French Kissing

by Catherine Sanderson

  ‘Sweetie, I don’t think it’s the fact you have a child that’s turning these men off,’ an older woman in the audience piped up, echoing my own thoughts. ‘The way you chat men up reminds me of a job interview! I’m not convinced going on the defensive and interrogating every man you meet about whether he has any problem with dating a single mother is the best way to break the ice…’

  ‘But what else am I supposed to do?’ retorted the brunette, the camera zooming in to show tears glistening in her eyes. ‘Being a mother is my occupation right now. I’m not going to lie about it. The guys will have to find out sooner or later…’

  Her dilemma reminded me of the day I’d filled in my Rendez-vous profile. Watching her made me realize how lucky I was that Lila was old enough to be at school and that I hadn’t contemplated giving up my job altogether when she was born. I’d given it some thought but, even if we could have scraped by on Nico’s salary alone, I’d been unwilling to sacrifice my independence. How glad I was that I’d clung to my livelihood now.

  After a commercial break filled with ads for infant ready-meals and washing powder, the programme resumed with footage of various men giving their opinions on the subject. ‘I dated a divorcée once,’ said a man in his forties who was trying to hide his advancing baldness with a none-too-subtle comb-over. ‘I really liked her, but I wasn’t equal to the task of taking on her children too and I ended up breaking things off…’

  ‘I wouldn’t rule out dating a mother in theory,’ explained a pimpled shop assistant, the name tag pinned above his shirt pocket blurred so that his workplace couldn’t be identified, ‘but it would mean a lot of responsibility very soon in a new relationship. Ideally, I’d want to enjoy life as a couple, before bringing any child into the equation.’

  The last man interviewed was a handsome thirty-five-year-old who reminded me a little of Manu. ‘The way I see it, there’s no such thing as a casual fling with a single mother,’ he said reasonably, pictured in front of his computer, the scrambled Rendez-vous logo on screen clearly recognizable to an initiate like myself. ‘She’s not someone you’re going to feel comfortable trifling with,’ he continued. ‘And even if she’s not looking for a replacement father for her child, she’s going to need someone she can lean on for support. I’m young and I’m looking for a good time. I want a girl I can go clubbing with, not someone who’s ankle-deep in nappies…’

  I couldn’t bear to hear any more and, switching off the television set in disgust, I took my empty salad bowl over to the kitchen sink, the rattling of my knife and fork against the Pyrex rim alerting me to the fact that my hands were shaking. I wanted to call a friend and rip the show to shreds. I wanted someone to reassure me that the opinions those men had aired had been an unrepresentative sample, chosen for their shock value. I wanted someone to tell me with absolute certainty that I wasn’t destined to remain forever alone with my child. But who could I call? Ryan and Anna would trot out platitudes, but they wouldn’t really understand. Neither would Kate, secure in her rock-solid relationship with Yves, and I couldn’t even be sure that my own mother would provide a sympathetic ear.

  I kicked myself for not thinking to ask Delphine for her mobile number. It was at times like this that I longed to speak to someone who was in the same boat, someone who would be able to empathize with the terror that an inane TV show had struck into my heart.

  At first glance, I thought the next morning’s Transports amoureux had been written by a man who had fallen for a mother he’d seen on a train. ‘8 novembre, 18h10, TGV Paris–Bellegarde,’ it read. ‘Une maman remarquable, son petit blond mignon, vivant, charmant, aux lunettes bleues toutes rondes et chaussettes à rayures.’ My spirits soared as I translated the first sentence. ‘A remarkable mother, her cute little blond boy, lively, charming, with little round blue glasses and stripy socks.’ Here was welcome proof that Qui va vouloir de moi et de mes enfants? hadn’t been telling the whole story: some men considered parenthood a turn-on. But when I scanned the next and final sentence – ‘Ils me manquent…’ – my heart sank like a stone. If the author was missing them, it suggested he’d known the mother and child all along. It was, I realized, most likely a message from a father who had hijacked the Transports amoureux section to send a note to his wife, away with their child for the school holidays.

  The métro was passing through Concorde station, halfway to the recruitment consultants and their cupboard-like meeting room, when I heard my phone vibrating in the bottom of my bag. ‘Nicolas? Is Lila okay?’ The signal was patchy, and Nico’s voice was almost inaudible over the soundtrack of screeching brakes as the driver halted – mid-tunnel – for a red light.

  ‘Oui, oui… Tout va bien. My mother’s returning Lila tomorrow evening, as planned,’ Nico replied. ‘I was wondering whether you’d be free to have dinner with me after work? We pass Lila back and forth without ever having a real opportunity to discuss anything… And while she’s away, we’re both free. At least, I am… Are you?’

  ‘I, um, didn’t have any firm plans for tonight, no…’ I was mystified. Nico and I hadn’t spent any time alone once since I moved out: Lila had always been close by. I wasn’t sure how I felt about a prolonged tête-à-tête. There must be a reason for him summoning me to dinner like this. What on earth could it be?

  By the time I found myself sitting opposite Nico at his chosen venue, Le Chapeau Melon, a tiny table d’hôte restaurant on rue Rébeval, halfway between my place and his, I’d had a whole day to turn every possible scenario over in my mind. Nico’s motives could be purely practical, I supposed. Perhaps he wanted to change the frequency of Lila’s visits, or the amount of child-support money he paid me each month, although I couldn’t see why he would need to invite me to a restaurant – and quite a pricey one at that – for that type of discussion. My gut feeling was that he wanted to make some sort of announcement. Was it something about his job? Something about Albane? I couldn’t for the life of me work it out.

  When I’d called Anna at lunchtime and told her about Nico’s invitation, her first reaction had been envy. ‘I’ve been wanting to eat there for a while,’ she’d said wistfully. ‘It’s had some great press, but I showed up a couple of times and got turned away.’ This new information left me wondering how spur-of-the-moment Nico’s gesture had really been. From what Anna had said, he would have had to reserve a table well in advance.

  I must have walked past Chapeau Melon’s green-painted shop front, with its display of bottles in the windows either side of the door, more than a dozen times without realizing that it wasn’t a wine shop. Inside, the walls were lined with wooden shelving and more bottles of wine, and there were only a handful of wooden tables, a group of them pushed together to welcome a large party who had not yet arrived. Seated at a tiny table for two, Nico, who was dressed in one of his most expensive work suits, got to his feet when I entered. At first I thought he was going to greet me with a kiss on both cheeks – something we hadn’t done since we separated – but then he hesitated, evidently thought better of the idea, murmured an awkward ‘bonsoir’, and sat down again. As I hung my coat on a nearby wall hook, I saw from the corner of my eye that he had backed away slightly from the table, no doubt wanting to give my knees the widest possible berth. I smiled to myself at the memory of my exchange with his sister. How misguided Sophie had been to think that Nico would ever attempt some sort of reconciliation. When I’d wondered about his motives for meeting tonight, that was one possibility that hadn’t even crossed my mind.

  When the waiter appeared from a room at the back, he seemed to assume we were an item, and made a show of lighting a candle in a small glass and placing it between us. It was a reasonable enough assumption, I supposed. The friction between us was palpable, but we could all too easily have been a couple in the throes of a domestic argument. He then proceeded to walk us through the evening’s menu – a fixed four-course meal – and began extolling the virtues of the vins naturels on the shelves around us, persuading us to try
a little-known wine from the Jura as an aperitif. When he disappeared to fetch the bottle, I was unable to bear the suspense any longer. ‘It’s a lovely choice of restaurant, this,’ I began cautiously, not wanting to sound ungrateful. ‘I have to admit, though, I’ve been wondering why you invited me. Was there something in particular you wanted to talk to me about?’

  ‘Well, yes, there were a few things actually…’ Nico ran his right hand through his hair, a tic he’d inherited from his father, Philippe; something I’d seen him do a thousand times. For a moment I felt confused. It was surreal, sitting here like strangers, when I’d known Nico intimately for so long. ‘The first reason was Lila actually,’ he explained. ‘She’s been asking a lot of difficult questions lately…’

  ‘Difficult questions?’ I said, frowning. ‘Questions about us, you mean?’

  Nico nodded. ‘Let me see. “Did you do something to make Mummy not love you any more?” is a recurring one. At the weekend, when I went over to visit her in Chantilly, she asked me if you’d moved out because I’d “fait une grosse bêtise”. Then she asked what would happen if she did something naughty, and I suppose the implication was that she was worried you’d walk out on her, if she did…’

  I fell silent as the waiter returned and asked Nico to taste the wine, filling my glass, then his, once Nico had nodded to indicate his approval. Hearing Lila’s words, even second hand, had cut me to the quick, and I needed a few seconds to collect my thoughts. I should have been more careful when I’d discussed the new status quo with Catherine while Lila was within earshot, I realized. She had obviously been far less engrossed in her cartoon than she’d been letting on.

  It was heartbreaking to imagine Lila wondering, even for a second, whether I might be capable of abandoning her. I wished I could hold her tightly in my arms, there and then, shower her with kisses and leave her in no doubt as to the unconditional nature of my love. But I also felt an overwhelming sense of injustice. Nico had wronged me but, somehow, because I’d done the leaving, it felt as though he was laying the blame for the damage our separation had wrought squarely at my door.

  ‘I don’t know where she got an idea like that from,’ I said finally, unwilling to hint at the discussion I’d had with Catherine and determined to cling to the moral high ground. ‘All I’ve ever said to Lila is that Mummy and Daddy stopped loving each other and decided we’d be happier living in separate apartments. I never implied you might have done anything bad, or that my moving out was some sort of punishment.’

  ‘I’m not accusing you of anything,’ Nico countered with a frown. ‘I’m just saying Lila’s capable of coming to twisted conclusions like these all by herself. And so I wondered whether it might be a good idea to organize a few sessions with a pédopsychiatre… Sophie and Jean-Luc know someone who specializes in counselling kids when their parents get divorced.’

  ‘You think Lila needs therapy?’ I set down my glass, shaking my head in disbelief. ‘That’s ludicrous! I strongly disagree. She’s not throwing tantrums or misbehaving at school or showing any worrying signs of distress… Asking you a few questions is healthy, it doesn’t warrant some kind of external intervention! God, Nico, you can be so French sometimes!’

  Kate and I had often marvelled at how many of the French adults we knew had spent time in therapy or psychoanalysis. It almost seemed to be the norm, whereas in England, when I’d succumbed to a bout of depression at university, I remembered seeing my local GP and being told to buck up my ideas and take up some regular exercise.

  ‘It was only an idea I wanted to run past you,’ Nico said sharply. ‘There’s no need to get aggressive or start French-bashing.’

  The waiter chose this moment to appear with our entrées – half a dozen pieces of raw, marinated salmon with some sort of sesame crust – and we put our conversation on hold while we thanked him and exclaimed over how good everything looked, for the sake of form. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said in a small voice, once the waiter had moved away again. ‘I do appreciate the fact that you’re concerned. And I think we should probably discuss how things are going more often, so we can put our heads together and think about how to answer Lila’s questions. But I really don’t think therapy is necessary,’ I continued, as diplomatically as I could. ‘I’d like to hold that option in reserve for now, and only use it if she starts showing signs of actual distress.’

  ‘But what would those signs of distress be?’ Nico looked sceptical. ‘I mean, she often has nightmares when she sleeps over at my place, for example. Does she have them when she’s with you?’

  ‘Oh, I bet if you asked Kate and Yves, or Sophie, they’d tell you their kids all went through the monsters-under-the-bed stage when they were four or five,’ I said with a smile, seeing an opportunity to lighten up the conversation and seizing it, gratefully. ‘She doesn’t have too many at my house, I must admit. Her dreams are usually populated with princesses and unicorns, judging by what she tells me when she wakes up in the morning…’

  While we’d been deep in conversation, the restaurant had filled to capacity and the jovial group occupying the largest table was dominating the room, making me feel less conspicuous, less like Nico and I were on display. I put a piece of salmon in my mouth and savoured it for a moment, enjoying the feeling of the different textures. The tension in the air since I had first arrived, which had spiked at the mention of child psychiatrists, was now slowly beginning to dissipate. Regardless of what had happened between us, I had a feeling we’d always get a kick out of talking about Lila and playing the role of the proud parents. It stood to reason: sometimes when our daughter said something perceptive or did something funny I’d had to stifle the impulse to give Nico an impromptu call to tell him all about it.

  I found myself studying Nico’s face as we ate, sizing him up with as objective an eye as I could manage and wondering idly what my first impressions would have been if he was a Rendez-vous date I’d only just met. I’d always loved the dimple in his chin, and the fine lines that fanned out from his eyes whenever he laughed or smiled. Looking closely now, if I wasn’t very much mistaken, his wrinkles seemed to have deepened and he looked older than his thirty-four years. But he was still, beyond a doubt, far more attractive than any of the men I’d met so far via Rendez-vous, and realizing this made me feel a twinge of wistfulness.

  Feeling distressed that the man I’d loved had betrayed my trust and soiled my memories of our relationship was a familiar feeling, but today I found myself recalling something Sophie had said that day we took the children to the park. ‘Better the devil you know,’ she’d said, gesturing at the men all around us, the devils we didn’t yet know. ‘My Jean-Luc has his faults,’ she’d added, without throwing any light on what they might be, ‘but, at the end of the day, you have to tell yourself that no man is perfect.’

  ‘You look good tonight,’ Nico said, his eyes flickering across my face and down towards my décolleté. I was wearing the wrap dress I’d worn to work that morning, and I’d applied a little make-up before I left home, not so much for Nico’s benefit as to give me a thin layer of matt-finish confidence. ‘I saw a nice picture of you recently, too,’ he added. ‘I think it must have been taken at that work party of Kate’s…’

  ‘Oh? How come you saw that?’ Yves and Nico were in the habit of meeting in bars near the Champs Elysées, where they both worked, but it was hard to imagine them looking over photos of Kate’s party together. Nico lowered his eyes and fiddled with his serviette for a moment, looking like he wished he’d held his tongue and, just as he opened his mouth to speak, I realized with a heart-stopping jolt that the photo in question was my profile picture on Rendez-vous.

  ‘A colleague of mine got this email,’ he said quickly, embarrassment colouring his cheeks. ‘A Rendez-vous mailing-list thing: “Ten new members you might like to meet.” Anyway’ – he glanced up at me, as if to gauge my reaction – ‘he recognized you and forwarded the message on to me. I didn’t look at your profile, but it was a shock seeing the
mother of my child on there for anyone to see…’

  The truce we’d been enjoying for the past few minutes was over in an instant and I stared at him, feeling waves of anger wash over me. What right did Nico have to sound so possessive? What right did he have to criticize me – the ‘mother of his child’ – for putting myself out there and trying to rebuild my life?

  ‘Don’t you think that’s a bit rich, coming from the man who brought his stagiaire home the second my belongings were out of the door?’ I retorted, sarcastically, laying my hands on the table and seeing the crescent moons where I’d dug my fingernails into my palms. ‘You obviously didn’t mind what your colleagues thought about that. Talk about double standards…’

  ‘I’m only saying I don’t like the idea of you bringing a succession of different online dates home!’ Nico’s eyes flashed: my reference to Albane had hit home. ‘I’m concerned about the effect it might have on our daughter…’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ I said, exasperated, raising my voice now, not caring whether anyone else could hear me. ‘Do you think I’d ever invite anyone over when Lila was with me? The last thing I want is her padding into my bedroom one morning and finding a stranger in my bed. How could you imagine I’d do such a thing?’ Pushing back my chair, I rose to my feet, ignoring Nico’s entreaty for me to remain seated. ‘You have no right to police my love life, my sex life, or whatever it is that I may be looking for on that site,’ I said, throwing down my serviette and casting around for my coat. ‘I may be a mother, but mothers have needs too, you know. And as for you, you forfeited the right to comment on my private life the day you started fucking Mathilde.’