Matthias’s mouth twitched and I took this as a signal that my message – the exaggerated emphasis I’d placed on the word ‘friend’ – had been received, loud and clear. Tapping in his door code, he ushered me inside. A series of leafy, stone-paved courtyards led to his building, the third removed from the road. Once inside, there were four flights of stairs to climb and my breathing became increasingly laboured until, at last, we stopped in front of a narrow door.
‘You’ll have to excuse the mess,’ Matthias cautioned me, reminding me of Jérémy for a moment, as he pushed open the front door and switched on the hall light. ‘I usually clean up on Sundays, but it was my grandma’s birthday today, and I had to go out for a big family gathering…’ I followed him through the hallway and into the kitchen-cum-dining room, a rectangular room with two large windows. Matthias paused to pull two small bottles of 1664 out of the fridge, then opened a drawer and began digging around for a bottle opener. ‘There used to be more walls,’ he said, gesturing towards the point where the kitchen-floor tiles gave way to wood floors. ‘The previous owners knocked this wall down, and then when I arrived, I took out that one over there.’ Where he was pointing, opposite the dining area, the plaster had been stripped back until only a series of ancient wooden beams remained. Peering through the gaps, I could see into the living room beyond.
‘If this is messy, I’d love to see what tidy looks like,’ I joked as Matthias handed me an open bottle. It was true: compared to Jérémy’s place, it was positively minimalist. I followed him into the living room, a sparsely furnished space with only a sofa, a coffee table, a TV and a large bookcase, its shelves filled with oversized hardback books. Running my finger along their spines, I saw they fell into three distinct categories: books about art, about architecture and bandes dessinées, the hardback comic books the French take so seriously that entire sections are devoted to the neuvième art in high-street book shops.
On the white wall opposite the sofa hung a collection of framed black and white photographs. ‘Did you take these?’ I asked, glancing at Matthias, who had taken a seat. ‘I seem to remember you saying you were into photography, from your profile?’ Matthias nodded, and I turned back to the photos, studying each one for far longer than necessary, using them as an excuse to remain standing. They were beautiful photos. Portraits, mostly, of people from the African village he’d told me about earlier, and he’d captured something of the essence of each person he’d photographed. But there was only so long I could stand and gaze appreciatively at them before I crossed the room and perched on the opposite end of the sofa. ‘Did you live here with the girlfriend you mentioned earlier?’ I asked, hoping he wouldn’t object to the personal question.
Matthias shook his head. ‘I moved in after we broke up. This place fell into my lap at the right moment, just when I needed to make a fresh start.’
‘I thought as much,’ I admitted. ‘It’s lovely, but it lacks all those little details that a woman might think of…’
‘Don’t tell me, you’d add curtains, a few plants, string some fairy lights across the beams…’ Matthias grinned. ‘A few of my female friends have said similar things,’ he explained. ‘You’re right. I don’t doubt it would stand to benefit from a woman’s touch.’ Setting down his drink, he surveyed the room, his expression difficult to fathom, and we shared our first embarrassed silence of the evening. ‘You know, I probably should get an early night,’ I said, wondering whether accepting his invitation had been a mistake. ‘I enjoyed tonight a lot, but you’re right, I do have to get up early for work tomorrow…’
‘Okay,’ said Matthias, his voice husky, ‘but there’s something I need to do first.’ Leaning forward, he plucked the bottle from my hand, cupped my face in his palms and kissed me, catching me completely off my guard.
I was woken the next day by pale sunlight filtering through the flimsy fabric of a pair of unfamiliar curtains. From the kitchen, I heard the tinkle of a teaspoon landing on a saucer and, a few seconds later, the convulsive juddering of an espresso machine springing to action. For a few delicious seconds my brain indulged itself in a daydream that the person at the controls was Jérémy. But when a sleepy-looking Matthias walked into the room, his hair damp, a towel knotted around his waist, I felt guilty for entertaining such blasphemous thoughts while I lay in his bed. He deserved better. The sex the previous night had been astonishingly good, taking both of us by surprise. When it was over, he’d curled around the small of my back and we’d fallen asleep, entwined, as though sleeping together were the most natural thing in the world.
‘Je t’ai fait un petit café,’ said Matthias, stifling a yawn. ‘It’s quarter past seven.’ I pulled myself up into a sitting position, gathering the duvet around me and trapping it under my arms – even if it was a bit late to be worrying about preserving my modesty – and accepting the cup he held out to me with a shy smile. I was sure my hair looked like a bird’s nest, and I wondered how much of the previous night’s make-up had found its way into the corners of my eyes, but somehow under Matthias’s gaze I felt dishevelled, but sexy. It wasn’t a feeling I was used to.
The progression from Matthias’s sofa to his bedroom had been slow and natural, that first gentle kiss on the sofa burgeoning into something more insistent. When Matthias pulled back, got to his feet and held out his hand, his eyes never leaving mine, I took it, silently, and allowed him to lead me into the bedroom. There we eased off one another’s clothes, one item at a time, in the semi-darkness and resumed our kissing on the bed, side by side, our bodies shivering with a growing need. This time there had been little alcohol in my bloodstream, and I’d been there, in the moment, my head completely clear, my nerve endings primed, delighting in the contact of our skin. When I could bear the wait no longer, it was my turn to pull back and ask him, shyly, whether he had some protection. My first climax made me cry out, amazed at its intensity, and prompted Matthias to stop moving altogether. ‘What about you?’ I said, once I’d scraped myself off the ceiling and was able to string a few words together. ‘You didn’t… At least I don’t think you did?’
‘Plenty of time for that.’ I heard the sound of a condom being removed and discarded and saw Matthias’s teeth glint in the dark. It wasn’t long before our whispers were stifled by a second round of kisses. And this time no one was left lagging behind.
Once I’d drained the dregs of my coffee and thrown on the previous day’s clothes, it was time to dash home for a shower and a costume change, before work. Matthias, wearing jeans and a crisp white shirt under a dark grey jacket, walked me to the front door of his building, pausing to remove a copy of Libération from his letterbox. ‘I had a lovely evening, and a lovely night,’ I said, touching my lips to his, conscious that his mouth smelled of toothpaste, while mine smelled of coffee. ‘You took me by surprise, but in the nicest possible way…’
‘Me too,’ Matthias replied, holding the door open for me to step through and giving me a half-wave, half-salute with his free hand. Neither of us said anything about calling or seeing one another again.
On the short walk home and, later, on my way to the métro, I was conscious of how men’s eyes slid inside my open coat and over my body, lingering on the swell of my breasts and the curve of my hips. It was as though they could sense something different about me this morning; as though it was plain to see I’d risen from the tousled sheets of a man’s bed moments earlier. Did I radiate some kind of sexual aura? Had they caught a faint whiff of pheromones on the breeze? Or did they see something they recognized in my eyes, my posture or my gait?
Whatever the explanation, there was no doubt in my mind that I turned more heads that morning than I had in years. My journey home didn’t feel like a ‘walk of shame’ at all. Could it be that I’d just had my first ever enjoyable one-night stand?
23
Monday morning’s lessons flashed by in a bleary-eyed blur as I stifled my yawns behind cupped hands and taught on autopilot, lack of sleep leaving me strangely de
tached from my surroundings.
I lunched alone in a salad bar in a side street close to Delphine’s office, more than a little relieved that my fortnightly lunch with Kate would fall the following Monday. I was too lost in my own thoughts today to be good company for anyone. My mind was like the needle on a scratched record: it kept jumping back to the night I’d spent with Matthias.
It was impossible to compare how I felt today – elated, self-satisfied, sated – with how I’d felt the morning after my one-night stand with Australian Rob. There was no sour aftertaste of remorse, no feeling of having been used and abused. Rob had thought only of plundering me to satisfy his own, selfish needs, but with Matthias the pleasure was shared and mutual, more about giving than taking. It had been far too long since anyone had touched me that way, exploring the contours of my body as though I were exciting, uncharted territory. What we’d had, I realized, was the kind of sex you expect to have with a long-time lover, not an amant de passage.
But when I’d opened my eyes that morning, my first thought had been that I wished Matthias were someone else, proof that all those kisses, all those intimate caresses, hadn’t lifted the spell Jérémy had cast over me. Now, I found myself longing for Jérémy to kiss me that way, to guide me wordlessly into his bedroom, to slowly undress me. I wanted to drink a post-coital coffee by his side in the morning, with his bedclothes wound around my naked body. The night I’d spent with Matthias had given shape to these previously half-formed desires, making them more concrete, more urgent, more real.
Waiting on the cream leather sofa for Delphine to materialize half an hour later, I fiddled with my new silk scarf, which I was wearing for its inaugural outing. Kate had shown me how to tie it when she helped me get ready for my date with Jérémy the previous weekend. But I was far from sure I’d got it right and I half expected Delphine to frown, tut and re-tie it as soon as she laid eyes on me.
I was surprised to hear an unfamiliar sound – Delphine humming – as she swept along the corridor to meet me, grinning as she caught sight of her gift around my neck. Her buoyant mood seemed to suggest things were going well with the man she’d met over Christmas and, once we’d reached the sanctuary of our teaching room, I resolved to quiz her about him, reasoning that, as long as we conducted our conversation in English, I was almost within my lesson remit.
‘I take it your mystery man is responsible for this cheerful humming?’ I shot Delphine a knowing glance as I set my satchel on the table. She shot me a blank look, and it took me a moment to realize my choice of vocabulary was to blame. Temporarily unable to dredge up the French for ‘humming’ from my sluggish brain, I was forced to perform a reluctant demonstration instead.
‘Ah, je frédonnais!’ Delphine pulled out the chair opposite mine. ‘I ’ad not notice’ I was doing this! But you are right: I am very ’appy right now. Things are going well.’
Delphine had proved my pessimistic predictions wrong, somehow managing to find time in her busy schedule to see the man she now referred to as her ‘boyfriend’. They’d been joined at the hip this past week, while her daughter spent the first half of her school holidays skiing with her father in the Alps.
‘And is he keen to meet Suzanne?’ I enquired, proud of myself for remembering her daughter’s name but also conscious that my interest in her situation wasn’t entirely unselfish. How did Delphine plan to handle the logistics of seeing her new man now that her daughter was back home? I wondered. How did one decide when the time was ripe to bring a child into the equation?
‘Robert ’az no children from his marriage,’ Delphine replied, relishing the sound of her lover’s name as she pronounced it, ‘but ’eez looking forward to meeting with Suzanne very much. I think we are going to organize a lunch… Maybe at ze weekend…’
‘Ah, so Mr Eligible Divorcé is called Robert,’ I said, pouncing on this new piece of information. ‘And what does this Robert do for a living?’
’E works for a company who do…’ Delphine paused, searching, in vain, for an unfamiliar English word. ‘Sally, ’ow you say “conseil en management”?’
‘He’s a management consultant,’ I said slowly, the tiniest whisper of a possibility suggesting itself to me as I spoke. It was a long shot: there could be any number of consultants called Robert in Paris. But wasn’t the Robert I taught every Tuesday also recently divorced? And, what’s more, hadn’t I noticed a white band on his ring finger, back in October? ‘Delphine,’ I continued, ‘this is going to sound odd, but I don’t suppose by any chance Robert’s surname is Cazenove?’
Delphine gasped and, to my surprise, her face fell. How odd. Why would she find the fact that I knew Robert upsetting? ‘Sally, ’ave you seen Robert on Rendez-vous?’ Delphine said after a pause, her voice trembling with anxiety. ‘Did ’ee contact you?’
‘No! Of course not!’ I hastened to reassure her. ‘It’s nothing like that! I teach him English on Tuesdays, that’s all, and when you mentioned his name and his occupation, it occurred to me that my pupil Robert no longer wears his wedding ring…’
Delphine clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle of pure relief. ‘And ’ow is ’eez English?’ she asked me slyly, when she had recovered her sang froid. ‘Tell me, Sally! Eez it better than mine?’
As I rode the métro home after my final lesson, once I’d checked my phone, for the fifth time that day, for a message from Jérémy, I reflected on my exchange with Delphine. Seeing how she’d panicked when I’d unmasked Robert’s identity had reminded me of how I’d felt when things were still dauntingly new with Nico. When our relationship had begun to blossom, I’d been giddy with happiness, delirious with excitement. But there had been a flipside: the paralysing, irrational fear that something or someone would snatch it all away. Both the giddy feeling and the paranoia had dissipated by the time the real wolves began circling, ten years later. The irony of this was not lost on me now.
When I embarked on a new relationship, I knew I’d be plagued by the same insecurities and, indeed, they’d probably be magnified tenfold given the way Nico had trampled all over my trust. But, like Delphine, in spite of all my baggage, I sensed I was starting to feel ready to ride the rollercoaster again. All I had to do was persuade Jérémy to ride it with me.
I’d walked halfway to Lila’s school before I remembered, in a blinding flash, that today was the day Sophie had taken Lila and Lucas to Disneyland Paris. Retracing my steps to rue de Belleville to avoid taking a shortcut along Matthias’s street, I quickened my pace. I’d left my apartment looking like a war zone this morning, leaving the previous day’s clothes littering the floor and damp towels strewn across the sofa. I’d have to hurry if I were to have time to straighten the place up before Sophie materialized. Goodness only knew what she’d think of me otherwise.
The doorbell rang soon after six, and when I peeped through the spy hole, I was greeted by the sight of Lila and Lucas wearing matching hats with Mickey Mouse ears, and identical grins. Sophie, who was bringing up the rear, looked exhausted. After the long drive back to Paris from Marne la Vallée with the children, I was willing to bet she was itching to light up a cigarette.
‘Alors?’ I cried, throwing open the door and sweeping Lila off her feet for an enthusiastic hug. ‘Did you two have fun with Auntie Sophie?’
‘I did meet Mickey Mouse for real real REAL!’ shrieked Lila, her high-pitched tone verging on hysteria. ‘He was driving a special car. And he did wave at me while I was riding in a teacup.’
‘You’ll see,’ said Sophie, winking at me over Lila’s shoulder. ‘I took many photographs…’
‘Do you want to have a breather here before you drive home?’ I set Lila down and motioned towards the sofa. ‘You look worn out, Sophie. It was brave of you to take the two of them out for the day. I’m not sure I could have done it…’
‘I suppose I’ve got time for a quick drink,’ said Sophie gratefully, moving towards the window and reaching into her coat pocket. ‘Lucas, Lila,’ she said, slipping
into French to address the children, ‘why don’t you get those coats off and Lila can show you the toys in her room?’ Once they had complied, discarding their coats on the floor and scampering off to the bedroom, chattering incessantly about their favourite rides of the day, Sophie lit up a cigarette. She took a couple of long, needy drags in quick succession, leaning over the balustrade to exhale her smoke into the courtyard. ‘It was hard work,’ she admitted, her eyes lighting up when I produced two bottles of beer from the depths of my fridge and set them down on the kitchen counter. ‘The queues, and all those kids crazy from eating too much sugar. If I never have to hear the music from that “Small World” ride with the singing puppets, I will not be sorry…’
‘Are you going back to work tomorrow?’ I twisted the metal tops off the beers, using a tea towel to protect my hand from the serrated edges. Sophie shook her head. ‘It must be nice,’ I said wistfully, ‘working for yourself and deciding your own hours. My five weeks of annual holiday sound like a lot in theory, but they don’t go far, considering Lila’s off school for three times longer…’
‘Shouldn’t Nico have looked after Lila for one half of this two-week holiday?’ said Sophie with a frown. ‘I wanted to ask him about that this morning, but in all the excitement I completely forgot …’
‘Strictly speaking, yes’ I said with a shrug, ‘but we’re not religious about sticking to those rules. Sometimes Catherine takes Lila for more than half the holidays. Like when I moved in here, for example, she did me a real favour. So I don’t mind cutting him some slack. And, realistically, I know how hard it would be for him to leave his office in time to fetch Lila at five-thirty.’
‘I see,’ said Sophie, stubbing out the end of her cigarette on the balustrade. She hesitated for a moment, as though she was unsure how to frame what she wanted to say next. ‘I owe you an apology, Sally,’ she said ruefully, her eyes downcast. ‘Some of the things I said when we went to the park back in the autumn … I realize now – after going to pick Lila up this morning – that things with Albane are much more serious than I thought.’
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