by Sarah Long
He raised his eyebrows in mock concern.
‘Oh dear. I hope you don’t see me as a howling dog.’
‘I don’t know yet, do I?’
She scowled at him and saw the amusement in his face. His eyes were dark and teasing. Come on, they were saying, this is fun, let’s have some more.
‘Perhaps you would like me to tell you about my life,’ he said. ‘Then you can decide whether I am an empty shell or a complex, loveable person just like you?’
She was disarmed. It appeared that he had a sense of humour, which was by no means always the case with the French. And he was really rather attractive. She relaxed and took a sip of her wine.
‘All right then,’ she said, ‘talk me through it. A day in the shallow life of an anti-ageing specialist. What made you turn your back on all the useful stuff you could be doing as a doctor to concentrate instead on bolstering human vanity?’
He pretended to wince.
‘Ouch! Well, I think you only need to look back through history to understand that the search for the elixir of eternal youth is an obsession as old as mankind itself. Pope Innocent the Third used to help himself to the blood of young men to replace his own when he was panicking about getting old. And that’s someone who presumably believed in an afterlife. Then there was the fashion for injecting humans with extracts from bulls’ testicles. I am just the latest in a long line of people interested in prolonging life.’
‘So what do you do exactly? When you’re not siphoning off bulls’ balls, that is?’
‘I’m an endocrinologist. I make sure people have got the right hormonal balance.’
‘How do my hormones seem?’
‘Perfect. Very active.’
He held her gaze for a moment before nodding in the direction of Jean-Laurent, who was engaging Sylvie in intense conversation.
‘Just like your lovely young husband, in fact. I can tell just from looking at him that he is bursting with testosterone. And so can my wife – look how she is hanging on his every word.’
Laura shrugged. He had always had charm, why else would she have married him?
‘But do you realise,’ continued Antoine, slipping his hand across her knee in a way that Laura had to admit wasn’t too creepy, ‘that in a few years, he will be obliged to visit me for testosterone top-ups, if he is to maintain his current level of performance.’
He looked at her archly.
‘Performance? What kind of word is that? He’s not an athlete, you know!’
‘Oh come now, Laura, we’re all athletes, aren’t we, within the confines of our own private stadiums?’
Laura pushed his hand off her knee, but not in an unkindly way.
‘Let’s stick to your job. Apart from the hormones, what do you do? Do you send people off for facelifts?’
‘Let’s just say I aim to stop the chromosomal clock. In whatever way I can. And sometimes, yes, that will include referral to a cosmetic surgeon.’
Laura’s gaze swivelled involuntarily to focus on Sylvie. Antoine saw her trying to work up the nerve to ask about his wife, and deftly moved the conversation on.
‘As I was saying about your husband, by the time he reaches fifty, unless he’s done something about it, he will have the same level of testosterone as you.’
‘No, come off it! I’m a woman!’
‘I know, and a very attractive one. But as your terone level rises, his will decrease. The difference is that you will avail yourself of hormone replacement therapy, and he will probably be too proud to seek the same treatment. So you see, it is very unfair. My mission is to persuade men to seek help. They need it just as much as women. And that is my life’s work. Not too ignominious, I hope? Possibly more worthy than shopping and going to art galleries?’
He saw her rising to the bait again, and quickly came in to smooth things over.
‘But of course you have the children. The rest is just well-earned distraction.’
‘Yes, of course, the children,’ said Laura. ‘They make all the difference. When I worked I used to feel so guilty about them, and about Jean-Laurent. I had no time for him. Whereas now I read them stories every night.’
‘You read your husband bedtime stories? Lucky man!’
‘Of course not! He prefers us to engage in other forms of entertainment. When he’s there, that is.’
‘Which isn’t very often?’
‘He works late.’
Come to think of it, she couldn’t quite remember the last time they had indulged in ‘indoor games’, the English expression Jean-Laurent found terribly amusing to describe les relations intimes.
‘I see.’
‘What do you see?’
‘I see, Laura, that you should perhaps think of finding someone to love.’
Was he making a pass at her? Is this when she was supposed to give him what they used to call an Old-Fashioned Look? To her irritation, she found she was completely lost for words. Eventually she found her tongue, and gave him her prim reply:
‘And I suppose you would like to offer your services? Well, that’s very kind, but for your information, I already have somebody to love.’
‘You do? Oh, forgive me, I didn’t realise the position was filled.’
‘I don’t think you’re following me. I love my husband.’
‘Ah, so the position is not filled.’
‘Will you stop going on about filling positions and pass me that bottle of wine.’
Antoine refilled her glass, then slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out a card which he passed stealthily on to her lap.
‘If you change your mind, just call me. I find you very appealing. And life can be very disappointing if you do not dare to create opportunities for pleasure. Before it’s too late.’
He smiled at her. It was preposterous. But flattering. She curled her fingers around his card and, in spite of herself, tucked it deep into her Kenzo pocket.
At the other end of the table, Francine and Sylvie were on their favourite topic.
‘Signature pieces, darling. Lots of printed mousseline. You’ve got to hand it to him, he’s been writing the fashion narrative for years.’
‘But Sylvie, Yves Saint Laurent is so conventional, so “jolie madame”. Surely you must be more excited by Galliano.’
‘Pure spectacle. It’s not couture, he’s a theatrical costumier. You could do it if you had a history book. And then he’s English. When you think how English women dress like dogs – no disrespect, Laura – and yet we have brought in these English ragamuffin boys to take charge of our most prestigious fashion houses. Truly, it makes me weep to think about it. Then there are those dreadful American houses. Donna Karan, everything so huge to hide those enormous women’s hips. I looked at her rayon in Printemps, and there was nothing small enough for me, not one thing.’
She sighed and smoothed her hands over her tiny knitted silk two-piece.
‘I’ve got a Donna Karan three-quarter-length jacket that I wear all the time,’ volunteered Laura, thereby rather proving the point.
The men had moved on to the Nuits-Saint-Georges.
‘Good, powerful body, Dominique, even if it does lack a bit of finesse,’ said Jean-Laurent. ‘And I’m not sure that the blackcurrant doesn’t rather overpower the raspberry and cherry. Sylvie, take it from me, the only interest we men have in what you wear is how fast we can remove it. Anything that unzips in one go and falls from the shoulders is fine in my book.’
Jean-Laurent fondly recalled the moment earlier that evening at Flavia’s flat when she had demonstrated that very trick. The grey cashmere dress had slithered to the floor, revealing a lingerie ensemble whose cunning arrangement of bows and peepholes had almost made him pass out with desire.
That’s funny, thought Laura. I don’t have any dresses with zips.
‘Oh, you men, if we dressed to please you we would never get beyond our underwear drawer,’ retorted Sylvie, demonstrating an unnerving ability to read his mind. ‘No, we women dr
ess to compete with each other, and the older and richer we get, the higher the stakes and the more attention we must pay to our clothes and the petits soins.’ Petits soins in her case, thought Laura, clearly embraced judicious use of the scalpel as well as the mascara.
‘Unlike the young and beautiful who can do without,’ said Francine, who then went on to recall her dismay on a recent flight to New York when she had found herself surrounded in club class by a herd of tall models in ripped jeans and T-shirts cropped above their achingly young washboard stomachs.
After dinner, the party crunched and rustled their way through the dead foliage back to the gilt splendour of the Louis XV sitting room where Conchita had set out coffee and liqueurs. The autumnal theme was relentlessly continued on the coffee cups which carried childish depictions of trees raining red and orange leaves.
Antoine struck up a seigneurial pose by the window, jangling his keys and coins in his pocket as if in prelude to what might follow for Laura if she was bold enough. He jutted his chin, presenting his best profile, which she had to admit wasn’t bad. A roman nose and sensually puckered lips, and a chin that was suspiciously free of excess folds for a man of a certain age. Even Jean-Laurent was just starting to get a tiny bit jowly, but Antoine’s lower face presented a crystal-clear outline. Maybe he had had a little help. She hadn’t noticed any scars, but apparently they were often behind the ears; you would need to push the hair back and have a good look, preferably when he was sleeping. Like Damian in The Omen when they find the 666 hidden on his scalp.
Her reverie was interrupted when Antoine suddenly turned to face her and gave her what could be described as a smouldering smile, or a dirty leer, depending on your take on French seduction technique. Go on, he was implying, I dare you. Why not? She blushed, annoyed that he had caught her looking at him. Vain old fool. As if she would be interested in risking her reputation with him when she had legitimate access to the firm, unremodelled flesh of Jean-Laurent, who was now absorbed with Dominique in an in-depth analysis of the twenty-five-year-old Armagnac.
‘We must go, Laura,’ said Jean-Laurent, once he had had the final word on the in-barrel ageing capacity of his favourite digestifs. ‘I’ve got an early flight in the morning.’
He rose from the bandy-legged chair, which looked a great deal more solid once it was free of his powerful weight.
‘Francine, that was delicious. Our place next time, Dominique. I’ve got some interesting ’82 Pomerol that I think you’d appreciate.’
The two men exchanged an arm-gripping handshake.
‘Sylvie, it was a pleasure to meet you, glad to see you look as delicious in the flesh as you did on the back of my mother’s old record sleeve. Hé hé lollypop, what a song that was, eh?’
Sylvie looked gratified, even though she realised there was more gallantry than truth in his remark as the photo in question was decades old and even her husband’s expertise could not peel back the years to that extent.
‘You must call in and see us,’ she said. ‘We are neighbours, after all. Here, let me give you our number. Antoine, do you have a carte de visite?’
Laura guiltily crunched up the card in her pocket as Antoine winked at her and handed Jean-Laurent a fresh copy, man to man, untarnished by the overtures of seduction.
They were shown to the door by Conchita, but then Jean-Laurent realised he had left his phone in the salon and returned to pick it up, which involved another round of lengthy farewells. Before you could say Casanova, Antoine had slipped out of the room and was standing beside Laura in the hallway.
‘You didn’t say goodbye to me,’ he complained softly.
‘Didn’t I?’ said Laura, pulling up her coat collar, eyes wide.
‘No. I think you forgot.’
She leaned forward to kiss him on both cheeks.
‘Goodnight then.’
He caught hold of her on the second kiss and held his mouth to her ear.
‘I want you,’ he whispered. ‘Please say you’ll come and see me.’
Jean-Laurent reappeared with his phone and Antoine sprang back with a deft manoeuvre born of years of practice.
‘Ah, Jean-Laurent, I was just saying to your charming wife that I do so hope you will both come soon to have an aperitif with Sylvie and me.’
‘Of course,’ said Jean-Laurent, ‘it would be a great pleasure.’
‘Nice evening,’ said Jean-Laurent, swaying slightly as they stepped out on to the street and headed for the pont Saint Louis. ‘That Sylvie Marceau’s showing her age, though, in spite of the best efforts of Doctor Frankenstein.’
‘A scary old woman trapped in the body of an eighteen-year-old chanteuse.’
‘It will impress them at work. Wait till I casually drop in that I had dinner with Sylvie Marceau.’
He thought about his boss, who must be about the same vintage.
‘You were quiet tonight, Laura.’
‘Uninteresting, you mean. I’m afraid I don’t have much to contribute on the subject of wine.’
He ignored the jibe.
‘Still, I saw you deep in conversation with Frankenstein.’ He laughed suddenly as a ludicious thought occurred to him. ‘Hey, he wasn’t trying to get off with you, was he.’
‘Would it be so surprising if he was?’ snapped Laura. ‘I’m not quite off the Richter scale of attractiveness yet, you know.’
‘No, of course not,’ he said hastily, while realising with a shock that it was incomprehensible to him that any man could find his wife desirable. ‘Apparently they live in a fantastic house in the Villa Montmorency. It’s like Bel Air in there – a guarded estate, wall-to-wall showbusiness and captains of industry. We really should call in on them, take them up on that offer of a drink.’
They continued in silence past Notre Dame until they came to the car. She pulled out her keys.
‘Shall I drive?’
‘Probably better had.’
She turned on to the left bank and followed the quai going west. The book stalls lining the river were packed up for the night, but there were still plenty of people on the streets enjoying the night air. She pointed to a restaurant.
‘There’s Les Bouquinistes – supposed to be good. We should go there for dinner one night.’
But Jean-Laurent was already asleep, his head lolling away from her. Poor thing, she thought, he’s tired.
FOUR
Ten-thirty on a weekday morning, thought Laura, and here I am, the envy of my friends, at leisure in my prime-location Parisian flat. She unpacked two croissants from a paper bag and put them on a plate with a generous dollop of homemade raspberry jam. One thing she had learned since she had stopped working was the importance of structuring her day, and her mid-morning breakfast was an important constant in what could become a loose stream of aimless activity if you weren’t careful.
She poured herself a coffee, milk, two sugars, and sat down to recover from the morning rush. Jean-Laurent had gone off at the crack of dawn, rather cross because he had had too much to drink last night and couldn’t find a clean shirt. Charles-Edouard had been in a panic about a book that she was supposed to have bought him for school. She had decided to give the café a miss and enjoy the peace and quiet of her own kitchen instead. She wanted to be alone, to think about the dinner party last night. About Antoine, and exactly what he had said to her. That last kiss, his urgent insistence that they meet again.
Except that she was not alone. The kitchen door pushed open and in came Asa, steamily fragrant and swathed in three or four freshly laundered towels. She took a fat-free yoghurt from the fridge and sat down opposite Laura, casting a disapproving look at her plate.
‘Do you know that there are 250 calories in one croissant? Not counting the jam, that is.’
‘So I should hope. I’ve got to get my strength up after the school run. I daresay if I had only just got out of bed, I too could manage on a yoghurt, but sadly that is not my privilege. Anyway, I’m going to the gym.’
‘You’ll
need to run for fifty minutes at nine kilometres an hour to work off that lot. It’s far more sensible to restrain your calorie intake and maintain a steady output of energy.’
And you should know about sensible eating patterns, fumed Laura, thinking about the packet of chocolate cereal that had mysteriously disappeared last week, and how she had found the empty packet stuffed down the side of Asa’s bed. She changed the subject.
‘Were the children OK last night?’
‘Oh, fine. They always go to bed sweetly for me, it’s only for your benefit they make such a song and dance. How was your dinner party?’
‘Sylvie Marceau was there.’
‘Oh really? What’s she like? She has a fantastic figure.’
‘Slim and ancient,’ said Laura, brushing the crumbs off her lap. ‘I’m off to the gym. See you later. If you do get round to ironing those shirts for Jean-Laurent, that would be great.’
Asa watched her go. Fat, lazy cow, she thought, why don’t you iron the shirts yourself? She pulled her chair towards the grocery cupboard, and stood on it on tiptoe so she could reach the top shelf, and helped herself to a large tablet of cooking chocolate.
Oh vanity, oh man, thought Laura crossly, flat on her back on a mat as she heaved her right elbow to touch her upraised left knee for the twenty-ninth time to the tune of a female singer who sounded like she had one of those black, effortlessly supple bodies. ‘I’m horny, horny, horny, horny,’ went the song, ‘oh I’m horny, so horny, horny, horny tonight.’ How many of these old French snakes writhing on mats around her even understood the words, never mind the notion of horniness. It made her feel sick just to think of it.
‘Attention, à gauche!’ barked the instructor, a wiry twenty-something who looked as though he lived in a continuous state of horniness that was repeatedly relieved by a bevy of acrobatic partners.
She obediently followed his lead, wincing with each abdominal contraction as they began the same exercise on the other side. The old snakes only made up a third of the class. With the exception of one elderly man who looked as though each thrust could be his last, the others were all youngish women, most of them considerably thinner than Laura.
