French Kissing

by Catherine Sanderson

  ‘Pas encore,’ I replied hesitantly. ‘What did you have in mind?’

  ‘Café des Phares, Place de la Bastille, à 21h00,’ Manu shot back. And with that, before I could accept or decline, he promptly signed out.

  There was something compelling about being commanded to be in a certain place at a certain time by a man who didn’t appear willing to take no for an answer. His behaviour could be interpreted as arrogance, of course, and both his flippant manner and the mention of the condoms in his bathroom cabinet in the very first line of his profile gave me reason to believe Manu was looking for something casual, if not purely sexual. But hadn’t I told myself, in the beginning, when I signed up to Rendez-vous, that the odd casual encounter might do me good? Maybe an evening with Manu would turn out to be exactly what the doctor ordered.

  My mind wandered off teaching topics and returned to my impending date at regular intervals the next day at work, and home time couldn’t come fast enough. I’d felt nervous before meeting Marcus or Frédéric, but nothing akin to the breathless anticipation I now felt when I imagined meeting Manu. This frisson of excitement was something new. My whole body tingled with anticipation.

  Once I got home from work, with a couple of hours stretching out before me, I took a number of unprecedented steps as I readied myself for my date. Too unsettled to eat, I took a long, hot shower instead, washed and blow-dried my hair and picked out one of my sexiest sets of matching underwear. I pulled on a favourite black knitted dress which clung to my curves, and swapped my work satchel for a smart black handbag. ‘To hell with being sensible, Sally,’ I said sternly to my reflection as I applied make-up and sprayed perfume on my neck and wrists. ‘What’s the worst thing that can happen? If he’s another Marcus or Frédéric, there’s nothing to stop you bailing out early. And if he’s not, then who knows…?’

  I pulled Libération out of my bag as the métro carried me in the direction of Bastille but found myself unable to concentrate on the words which danced on the page in front of my eyes. After skimming over a back-page interview, I took a second look at the day’s Transports amoureux. There were three, but two were long-running repeats, leaving only one which had been published for the first time that morning. It was short and sweet, and contained an Edith Piaf lyric from the famous song in which she likens her lover to a merry-go-round who makes her head spin. ‘TGV Paris–Angoulême, le 3 novembre,’ it read. ‘Nous avons bu un café ensemble et tu m’as fais tourner la tête. Je veux te revoir.’

  Kate and I had often grabbed a bite to eat at the Café des Phares before our shifts at El Paso. They’d served a mean Croque Monsieur with lashings of béchamel and, back then, toasted sandwiches were one of our low-budget staples. An unexpected, but not unwelcome, side-effect of signing up for Rendez-vous was the number of former haunts I was now revisiting for the first time in almost a decade. First Stolly’s, then the Trésor, and now here. In my mind’s eye, as the métro pulled into the station and I stood with one hand on the spring-loaded door-release handle, I could see Kate and me sipping beers on the terrasse of the Café des Phares as we waited for our food to arrive one mild summer evening; younger, more carefree versions of our current selves. In my memory, a shadow fell across our table. It was Nico, commandeering an empty chair from the next table and joining us for a drink.

  What rotten timing: Nico had no business popping into my head minutes before a date. Almost everywhere I’d been in Paris in the last ten years had an image of the two of us superimposed upon it, and reminders of him, of us, shadowed me relentlessly wherever I went. The only way to chase them away, I suspected, and exorcise his ghost would be to fall for someone else. Then I could manufacture a whole new set of memories to take their place.

  Climbing the steps up to ground level, I was blasted by one of those icy winds which howl along the underground tunnels, even when there isn’t the slightest breeze to be found outdoors. I’d chosen the exit nearest the Café des Phares, opposite the Opéra Bastille, even if my view of the opera house was partially obscured by the column – complete with gold-leaf-covered winged cherub – which dominated the centre of the traffic island. Cars careened around the unmarked, multilane round-about, weaving and zigzagging around one another without once using their indicators. How their drivers remained unscathed as they rocketed around place de la Bastille or, worse still, executed a lap around the place de la Concorde, had always been a mystery to me.

  A red and white awning covered the wide expanse of terrasse in front of the café and hemmed it in on both sides, creating a sort of outdoor room under a tent. As I approached, I scanned the wicker chairs and round tables, one by one, searching in vain for Manu. The fact that all the chairs in front of French cafés face outwards makes them perfect for watching the world and his dog stroll by, but I’d always found taking centre stage before a sea of out-turned faces to be an unnerving experience, and my confidence ebbed away with every passing second. I was about to slink off in the direction of the nearest free seat, forcing my date to come looking for me instead, when I felt a light touch on my arm and heard an unfamiliar voice say, ‘Belleville girl?’

  When I span round to face the owner of the voice, I was simultaneously flustered and relieved. The all-important first impression was a good one. Manu looked better ‘in real’ – as Lila was fond of saying, translating ‘en vrai’ a touch too literally – than his brooding profile photo had led me to believe. Effeminate pronounced cheekbones were offset by a shock of unkempt black hair and a thick layer of stubble on his cheeks and chin. He radiated self-assurance, as I’d suspected he would, and didn’t appear to be phased in the slightest by the fact that half the people assembled on the terrasse were watching the first few seconds of our encounter with undisguised interest.

  ‘Hi. Yes. My name’s Sally,’ I mumbled shyly in French, desperate to flee the spotlight and sit down.

  ‘I’m Manu, as you know. Short for Emmanuel,’ he replied, guiding me towards a table under the awning, below one of the battalion of outdoor heaters. When a waiter appeared, summoned by a confident gesture of Manu’s, he ordered a vodka tonic and I opted for the same, hoping a strong drink would steady my nerves.

  ‘Warm enough?’ he enquired, once the waiter had withdrawn, ‘because we can move indoors if you prefer?’ He’d kept his black overcoat buttoned, and I followed his lead, thinking what a shame it was that he wouldn’t get to see my slinky dress underneath.

  ‘Oh, I’m fine for now.’ I squinted up at the enthusiastic blue flame belching out of the heater above our heads. ‘But ask me again later… In my experience, the heat from those things tends to gently roast your head but never quite thaws your feet.’ Manu smiled, and slowly I began to relax. ‘It’s always amazed me,’ I continued, using my surroundings as a conversational crutch once again, ‘this bizarre practice of heating the outdoors. I mean, it’s hardly ecologically sound, is it?’

  Manu pulled a packet of Marlboro lights from the inside pocket of his coat and laid it on the table. ‘You’re right,’ he concurred. ‘But how else are bar owners supposed to survive the smoking ban?’ I took his point, even if I was sceptical about putting smokers’ comfort and bar profits ahead of the survival of the planet.

  At first, I reasoned that Manu was so attractive that he was out of my league, although if he was disappointed with how I looked in the flesh, he did nothing to show it. He also turned out to be surprisingly easy to talk to, and our conversation grew more animated with every repeat round of vodka tonics he ordered. He talked at length about his son, Paul, and I reciprocated with a few of my favourite Lila anecdotes, feeling jubilant every time I managed to make him laugh. I avoided the subject of Nico, aware that it was dangerous ground to cover while I was well on the way to becoming tipsy, but Manu, on the other hand, didn’t hold back from talking about his son’s mother. His tone of voice became dismissive and flippant when he described how she’d tired of the anti-social hours he kept as a session musician and left him when Paul was only two
years old. But despite the alcohol fogging up my brain, I wasn’t fooled: I sensed the presence of deep wounds which had yet to heal.

  ‘I can’t blame her, I suppose,’ he said reflectively, staring into the bottom of his glass. ‘I was never easy to live with, and she’s better off these days, without me. She married a dentist with a nice steady income, in the end. He gives her and Paul – and his new little sister – everything they need…’

  When our conversation veered on to the subject of Rendez-vous, Manu made no bones about how he’d used the site with a single aim in mind: to organize a series of no-strings, one-off dates. It was my turn to stare fixedly at the glass in my hand, wondering whether I was supposed to read this as an admission that, for him, the outcome of our date had been a foregone conclusion from the start. If I was honest with myself, I’d been entertaining the idea ever since I’d decided to meet him. And now that he was here in front of me, charming and good-looking – even if, for some reason, his presence didn’t send shivers down my spine – I couldn’t help speculating that, if he was as promiscuous as he claimed, he might well be rather good in bed. With four or five vodka tonics swilling about my empty stomach, I was beginning to feel uncharacteristically self-confident. Why not nudge things in that direction, I decided, and see what developed?

  ‘My feet are turning into blocks of ice,’ I said with an exaggerated shiver, joking that frostbite was rather a high price to pay for spending time with a man, however charming. Manu took the bait, singing the praises of the central heating in his nearby flat and, the next thing I knew, he’d escorted my swaying form along boulevard Richard Lenoir to his apartment building and I was seated on his living-room floor, warming my stocking-clad feet against the radiator.

  Manu’s place was modestly furnished. There was a beige sofa which had seen better days and a pine coffee table, pitted, scarred and patterned with the overlapping rings left by a multitude of wine glasses and coffee cups. A weeping fig was slowly losing its leaves in the corner furthest away from the radiator, its roots no doubt in dire need of a larger pot. The focal point, however, was the collection of half a dozen electric guitars propped against the walls, next to an amplifier and a spaghetti-like tangle of gold-tipped leads.

  ‘Aren’t you going to serenade me with some music?’ I slurred, pulling myself to my feet and steadying myself against the wall. Manu, who had emerged from his kitchen bearing a glass of water, looked at me in amusement.

  ‘No, Sally, I’m going to fetch you a pillow and a blanket,’ he replied, shaking his head. ‘You can sleep here on the sofa. You’ve missed the last métro, and I’m not sure it would be wise for you to take a taxi in this state…’

  ‘Not wise?’ I said indignantly, taking a step forward. ‘What do you mean? I’m fine…’ But I wasn’t fine. The carpeted floor was pitching and rolling like a boat on stormy seas and, after taking the glass Manu held out to me, I lowered myself on to the sofa and closed my eyes for a moment.

  When I opened them again, it was to see Manu depositing a pile of bedclothes on the floor by my feet. ‘You’re not even planning to take advantage of me?’ I said plaintively, squinting up at him from behind a lock of hair which had fallen across my face. My voice sounded younger and more petulant than I’d intended, as though the alcohol had stripped fifteen years off my age. ‘I thought one-night stands were your thing? Why did you bring me back here if your intentions were honourable?’

  ‘You’re a lovely girl, Sally,’ Manu said firmly, ‘but also a very drunk one.’ He dimmed the lights and pulled down the living-room blind with a decisive noise that sounded like a full stop. ‘And, surprising as this may sound, I enjoyed meeting you tonight and I don’t want to mess you around.’

  An explanation for Manu’s unlikely chivalry flickered across my vodka-addled brain. ‘Is this because I’m a mother?’ I asked him slowly. ‘Please don’t feel you have to handle me with kid gloves. Maybe I want you to mess me around. Ever think of that?’

  ‘Sally, get some sleep.’ Manu paused at the door to what I supposed must be his bedroom and flipped off the living-room light to signal that our discussion was at an end. ‘We’ll talk in the morning when you’re feeling better. I promise.’ The last thing I heard before I passed out was the sound of the coins from his pockets clattering to the floor as he took off his jeans.

  I came to, fully clothed on the sofa, at 5.50 a.m. It took me a moment to work out where I was, and I groaned out loud as the mortifying end to my evening – my pitiful entreaty and Manu’s polite but firm rejection – came back to me in a flash. When I realized it was Thursday, and that I had a full day of teaching ahead of me, I groaned again. What on earth had possessed me to let myself get into such a state? I’d jeopardized everything.

  The door leading from the living room to the bedroom was ajar, and through it I could hear the rumble of gentle snoring. I realized I had no desire to face Manu when he awoke and, besides, I needed time to get home, shower away the alcohol seeping through my pores, pull myself together and dress for work. Without leaving so much as a note, I took one last look at the guitars lined up around the living-room walls, then slipped out into the hallway and pulled his door softly closed behind me. At the bottom of the stairs, it took me a while, in my disorientated state, to locate the button which would release the front-door lock and set me free, but eventually I found it; it was masquerading as a light switch. Out in the street, the sting of the cold November air against my cheeks had an immediate sobering effect.

  As I trudged back towards place de la Bastille to catch a métro, I cut across one end of what would soon be the Thursday-morning fruit and vegetable market on boulevard Richard Lenoir, attracting some knowing stares from the stallholders setting up their trestle tables and unpacking their wares. Thank goodness my mother can’t see me now, I thought to myself. Or worse still, Nico. Or Lila’s maîtresse. No doubt all would agree that a mother my age had no business performing an early-morning walk of shame, dressed in yesterday evening’s clothes and make-up.

  Manu_solo sent me a follow-up email message later that day, and it confirmed that my gut instincts had been correct. ‘I’m sorry about last night, Sally,’ it read. ‘I hadn’t studied your profile carefully enough and had no idea you were a single parent, like me, until we began talking. As I think I told you, I use Rendez-vous to find attractive women I don’t give a damn about, sleep with them once, then move on. I didn’t feel I could do that with you, even if you claim that’s what you wanted. You asked me whether that was because you are a mother, and I honestly don’t know. All I do know is that I’m not relationship material. So I think it’s probably best if we don’t meet again.’

  That night I took the Rendez-vous homepage off my bookmarks list, abandoning any nebulous plans I’d had to fill the remainder of Lila’s school holidays with fresh dates. It had brought me nothing but disappointment so far, and I wasn’t sure when, if ever, I’d be able to face signing back in for more.

  12

  It was the Monday evening after my disastrous date with Manu – two days before Lila was due home – and I was starting to feel my daughter’s absence keenly. Instead of revelling in the extra time I had to get ready every morning, I missed padding into Lila’s bedroom to coax her awake and claim my morning cuddle. I missed hearing about her surreal dreams of unicorns and mermaids while I sipped my coffee, or hurried along the street to school. Our little routines structured my days and, without them, I was bereft. Balancing a bowl of salad on my knee as I watched the Journal de 20 heures, I was acutely conscious of the fact that the door to Lila’s room stood wide open, revealing her empty bed.

  I’d never much cared for home-grown French television, and even the handful of British and American series I followed religiously lost much of their appeal when dubbed into French. Favourite actors were saddled with unlikely voices, and award-winning dialogue lost its bite in translation. Pretty much the only French programme I made an exception for was the evening news, and that was less a
bout keeping abreast of current affairs and more about admiring how amazingly well put together newsreader Claire Chazal always looked.

  Chazal was in her early fifties, but the French paparazzi regularly snapped her sunbathing topless on the beach with a succession of lovers, each one younger than the last. Not only did she have a body I’d have killed for, but the publication of these candid shots never seemed to undermine her serious reputation one iota. Kate and I had often remarked upon how you had to hand it to the French: they didn’t seem to judge public figures in the same way the Brits were wont to do, firmly believing a person’s private life had no relevance whatsoever to how they performed their job. Chazal could date an eighteen-year-old boy if she pleased, as far as the French were concerned, as long as she continued to read the day’s headlines with the same measured professionalism.

  When the news was over and my bowl empty, I flicked listlessly through the other channels, spurning a reality-TV show called ‘Île de la Tentation’ in which a group of couples was deposited on tropical ‘Temptation Island’ and then separated, the girls staying in a hotel filled with eligible bachelors, the boys let loose in the midst of a dozen nubile bachelorettes, with predictable results. The title of a talk show airing on France2 caught my attention. Written in white against a blue background, the day’s subject burned a hole in my retinas: ‘Qui va vouloir de moi et de mes enfants?’

  ‘Good grief!’ I cried out in exasperation, sorely tempted to throw something at the TV screen. ‘ “Who’s going to want to take on me and my kids?” What kind of a title is that?’

  My eyes drawn to the screen in spite of myself, I watched spellbound as series of short films aired showing various parents isolés – all female – talking about the difficulties they’d encountered while looking for a new partner. Interspersed with these were live discussions choreographed by a rubber-faced male presenter who was canvassing members of the studio audience for their reactions. A twenty-year-old brunette bemoaned the fact that all the boys she met turned on their heel when she explained she was a stay-at-home mum with a six-month-old baby. She was shown dressed up to the nines in a nightclub, fielding approaches from a series of men whose interest evaporated soon after she apprised them of her situation.