There’s not much left of the old Hôtel de Mailly-Nesle, although its ‘gold room’, in which the king and a sister often nestled, is still somewhere up in the Rue de Beaune wing, looking over Le Voltaire, a restaurant that dates back to the same era. Le Voltaire, incidentally, is famous for its oeuf mayo — a plate of crudités and mayonnaise-smothered hard-boiled eggs — which is somewhat fitting, seeing as the yolky sauce was concocted in honour of Duc de Richelieu, the scheming friend of the king and the Mailly-Nesle sisters, after his prowess during the Battle of Port Mahon.
The duke was a rake of the first order. In his time, he would have been labelled a roué, a man so dissolute that he deserved to be strung to the wheel (la roue) — and not the Ferris variety, but the kind once installed on the Place de Grève. His countless liaisons involved an affair with the Mailly-Nesle sisters’ mother — who fought her sister-in-law in a duel over him — and his devious seduction strategies included dressing as a chambermaid and lurking in underground passages. Little wonder the duke was the inspiration for the Vicomte de Valmont, the scheming, manipulating libertine antihero of the novel Dangerous Liaisons, which was the Parisian succès de scandale of 1782.
Our boat cruised as far as the Eiffel Tower, before turning to head back upstream. Andy and I had sat happily in silence most of the ride, soaking in the scenery as much as one another’s presence. It’s the calm, quiet moments that speak volumes in relationships, those times when you don’t feel a desperate need to fill in the blank spaces; you’re not fretting over what he might be thinking, because you can read his mind like an open book — and it’s not a book of the Dangerous Liaisons variety.
I’d met my fair share of latter-day Valmonts in the party town that is Sydney. It was part of the reason I’d been on a self-imposed dating hiatus. I was no Madame de Tourvel, mind you, but I was no game-player either. If a relationship wasn’t going to be smooth sailing from the start, I wasn’t interested in hopping on board.
In the bouquinistes you can often find reproductions of the Carte de Tendre, or the Map of Tenderness. The illustration, famous in France, was first published in Clélie, a 1650s romance in ten volumes, by Madeleine de Scudéry, one of the leading salonnières of the era. These were the early days of gallantry when men, inspired by their courtly king, would delicately air-kiss the gloved hands of ladies in salons, where etiquette required immaculate manners at all times. Gallantry was a genius invention for aristocratic males: politeness to inferiors appeared to rebalance inequality, yet in reality it kept those very inferiors happily in their place. Everyone won. Some say that gallantry is why feminism has never truly taken off in France; women already feel special enough.
Mademoiselle de Scudéry was the star of a circle of aristocratic, intelligent women known as the Précieuses. They were content to luxuriate in their femininity, in their contrast to men, to be treated as delicate gems, to wear flouncy dresses and speak in frilly prose (for which they were mercilessly ridiculed by the press), but in their own way they were early feminists, because they saw their difference as strength. Highly self-aware (as much EQ as IQ), many Précieuses authored books (determined to control their own life plotline as much as possible), they discussed the radical notion that a female brain could be as switched-on as a man’s, and they believed that love should be an equally balanced affair.
The Map of Tenderness was a joint project of the Précieuses and no doubt designing it made for hours of fun and gossip over tea and cake. But for all its whimsy, the map is surprisingly rational. I mean, it charts a course to true love — a practical guide for surely one of the rockiest quests in life. For the Précieuses, l’amour was above all about la tendresse, of which there are three types, and three respective routes. To arrive at Tenderness Upon Recognition, a man can make his way to a woman’s heart with a long journey through towns like Small Cares and Friendship. Tenderness Upon Esteem, on the other hand, can be reached via the villages of Love Letters, Generosity and Goodness. But the shortest journey to love is to breeze down the River of Inclination, from New Friendship direct to Tenderness Upon Inclination, a town spread equally across the two banks. Because if you’re each inclined towards the other, love comes together easily and quickly. You don’t even need to buy flowers. A Parisian jaunt might help things along, though.
‘I think we live well together,’ said Andy, out of the blue.
‘Even in my pink apartment?’
‘I was just thinking about how nice it’s been to start afresh in a way, over here. I mean, maybe we should think about finding a place of our own, something that suits both of us, when we’re back in Sydney.’
‘Does that seem a bit quick?’ I asked, even though it didn’t feel so.
‘Well, we’re practically living together already . . . And we’re not getting any younger.’
‘Make a girl feel good, why don’t you!’
‘No . . . I just meant that maybe we should talk about the long-term soon . . .’ Andy looked a little flustered.
‘You’re not trying to propose, are you?’ I teased.
‘Well, no . . . Maybe. I mean, I just think we should talk about it soon.’
I reached for his hand and grinned. ‘Yep, we should.’
People tend to assume I’m a misty-eyed romantic, given said pink apartment and my adoration of floral dresses, to which I was clinging even now, albeit worn over thermals, skivvies and boots. But in reality, I’ve grown into a realist over time, and it had been years since I’d fantasised about a wedding proposal. I decided, some time in my late twenties, that I didn’t want the traditional down-on-knees, will-you-marry-me affair. I needed to play an equal part in the scene that would so drastically alter my life direction, to have an equal voice in that discussion.
The French don’t have a ‘heart-to-heart’ conversation; for them it’s a tête-à-tête — a head-to-head. And that makes so much sense to me. In love, you need to think clearly, make sure you’re headed in the right direction. Because ultimately it’s as simple as this: are you both equally inclined? If so, hop on that boat to Tenderness.
Andy and I had both had our fill of rowdy New Year’s Eve celebrations followed by fuzzy mornings-after, and we wanted to kick off a fresh year with a clear head. A nouveau départ, say the French, which translates as ‘new beginning’, although it literally means ‘new departure’. Which seemed much more apt, because we’d reached an age where you can’t start all over again, wipe the slate squeaky-clean. You are the sum total of your years and experience, and you lug around with you various backpacks and totes stuffed heavy with emotion. Maybe in your twenties you can voyage around the world unburdened by hang-ups and cumbersome suitcases, but comes an age when you no longer travel light. Still, new adventures — and departures — are an opportunity to repack your bags, to lighten the emotional load by leaving a few fears or paranoias behind.
It felt only right to mark our new year in a way only possible in this city: by the Eiffel Tower. After a cosy dinner at a low-key local restaurant, we wished our fellow dinners (elderly couples who smiled at us with nostalgia, and made us feel happily young in turn) une bonne année and set off along the Seine. The ripples in the river danced by the lights of the dinner cruise boats, flashing garnet and gold, and up to our left, the windows of apartment buildings beamed bright, glamorous glimpses into soirées where men in black and women in red linked arms and clinked coupe glasses. The whole world was partying and then there was us, forging ahead towards our nouveau départ, a little emotional luggage on hand, a bottle of champagne in my handbag. We popped it just as the tower erupted into a similar frenzy of golden sparkle, and time once again seemed to shimmer suspended, like a bubble in a glass or a glitter particle in a snowdome, in a moment of perfect, scintillating sweetness.
Towards the end of our stay, after a fortnight of playing at Parisian domesticity, we were randomly invited to a cocktail party, and so had the chance to see how couples there really lived. I spent the afternoon fretting about a hostess g
ift. I’d read to never take flowers (this necessitates the hassle of her having to, one, locate a vase in which to then, two, arrange them), nor alcohol (too presumptuous, as she would have already carefully selected her vins) and that chocolate was a sure bet — as long as it was the just-so brand. (I was far from literate in the hidden codes of the language of Parisian chocolaterie, so after taking a deliciously dizzying chocolate-tasting tour of Saint-Germain, I ended up back at Debauve & Gallais for a gift box.) I’d also heard to never, ever arrive on time to a soirée; fifteen minutes after the official start is, apparently, the actual start. I spent the extra time anxiously tying and retying my scarves (the indoor one and the outdoor one), and working myself into a state of literal knots. I still had, I realised, much to learn about Parisian ways.
In the end, the nerves were unnecessary. The party turned out to be peopled with more expatriates than locals, which somehow made it feel familiar, and diluted the formality a more French affair might have had. Our hostess — a glamorous Parisienne swathed in satin and Shalimar — took our gift (with a nod that I decided to interpret as impressed) and led us to a couple in the corner: Lizzie, an Australian, working in advertising, and Aaron, an American, in the wine industry. We soon discovered they had met only a few months before, and had just moved in together.
‘It’s so nice to finally feel like this is home,’ Lizzie said. ‘We spent hours scouring the flea markets and furnishing our apartment to be like the perfect blend of us.’
‘Where did you buy?’ I asked, trying to contain my envy.
‘Oh, we’re just renting,’ she answered. Most Parisians do, she added, explaining that the laws favour tenants in France, and the French have an obsession with keeping their household debt low. ‘It gives them more freedom to live their lives.’
‘After all, the English word mortgage comes from the French words for death and pledge,’ pointed out Aaron. ‘It’s seen here as a life sentence.’
‘That cherished liberté of theirs,’ I said.
‘Are they really so free though?’ asked Andy. ‘I mean, it seems like a very constrained society.’
‘The French are fascinating,’ said Aaron. ‘They look quite conservative for the most part, and there are all of these codes of behaviour that take ages to learn. But at the same time, there’s a rebellious streak to them, too. They don’t like to be told what to do.’
‘They like to bring out their rock & roll side from time to time,’ added Lizzie. ‘You know, break the speed limit, smoke, have affairs.’
‘Is it really just a myth about the French and their endless affairs?’ asked Andy.
‘There’s definitely more of an openness to relationships here,’ said Lizzie. ‘I mean, it’s not uncommon for partners who have kids to not be married.’
‘But it’s the city of l’amour,’ I said, in mock horror.
‘Yes, but the French don’t believe a ring makes a relationship last,’ she replied. ‘Wedding rings feel like locks to them, like the trashy ones on the Pont des Arts. Not romantic, but restraining.’
‘Does that mean I’m saved the cost of an engagement ring?’ Andy asked me with a laugh.
‘So, I know I’m pretty modern when it comes to matrimony . . .’ I was saying to Andy on our last evening in Paris. Earlier that day, I’d explained why I could never change my surname, ‘even if your surname was fabulous and French, and I could be Mrs de la Belle, or the like.’ ‘But I do think diamonds are a lovely way to celebrate an engagement.’ We were circling Place Vendôme, peering into the windows at the haute joaillerie on display, just as I had done several years before, back when the thought of commitment left me cold. Andy looked a little pale under the black sky, glittering with its own galaxy of gemstones. ‘Don’t worry,’ I added. ‘I have simple tastes when it comes to jewellery. Cocktails, on the other hand, are another matter.’
We walked over to the Hôtel Ritz, under the gleaming-white balloon awnings and up the red-carpeted stairs, into the golden-aired foyer, along the famous vitrine-lined shopping corridor dating back to 1913, right down to Bar Hemingway at the Rue Cambon end. Ernest Hemingway, it must be noted, could be found in many a watering hole around the world, but the Ritz was one of his most cherished, which is why the hotel honoured him in this way. He actually drank across the way, in what was the old Cambon Bar, but the cosy Bar Hemingway, with its wooden walls, amber lighting and various Papa paraphernalia, best retains his spirit. With spirit being the operative word, we ordered two martinis, and tried not to wince at the twenty-five-euros-a-pop prices.
The bartender brought over our cocktails, mine garnished with a full-blown lilac rose (Hemingway was as much a lover of women as wine). ‘We do this for all our ladies,’ he explained. ‘Depending on how long you stay, you can leave with your own bouquet.’
So we settled in for the night, working on our floral arrangement. It was one of those gorgeous, glamorous evenings you can only have in Paris, that paradoxical place, where thorns lurk beneath the rosy, fragrant surface, where there’s a dark, shadowy flipside to the city of sparkle, a city that has experienced as much misery as joy. The Ritz, too, has had its ups and downs. As Andy explained, the top German soldiers commandeered the hotel during the Second World War, partying with collaborationists until the Allies marched down the Champs-Élysées to liberate the city — while Hemingway and his friends took it upon themselves to emancipate the Ritz, or at least its cellars.
We marvelled that so much of Paris remains intact, given all she has been through, all those bloody revolutions and sieges. Perhaps the closest the city came to annihilation was towards the end of 1944, when Hitler realised he was about to lose his grip on Paris, and eventually the war. Bombs were placed under major landmarks, but a certain General von Cholitz, who didn’t want to go down in history as the guy who burned the world’s most beautiful city to the ground, managed to stall the demolition plans in time for the Allies to take over.
‘Just imagine,’ said Andy. ‘If that had happened, your precious Paris might now be full of Le Corbusier.’
‘Never,’ I responded. ‘In Paris, beauty always wins out. It’s just not the place for such ugliness as concrete cubes or, I don’t know, old green army jackets.’
‘That old thing? Don’t worry. I’m not even taking it home.’
We managed to sweet-talk the man at check-in not to charge us for excess baggage. We’d been attempting to help the French economy and the sales were on — how could we not have shopped? But in many ways, our bags were a lot lighter than I’d expected. Andy had abandoned that jacket, for one. And I’d resisted the floral folding screen I’d rhapsodised over at the Porte de Vanves flea market. (‘Remember, we’re going to move in together, into neutral territory,’ said Andy. ‘You promised no more pink sparkle!’)
My emotional bags felt lighter, too. I no longer had to be fiercely independent, an only child going it alone. I could share the load of life. The word fiancée — in French as in English — comes from the Latin for trust. And when you completely trust your partner, it’s the most liberating of sensations. You’re free to keep being yourself, which is what, at my age, I above all craved. Because I might soon marry, but as the French know, a wife is first and foremost still a woman.
On the flight home (on which, to our joy, we were upgraded to business class), I took a sip of champagne only to find it acidify to sour on my tongue. ‘How odd,’ I thought to myself. ‘I can never not drink champagne.’ And then a sudden flash: ‘Unless . . .’
Sure enough, the future Noah was on his way. As Andy said, when we found out for sure: ‘We’ll always have Paris.’
CHAPTER 9
SUPERFEMME
superfemme nf superwoman
In which, aged almost forty, I gain a new perspective on la vie.
We eventually got around to organising a wedding, not so much out of a sense of duty or necessity (we already had a baby and a mortgage, both of which felt binding enough), but because it seemed like a lovely thing
to do. And it was; marriage, too, although I soon realised I’m not a naturally inclined spouse, with an innate passion for domestic management. Or perhaps as a side effect of marrying later in life I was less mouldable to my new role in life.
My industry, even more so than the institution of matrimony, favoured youth, those with unfettered schedules and enough bright-eyed, bushy-tailed energy to devote to the issue of looking the part and getting ahead. I’d seen many women in my world drop out altogether after moving into motherhood, having decided to reprioritise and rethink their careers. On the other hand, there were those who wanted it all and somehow managed it. These were the two opposing roles that seemed available for someone newly in my life stage: earth mother and superwoman. Many would have thought me perfectly primed to assume the tie-dyed mantle of the former (I practised yoga and ate my weight in lentils daily), but in actual fact I secretly craved the heroic red cape of the latter. Work had defined me for so long, and I was good at my job. Now it felt like I had a new gig, one at which I wasn’t particularly adept. I spent many afternoons listlessly pushing the pram around our local park, tears blurring my vision. I couldn’t see where I was going, in all senses.
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