaggerated enthusiasm was just too tempting. When he had learned how far she was willing to go for money, he had felt so humiliated, so pathetic. And the day of that fight he wanted Chloé to feel the same way. To be shaken to the core, if only for a second, by a few simple calculations.
Geoffrey continues imagining what he’d do out loud, and Gabriel doesn’t have the heart to set his friend straight. Objectively, even with a low-risk investment, he and Chloé could in fact earn a comfortable supplementary annual income—without lifting a finger. Not enough to live like sheiks, but enough to have some fun. It’s a simple fact: money breeds money.
Geoffrey continues with his fantasy.
“I’d pack my bags and take a trip around the world for at least a year! Let me tell you, man, I’d take advantage of it! You and Chloé still don’t have any plans?”
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