French Kissing Page 9
I’d always found that, with children Lila and Lucas’s age, it was easy enough to win them over by showing an interest in their toys or playing alongside them, but abstract questions such as ‘Do you enjoy school?’ or ‘What have you been up to recently?’ tended to elicit one-syllable responses or blank looks. Ask Lila what she’d had for lunch at school on any given day and most of the time she could be relied upon to execute a perfect Gallic shrug. Her memory didn’t seem to be fully functional yet, even if, perversely, a gros mot she’d heard six months earlier could be retrieved within seconds. In the absence of props, my conversation with Lucas soon ran dry. There was a silence, and I turned back to gaze out of my window, putting a hand up to fiddle self-consciously with my hair.
‘You are still working with this friend – how is she called? – Kate?’ Sophie enquired as we cruised along rue Manin, parallel to the Buttes Chaumont park railings. I saw a flash of white as we passed the main gates opposite the town hall. A white stretch-limousine was parked in the lay-by – one of two that were a permanent feature around Belleville – and a dozen-strong Chinese wedding party was picking its way across the lawn to take up a position in front of the artificial lake, photographer in tow.
‘Yes, that’s right. Same old same old,’ I replied. ‘I’m working a few extra hours, so Lila takes her goûter at school. Our new routine seems to work well enough…’ I let my sentence tail off, but my meaning – I was managing fine without Nico – was abundantly clear. Sophie shot me a sidelong glance, which I found hard to decipher. I sensed she wanted to say something, but was biting her tongue, mindful of the children.
At the end of avenue Jean Jaurès nearest the périphérique, Sophie pulled up level with the yellow ‘M’ of Porte de Pantin métro and dropped the three of us off, speeding away to look for a place to park. We started walking – Lila on my right, Lucas on my left – in the direction of the Jardin des Dunes et des Vents. Sliced neatly in two by the Canal de l’Ourcq, Parc de la Villette was a vast space containing a science museum, a 360-degree cinema in a dome, a concert venue and countless other attractions. I was unfamiliar with huge swathes of the park, but the main children’s play area, towards which we headed, I knew well enough. I had to keep walking with the Grande Halle to my right – a glass and metal building which once housed the city’s largest abattoir – and I couldn’t go wrong.
By the time Sophie joined us, I was sitting cross-legged on a bench watching the children spin round and round in an oversized hamster wheel, praying Lila’s breakfast cereal wasn’t about to make an unscheduled comeback. Watching Lila and Lucas together, as similar as siblings, was a bittersweet experience. I’d always imagined Nico and I would give Lila a baby brother or sister, and we’d even discussed it a few months before we separated. The chances of that had all but evaporated. One day Lila might have a half-brother or -sister, at best.
‘I had a job getting them into the under-fives enclosure,’ I said, as Sophie perched on the bench beside me, patting her pockets for her matches and lighting up a cigarette. ‘Lucas was rather taken with those bouncy castle “dunes” at the other side, but I said we’d come here first and he could ask you if he’s allowed later.’
‘Too many grands over there,’ Sophie said, shaking her head. She took a deep drag from her cigarette. ‘Nico misses you, you know,’ she said, catching me off my guard for the second time that day. ‘What he did was wrong, but I wish you didn’t have to throw away the baby with the water from the bath.’
‘With the bathwater,’ I murmured automatically, eyes locked on Lila, who had managed to disembark from the hamster wheel and had now set her sights on the neighbouring climbing frame. I shifted my position, so I could keep her within my line of vision while we talked. ‘Sophie,’ I said gently, ‘it’s good to see you, and I’m glad you got in touch, but there’s no point in us having this conversation…’ I paused, selecting my words with care. ‘One “indiscretion” – as you French call it – I might have been able to cope with. Who knows? But the thing with Mathilde went on for ages. Almost a year. If Nicolas could deceive me for so long, that was a symptom that something had gone very wrong with our relationship.’ I picked absent-mindedly at the loose threads around the ankles of my frayed jeans as I talked, my eyes still following Lila’s movements.
‘I don’t agree,’ Sophie said earnestly. ‘I don’t think it has to mean there was something wrong between you and him. People have affairs – Mitterrand even had his parallel family – but I honestly don’t think Nico loved you any less.’
‘Well, even if that were true, maybe he’s made it impossible for me to love him,’ I replied evenly. ‘Listen, Sophie, maybe I seem naïve and idealistic to you, but I’ve made my decision, and I’m sticking by it.’ I rested my feet on the bench, wrapping my arms around my shins and resting my chin on my knee. ‘And, let’s not forget,’ I added, taking sanctuary in sarcasm, ‘the man you claim is missing me so much is now busy bedding his stagiaire.’
Sophie fell silent for a moment, frowning as she stubbed out her cigarette on the side of the bench and let it fall to the floor. ‘You mean this Albane girl?’ she said with a sigh. ‘You know, I feel only pity for her. I think Nico is having – how we say – “hygienic” sex. If Albane thinks it is more than that, she is veiling her face.’
I remembered happening across the phrase ‘sexe hygiénique’ once before, flicking through a copy of Psychologies magazine in a dentist’s waiting room. Another ‘false friend’, ‘hygiénique’ had little to do with cleanliness in this context. It referred to a sex act divorced from any emotional context; sex as pure physical release. But Nico had been sleeping with Albane on and off for months now, and I was loath to believe their relationship hadn’t developed into something more than the regular scratching of an itch. ‘Whatever it is, I don’t want him back,’ I said evenly, ‘so it’s a moot point.’ I was pretty sure Sophie wouldn’t know what a ‘moot point’ was, but I didn’t have chance to clarify, because Lila and Lucas chose that moment to come bounding over. They were hungry, and Lila had evidently had a flashback to our pit stop at the baker’s that morning.
‘Mummy, are the pains aux raisins in your bag for now, or for later?’ she asked in a sly voice.
‘For now, my love, if you’re hungry.’ I offered the open bag first to the children, then to Sophie, who, although she looked tempted for a moment, held herself in check. I was grateful for this respite from our conversation – forcibly cut short while the children munched in silence – because I suspected I knew what Sophie would ask next, once Lila and Lucas had drifted out of earshot. What about me? Was I seeing anyone? Whatever I replied, I felt sure Nico would be informed of my response before the day was out.
Taking a viennoiserie from the bag to buy myself some extra time, I resolved to remain coy. I would make no mention of joining Rendez-vous to Sophie. Not under any circumstances.
‘It would be a terrible idea for me to have a one-on-one with Tom’s sister,’ said Anna, rolling her eyes, when I’d finished recounting the choicest morsels of my conversation with Sophie.
‘Don’t get me wrong, I like Sophie a lot,’ I explained. ‘But breaking up with Nico was bad enough, and having to justify why I left him to members of his family feels a little beyond the call of duty…’
Anna and I were at a party in an apartment in the Marais, sipping surprisingly good margaritas from clear plastic goblets. An American couple, vague acquaintances of Anna’s, were hosting their annual burrito and margarita party and she’d managed to persuade me to come, despite my reservations about tagging along where I wasn’t invited. The irony – that my babysitter was available and I would have been free to go on a date with Florent, had he not been so Mummy-phobic – had not been lost on me.
Our hosts’ apartment was similar to the one I used to share with Nico; the apartment where he still lived now. The living room had once been formed of two separate square rooms: the interrupted pattern on the parquet floor gave that away. A wr
ought-iron balcony ran the full length of the street side of the building and, as the evening was mild for mid-October, the double doors leading outside had been left ajar. Next door to the living room was the poky space in which we now stood: a typically Parisian apology for a kitchen. There wasn’t room to swing a kitten, and it was difficult to imagine anyone doing much more than brewing coffee in such a cramped space.
‘I suppose I should be grateful that Sophie was upfront with me,’ I replied. ‘I mean, she didn’t even try to conceal her agenda… If it was her agenda.’ I’d spent much of that afternoon wondering whether Nico had sent his sister on some sort of fact-finding mission. It didn’t seem like something he would do, but how well did I really know him? I was about to solicit Anna for her opinion, but her gaze had strayed towards the door. The latest arrival, a lone man in a corduroy jacket and small, wire-rimmed glasses had wandered into the kitchen in search of a drink. He’d found the punch bowl of margaritas, and now cursed under his breath as a thick slice of lime plopped from the ladle into his plastic goblet, spattering droplets across his white shirt.
Anna and I had been meeting up regularly, but this was the first time since we’d met at Kate’s that we’d been to a social gathering together. Ever since we’d arrived, I’d found myself torn between what I instinctively wanted to do, which was to bend Anna’s ear, and what I felt I should be doing: making more of an effort to mingle and meet new people, men in particular.
Not that we’d been taking refuge in the kitchen all evening. We’d made polite conversation with our hosts: Paul, a portly, red-faced journalist who worked for the Herald Tribune and looked like he enjoyed the good things in life, to the detriment of his health, and his wife, Philippa, an ageing hippy dressed in a long, flowing dress and a chunky jade necklace. We’d also been introduced to a shy French couple, Sylvie and Jean-Luc, from the apartment next door, who had probably been invited out of courtesy and seemed rather ill at ease. Then there was Miles, a photographer friend of Paul’s with a weather-worn face who’d spent much of his career working in war zones. Everyone seemed nice enough, but I’d spent the last couple of hours on the edge of other people’s conversations, listening in, nodding and smiling, and never finding much to contribute. Looking around me, I was depressed to note there wasn’t a single man in the room who sparked my interest. So when Anna suggested we head into the kitchen for refills, I’d jumped at the chance to take a breather and have a proper conversation with my friend.
When the man in the corduroy jacket had finished dabbing ineffectually at the margarita stains on his shirt, he latched on to Anna, introducing himself as Guy, which in French was pronounced ‘ghee’, like the Indian butter. Anna began fielding the usual stock questions about what she did for a living and how long she’d been in Paris, all in her unashamedly broken French, while I sipped my drink, willing Guy to leave us in peace. But when he was joined a few minutes later by another, more attractive, new arrival whom he introduced as his friend Fabien, things took a turn for the better. Fabien, who must have thought he’d be trespassing on Guy’s territory if he struck up a conversation with Anna, turned towards me instead.
Tall and slim, with unkempt dark hair and green eyes, Fabien was dressed in skinny jeans and a once-black shirt which had faded to slate grey. He told me he worked for a buzz marketing agency, and as I wasn’t positive I knew what this entailed, I nodded and smiled, making a mental note to Google the term later. But Fabien was soon complimenting me on the fluency of my French and I began to relax and enjoy myself. I noticed little details as we talked: the neatness of his short fingernails, the way his eyebrows almost joined together in the middle, his old-school Casio digital watch. It was puzzling: here was a genuine-seeming, rather handsome man who hung attentively on my every word. So what was wrong with me? I wondered. Why wasn’t my pulse racing? Why wasn’t I feeling the stirrings of physical attraction? Was some vital part of me numb, or had it ceased to function?
Fabien suggested a trip to the balcony so he could roll a cigarette, and I acquiesced, shooting Anna a questioning glance as we slipped away. I was unable to determine whether she was enjoying herself or finding Guy heavy going, as she simply gave me an enigmatic smile and continued her conversation. Once outside, Fabien set down his drink and began rolling a joint on a small metal table. When he lit up and offered me a drag, I declined. ‘I’ve got to keep my wits about me,’ I said, not wanting him to think I disapproved. ‘I’ll have to face the babysitter soon, and I’ll be up early in the morning…’
‘You’ve got a little one?’ Fabien sounded surprised, but not deterred.
‘Yes, I have a daughter. Lila. She’s four.’ I took a sip of my margarita. ‘I left her dad earlier this year.’ I felt my shoulders tense as I braced myself for the volley of tricky questions I thought must surely follow.
‘My brother’s got a three-year-old son,’ Fabien replied, proving my instincts wrong. ‘It’s a wonderful age.’ He smiled for a second, then took a long drag on his joint. ‘I wish I saw more of him,’ he added, his voice wistful. ‘He changes so fast. But my brother and his wife live in Antibes, and I don’t get down there as often as I should…’
Our forearms resting on the railings, Fabien and I took root on the balcony, staring out over the high stone wall opposite into the gardens of the Picasso museum. I forgot to wonder how Anna was getting on back inside, caught up in the easy ebb and flow of our conversation. We’d veered on to the subject of being single in Paris – I’d invented a fictional friend who’d signed up to Rendezvous, interested to see what Fabien thought of online dating – when Anna appeared at my elbow. ‘What time did you say your babysitter needed you home?’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Because it’s after one, and I thought…’
‘After one? Oh shit! How on earth…? She’s going to be furious!’ I turned back to Fabien, switching back into French. ‘It was lovely to meet you, but I’m sorry, I’m going to have to dash off…’ Backing off the balcony and into the living room, I retrieved my bag and coat from the cupboard in the hallway and clattered down the stairs, hoping Anna would explain the reason for my sudden, panicked departure to our hosts.
When I arrived at street level, I glanced up. Fabien was still at the second-floor window, staring out across the park, tendrils of smoke rising from another joint in his hand. There was a figure by his side, and it wasn’t until she threw her head back and let out a distinctive peal of laughter that I realized who it was. Then I saw Anna reach across and take hold of Fabien’s joint. As she put it to her lips, I felt a sudden surge of jealousy.
This is how it’s always going to be, I thought to myself, waving frantically to flag down an approaching taxi. I’m a single woman, like Anna, but I don’t have anywhere near the same freedom. I’ll have to get used to leaving parties before they get going. I’ll have to resign myself to missing opportunities left, right and centre. This is the reality of the life I signed up for when I left Nico and decided to go it alone with Lila.
Admittedly, there had been no irresistible pull of attraction between Fabien and me, but supposing things had been different? By the time he left the party, several hours later, his memory of chatting to me would be hazy to non-existent. Some other girl would have superimposed herself on his mind and left with his phone number or, worse still, on his arm.
Opening the taxi door and sliding reluctantly on to the back seat, I realized I’d have to steel myself for the eventuality that one day, ‘some other girl’ might mean Anna.
9
After the party I returned to Rendez-vous with a renewed sense of purpose. If I threw my energies into meeting men for one-on-one dates as opposed to at parties, I reasoned, there would be a lesser likelihood of someone I liked being poached the moment my back was turned. Anna had left neither with Fabien, nor his phone number – or so she told me – but that, I decided, was beside the point. I hadn’t enjoyed feeling as though we were in competition for the slim pickings available that night, and suspected it was only a ma
tter of time before we ended up pursuing the same man, our friendship curdling as a result.
But hunting alone on Rendez-vous by no means eliminated the threat of competition. I couldn’t see the thousands of Parisiennes I was pitting myself against, but it was as though they hovered tauntingly just outside the periphery of my vision. I’d developed a sixth sense for when a man was trying to charm several girls simultaneously on Rendez-vous chat, for example. Lengthening gaps between a man’s responses were a dead giveaway, because, let’s face it, no one has to mull over their answer to a straightforward question such as ‘Which neighbourhood do you live in?’ Occasionally, someone I’d been chatting to for several minutes would clam up, without warning, as though they’d been struck dumb. ‘Did a better option present itself,’ I typed crossly, when a science-fiction fiend called neuromancer lost his tongue for the second time in the space of a single conversation, ‘or should I dial 15 for emergency services?’
Fortunately, not everyone had such a gaping void where their manners should have been. There were those who took the trouble to provide an alibi when their attention wandered. ‘5 min – téléphone,’ I came to recognize as shorthand for ‘Someone foxier has signed in, I’ll come back to you if she’s not interested.’ ‘Have to sign out now – my flatmate has walked in,’ I translated as ‘the girlfriend/wife’s home.’ I dropped anyone who used that last line on me like a hot potato. It was all too easy to picture Nico chatting to Mathilde on MSN from home and typing something similar when I walked into the room.
After sifting through that first batch of emails with Ryan’s help, then a second, equally dispiriting batch on my own, I decided the demure, passive approach – waiting for emails from ill-suited suitors to thud on to my virtual doormat – wasn’t paying dividends. Instead, I bit the bullet and took matters into my own hands, sending a ‘flash’ here, an email there. And much as I disliked the idea of exploring multiple avenues simultaneously, I soon came to realize keeping several plates spinning was the only sensible thing to do.