French Kissing Page 6

  As we drew level with another lock, the pavement narrowed, forcing us to walk in single file for a hundred metres or so. Acutely conscious of the fact that the next instalment of my story wasn’t going to show me in the most favourable of lights, I seized the excuse to stall for a couple of minutes. But once we were clear of the lock and back on the wide cobbled towpath opposite Jardin Villemin, there was no escape. Taking my courage in both hands, I soldiered on.

  ‘Nico left his work computer at home one day when I was off work sick,’ I explained, my eyes fixed on the cobbles underfoot. ‘It was switched on, logged in, the works. I don’t know what got into me, and I’m not proud of it, but I couldn’t resist snooping. It wasn’t as if I suspected him of any wrongdoing, and I wasn’t searching for anything in particular. We were happy enough. Or at least I thought so. If anything, I was curious about his work life. He’d been spending a lot of time at the office, but he never really talked about it much at home…’

  I remembered the scene I described next so vividly. Seated in his favourite armchair, I’d lifted Nico’s MacBook on to my knee and watched the screen flicker to life. The MSN Messenger icon was bobbing up and down at the bottom of his screen and my mouse hovered over it, my finger poised to click. I had no inkling then that the way I saw my relationship with Nico was about to change irrevocably.

  In the Messenger program, I’d seen the names of his colleagues. Some I’d recognized, such as his secretary, Mathilde, or his trainee, Albane. Others I hadn’t, no doubt because they were listed under nicknames I’d never heard before. Nico had once talked me through where to find the conversation archive, years ago, when he was away on business and needed to retrieve a phone number from an exchange with his boss. I had no idea what perverse impulse prompted me to go trawling through his message history on that fateful day. It was as though there were a devil perched on my shoulder, urging me on.

  I glanced across at Anna, searching her face for signs of disapproval, but her expression was unreadable. ‘The first conversation I read was innocent enough,’ I explained. ‘It was a two-line exchange with his trainee, asking her to fetch some files for him.’ Albane had been the only work colleague of his I’d ever felt insecure about, and I remembered smiling to myself, as I scrolled through yet more harmless snippets of dialogue, reassured that I’d never had anything real to worry about on that score. ‘Then I read a conversation between Nico and his secretary, Mathilde,’ I continued, blushing as I recalled the sexually explicit nature of that exchange, the words forever scorched on to my brain. ‘At first I thought it must be a mistake. You know, she’d got her wires crossed, she thought she was talking to her boyfriend and accidentally chatted up Nico – because it was intimate, the stuff she was saying to him. Sexual and kind of possessive. Proprietary, almost.’

  ‘I imagine you didn’t stop reading there?’ Anna prompted gently. ‘I know I wouldn’t have.’ I nodded, grateful to her for saying that. Of course I hadn’t stopped reading there. I’d thrown up my breakfast in the bathroom and sobbed out loud until I was hoarse. Then I’d returned to Nico’s armchair and read every single message in his archive. That was when I realized I hadn’t stumbled upon evidence of a virtual, unconsummated flirtation. No. Nico had been carrying on with Mathilde for months. He’d pretended to work late, but instead he’d been sneaking off to hotels, or taking taxis back to her place, and weaved an intricate web of lies to cover his tracks. There were pictures too. Pictures she’d sent him of herself posing in expensive underwear he’d bought her on Valentine’s Day; pictures where she wore no underwear at all.

  It was an act of pure masochism, staring through eyes blurred by tears at every single photo, reading every last word of their online conversations. I wished I hadn’t, afterwards. Certain words and phrases in the French language had been durably tainted by their association, in my mind, with Nico and Mathilde’s affair. Only the other day, when Lila had asked for one of the lollipops in the jar by the till at our local boulangerie, I’d seen the brand name ‘Chupa Chups’ and blanched.

  ‘Mon chéri, you look stressed today,’ Mathilde had written to Nico one morning. ‘Can I be of assistance in any way?’ When Nico had prompted her to elaborate on how she proposed to help, she’d simply responded, ‘Chupa.’ It didn’t take a genius to work out what she’d been insinuating.

  ‘I’m so glad I’ve never had that level of detail to torture myself with,’ Anna said, her expression thoughtful. ‘Once you’ve read something like that, I bet it stays with you for ever.’

  It was only when I heard the distant screech of the métro aérien crossing place de Stalingrad that I realized how oblivious I’d been to our surroundings as I talked. We’d come a long way, and across the next junction was the final stretch of the Canal Saint-Martin before it changed its name to the Canal de l’Ourcq. Walking along the towpath, we passed a fire station and drew level with the Point Ephémère. A grungy bar, concert venue, art gallery and restaurant rolled into one, it was housed inside a hangar-like building which must have been some sort of warehouse in the days when the canal still carried freight. I’d been inside, once before, with Nico, although he hadn’t liked it much, as his tastes, these days, were more in line with Kate’s than mine. I excused myself as we reached the entrance, muttering something about needing to use the ladies. In truth, I craved a couple of minutes by myself. Re-living that sickening moment of discovery for Anna’s benefit had shaken me up far more than I’d expected.

  When I emerged, cheeks damp from the icy water I’d splashed on my face in a bid to snap myself out of the sombre mood which had overtaken me, I found Anna standing on the edge of the towpath, her back towards me. On the opposite bank, a horde of homeless people had pitched tents, creating a semi-permanent encampment in the shadow of the bridge. A year earlier, a charity had distributed tents as a publicity stunt to raise awareness of the plight of the sans abri among Parisians. Unfortunately, they had almost become part of the scenery now, stripped of their initial power to shock. If only I could say the same about Nico and Mathilde’s MSN exchanges. Familiar they might be, but thinking about them still brought bile to the back of my throat.

  ‘I’m guessing that when you confronted him, he went batshit crazy about how you’d violated his privacy?’ Anna speculated, shooting me a reassuring smile over her shoulder and picking up the conversation where we’d left off.

  ‘Oh yes.’ I gave a hollow laugh. ‘The way he saw it, I’d behaved as badly as he had, if not worse. It was almost as though our sins cancelled one another out on some sort of moral balance sheet. Do you know, he even had the gall to tell me I didn’t have the right to reproach him for something I should never have known about? He said I’d betrayed his trust. As far as he was concerned, I was the villain of the piece.’

  Anna gave a long, low whistle. ‘Aren’t men incredible sometimes? Jeez. So… Is Nico with this Mathilde now?’

  I shook my head. ‘From what I gather she met someone else around that time,’ I explained, ‘and it was already over. Or so Nico claimed. He gave me this speech about how Mathilde had meant nothing to him, how he still loved me, how men’s needs are different… And, frankly, I didn’t want to know. As far as I was concerned, he’d broken us, beyond repair. So I moved out with Lila, as soon as I could find a place, and soon afterwards he hopped into bed with the trainee from work. I don’t think Albane means that much to him, but he doesn’t seem to know how to be alone…’

  It was the first time I’d told the story from start to finish in such detail, and the experience had been exhausting. Kate had heard it all in real time, of course, as had my mother, albeit over the phone, and other people, such as Ryan, had made do with the broad brushstrokes. If today’s gruelling unburdening had taught me anything, it was that I wouldn’t be giving a repeat performance in a hurry. I felt so washed out that I longed to crawl back under my duvet and close my eyes.

  ‘Well, you were right when you said you thought we’d have a lot in common at the party.�
� Anna flashed me a wry smile. ‘What a pair we make. The Wronged Women’s Club.’

  Anna and I parted ways outside the McDonald’s on the corner of avenue Secrétan soon afterwards. We hugged, a touch woodenly, as new acquaintances do, and promised to call one another soon and make plans to meet again. Lost in my thoughts, I meandered past the shuttered fronts of the shops, only deciding to take the bus home when it wheezed to a halt at the stop a few paces ahead of me. I dragged my bag across the sensor on autopilot, negotiated the glut of pushchairs in the middle of the bus and collapsed gratefully into a free seat near the back.

  As the bus rumbled along avenue Simon Bolivar, my brain seemed intent on replaying extracts from the evening I’d confronted Nico with the evidence of his infidelity, as though now that I’d opened Pandora’s box, the lid stubbornly refused to close. ‘It’s ironic, isn’t it,’ I’d shouted, pain spurring me to new heights of sarcasm, ‘that the word “cuckold” doesn’t even have a female equivalent? It’s almost as though a man cheating on his girlfriend is such a given that no special word is required… Well, I’m sorry, Nico, but my definition of “girlfriend”, or “partner”, or “mother of your child” never included the assumption that I’d tolerate repeated acts of infidelity. We’re over, as far as I’m concerned. I hope she was damn well worth it…’

  ‘Mummy, why you shouting at Daddy?’ Lila had cried from her bedroom, awoken by our raised voices. I’d stepped around Nico, giving him the widest possible berth – the idea of brushing against him made me nauseous – and rushed to her bedside, finding her curled into a tight ball, her face wet with tears, her hands pressed to her ears. I’d pulled back the covers and slid into bed beside her. Matching the rhythm of my breathing to hers, I’d drawn an instinctive animal comfort from the scent of her skin, the tickle of her curls against my nose. I’d fallen asleep in Lila’s bed, fully clothed, never hearing the front door slam behind Nico. To this day I had no idea where he’d spent that night.

  I’d called in sick the following morning, dropped Lila off at school and spent the day combing through the classifieds and making phone call after phone call, devoting every iota of energy I possessed to the search for a new place to live so that I wouldn’t have any space in my head to devote to Nico and Mathilde. As for Nico, he’d come home late every evening after that. He slept on the sofa, taking care to rise and tidy away the bedclothes every morning before I roused Lila so that he wouldn’t have to answer any difficult questions. In her presence we both did our utmost to remain civil; when she slept, we skirted gingerly around one another and rarely spoke.

  Only once, on the night I announced I’d signed a lease and would be settling in over the Easter holidays, did Nico try to persuade me that leaving wasn’t necessary. ‘It doesn’t have to be this way,’ he’d protested. ‘We could try again, for Lila’s sake.’ But for me this was a classic case of too little, too late. Nico’s heart didn’t seem to be in it, and mine had gone AWOL.

  I left the bus at the stop a few metres from Nico’s building, punched in his familiar door code and took the lift to the sixth floor. In the wake of all the memories I’d stirred up this afternoon, my need for Lila had become overwhelmingly physical. I longed to clutch her to me, to draw comfort from her unconditional love.

  ‘Je veux pas partir avec Maman! I want to stay here with you, Papa,’ Lila cried as Nico opened the front door. I flinched as though I’d been struck: this was the opposite of the rapturous welcome I’d been hoping for. I knew, from experience, that no sooner were we down the stairs and out into the street, Lila’s tears would miraculously evaporate and she’d chatter away, nineteen to the dozen, as though the tearful scene had already been erased from her mind. But she often put on this little performance when I came to collect her, and the injustice of it never failed to sting. Here was I, doing the lion’s share of the parenting and being thoroughly taken for granted, while Nico, who waltzed into Lila’s life on alternate weekends, was revered like some sort of demi-god.

  As Nico dropped to his knees and tried to coax Lila into her coat, I remained in the doorway. I hadn’t crossed the threshold into our old apartment since I’d collected the last of my belongings, six months earlier. My eyes were drawn to a brown tortoiseshell hair clip which lay on the hall table, next to the telephone. A single strand of dark hair was caught fast between its teeth. Long and straight, it dangled insolently over the edge of the table, the first tangible proof I’d seen of Albane’s occasional presence in Nico’s home. At the sight of it, something inside me snapped. ‘For God’s sake, hurry up, Nico,’ I barked. ‘Don’t you dare humour Lila. This is all just a silly act for your benefit.’

  ‘We had a lovely weekend, thank you,’ said Nico pointedly, straightening up and handing me Lila’s weekend bag. Lila stepped meekly forward. Something in the tone of my voice had got through to her. ‘If this is still about that phone call on Saturday,’ Nico frowned, ‘I told you…’

  ‘Give Papa a cuddle and kiss. We’re going,’ I interrupted, ignoring Nico and addressing Lila instead. ‘And don’t even think about pulling that Friday-night working-late scam on me again,’ I added, shooting Nico an angry glance over my shoulder as we left. ‘I wasn’t born yesterday, you know.’

  As I stomped down the stairs hand in hand with Lila, I savoured the combination of confusion and guilt I’d seen in Nico’s face. Let him think this was about me feeling jealous of Albane, if he wanted. My only desire, just then, was to put as much distance between us as possible.

  No sooner had the words ‘online’ and ‘dating’ popped out of my mouth, than I wished I could swallow them back down again. But it was too late: they’d hurtled along the fibre-optic network, under the English Channel, and they were already bouncing off my mother’s right eardrum. I heard her sharp intake of breath and knew any minute now she’d launch into one of her infamous monologues, regurgitating every online-dating disaster story she’d ever read in the pages of the Daily Mail. Why on earth hadn’t I held my tongue? Hadn’t my weekend been challenging enough?

  ‘Sally, is this really what you want?’ Mum replied, her tone making it clear she was convinced the only correct answer to her rhetorical question was ‘no’. ‘I mean, the internet is no place for someone like you to go looking for a nice man.’ It had struck me before that, in my mother’s mouth, ‘internet’ sounded like an unspeakably dirty word. To Mum, cyberspace was a dark, dangerous place filled with all manner of terrible things beginning with the letter ‘P’ – such as paedophiles and porn. ‘And those singles sites,’ she continued, ‘aren’t they really for people wanting something casual? Surely, for someone in your position, Sally, they–’

  I cut her off in full flow: something about the way Mum had emphasized the word ‘single’ had made me see red. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong here, Mum,’ I snapped, ‘but aren’t I single too? Or are you trying to say that I’m not a normal single woman and it’s inappropriate for me to try and behave like one?’

  ‘I think you need to be extra careful, that’s all,’ Mum said defensively. ‘You’re not like those other singles, you’re a single mother, and you need to put Lila’s interests first.’

  ‘I haven’t taken a vow of celibacy, Mum,’ I riposted furiously, ‘and I happen to think I have every right to go out and meet a few men. What is it that you think I should be doing instead? Should I sit on my sofa crying over spilt milk and wait for a knight in shining armour to gallop on through my living room?’

  ‘There’s no need to get so cross, Sally,’ Mum replied in a low, chastened voice. ‘I’ve obviously called at a bad time.’ I could picture Dad sitting in the living room, pretending he wasn’t listening in through the serving hatch. While Mum had always made her feelings about my break-up abundantly clear, it was hard to know what Dad made of it all. He tended to let Mum do most of the talking, rolling his eyes at me discreetly if he thought Mum had gone too far.

  ‘You know what, Mum, it is a bad time… I’m tired… Let’s speak later in the week.�
�

  When I’d pressed ‘end call’, I headed straight for the kettle, as if a cup of tea could cure all my ills. Mum’s use of her pet phrase about ‘putting Lila’s interests first’ had really sent my blood rocketing up to boiling point. She’d never come straight out and said so, but I knew my choosing to leave Nico was a prime example, in her book, of me not putting Lila’s interests first. She’d been horrified at the idea of her own granddaughter coming from a ‘broken home’.

  In Mum’s ideal world, I’d return to live with Nico one day, however unhappy it made me.

  6

  Over the next, uneventful, couple of weeks, the highlights mostly involved Anna.

  The Thursday after we met, she came over to my place after work to share some takeaway, disappointed to find Lila already asleep when she arrived, as she was dying to meet her. As though there were some sort of tacit understanding between us, we kept steering the conversation away from Nico and Tom that evening. I think we’d both sensed that the ‘Wronged Women’s Club’, to use the phrase Anna had coined, could all too easily turn into something negative; a forum for us to dwell on our grievances with our respective exes. I don’t think either of us wanted our budding friendship to be limited to a series of embittered ex-bashing sessions.

  The following weekend, Lila and I met Anna for brunch at Breakfast in America in the Marais, a favourite lunch spot of Lila’s. The queue was mercifully short, and the three of us were soon wedged into a booth, hands on the Formica table, poring over our menus. Lila, who could be shy with other children but always seemed to take meeting new adults well within her stride, had conducted a concerted charm offensive from the moment she laid eyes on Anna. ‘You talk like the Little Mermaid,’ she said, picking up on Anna’s American accent straight away. Anna frowned, less familiar with the Disney cartoon than I was. ‘The Little Mermaid – she says “priddy” instead of “pretty”,’ Lila clarified. ‘Mummy says she doesn’t speak English, she speaks ’Merican!’