And What Do You Do?

by Sarah Long

  ‘Not all mine,’ he confessed miserably as he saw Flavia heading towards them, wearing fresh lipstick and an expression of amused curiosity.

  The two women nodded at each other as a flustered Jean-Laurent made the introductions.

  ‘Um, this is Flavia, she’s been doing some research for us. Flavia, this is Lorinda, a friend of Laura’s.’

  ‘And of yours, Jean-Laurent, or so I like to think.’

  Lorinda took in the blonde hair, the little-girl figure, the insolently pretty face. You bastard, she thought.

  ‘Hallo, Flavia,’ she said. ‘Pleased to meet you. How did the research go?’

  ‘Pretty conclusive, I’m glad to say.’

  Brazen hussy. She didn’t look the slightest bit embarrassed.

  ‘Lorinda’s going to share our car,’ said Jean-Laurent. ‘She’s just had lunch with some friends at Air France – she used to work there.’

  ‘Oh, did you know Christian Blanc when he was chairman?’ asked Flavia sweetly. ‘He’s absolutely charming, isn’t he? What did you do, were you in marketing?’

  ‘Nothing so grand, I’m afraid. I was a hostess.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Trust Laura to be friends with a dimwit trolley-dolly.

  A white Mercedes pulled up in front of them. Jean-Laurent quickly appropriated the front seat and set about giving the driver the full benefit of his opinions on efficiency and standards of service. Lorinda and Flavia sat in the back. Flavia struck up a conversation; after all, she was well trained in talking to housewives – she knew how to make them feel at ease.

  ‘So, Lorinda, your children are at school with Jean-Laurent’s?’

  ‘Yes, two of them are, anyway – the others are too young. Do you have children, Flavia?’

  ‘Not yet. Too busy, I’m afraid. But there is plenty of time,’ she replied, drawing attention simultaneously to her youth and her professional success.

  ‘Are you married?’ She might as well get as much information as possible for Laura.

  ‘No. I don’t think marriage is relevant today for women who are financially independent. Although of course I respect the opinions of those who think otherwise.’ She gave Lorinda a patronising smile.

  ‘Like Jean-Laurent and Laura, you mean?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘And how did you find the Lygon Arms. Comfortable beds?’

  ‘I travel a great deal for my work, so I’m always happy to get back to my own bed, but, yes, it was a comfortable hotel.’

  Jean-Laurent had finished with the driver and turned round to the back seat.

  ‘Where shall we drop you, Flavia?’

  ‘Just let me out at Etoile. I don’t want to make you late.’

  The taxi pulled in by the Arc de Triomphe to let Flavia out, and Jean-Laurent ensured that he was fully engaged on his mobile for the rest of the journey to avoid the need for further conversation with Lorinda.

  The children were already spilling out on to the pavement when they arrived at the school. Jean-Laurent saw Laura, and was surprised to see she was looking rather good, wearing a coat he didn’t remember. She caught sight of him and smiled her surprise. A father at the school gates was still a comparative rarity, and Jean-Laurent cut quite a dash in his suit. She felt a rush of guilty affection and made her way over to him.

  ‘Hallo, this is an unexpected treat. They’re just coming out now – they will be pleased.’

  Charles-Edouard waved shyly at his father while Pierre-Louis hurled himself into his arms.

  ‘Dad, I’m up to level thirteen on Super Mario.’

  Jean-Laurent hugged them both, filled with paternal pride while at the same time enjoying the public spectacle he was presenting of himself as the devoted father. Some of these mothers weren’t bad looking – quite a good place to pick up a bit of bored totty if you weren’t already doing quite well in that department.

  Lorinda came up with her children.

  ‘Did Jean-Laurent tell you he gave me a ride in his taxi? Met his gorgeous researcher, Flavia.’

  ‘Oh really?’ said Laura. ‘You’ll be seeing her again tomorrow – she’s coming to dinner, I think. Is that right, Jean-Laurent?’

  ‘Er, yes. She just happened to be free, luckily.’

  ‘Free as air,’ sniffed Lorinda, trying unsuccessfully to make Jean-Laurent meet her gaze.

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Thanks for the lift, Jean-Laurent.’

  ‘Pleasure.’ He smiled down at her.

  You dirty dog, she thought. Still, at least it would add a bit of zest to the dinner party. And there was every reason now for Laura to pay him back with a retaliatory dalliance with Antoine.

  Much later, in bed, Laura lay in the darkness listening to the steady breathing of her husband. He had seemed pleased to be back home, appreciative of the intimate little dinner she had prepared, more out of guilt than from any desire to eat boeuf bourguignon, which her cookbook had assured her was ‘every man’s favourite dish’.

  When they went to bed, she had heard him rummaging in the bathroom cabinet and discreetly opening the drawer of his bedside table, so she wasn’t surprised when he reached for her under the covers and initiated their well-practised love-making routine. It had seemed to her that they were both just going through the motions. Married sex. It was her fault – she just couldn’t work up any enthusiasm. Maybe Antoine was right, maybe you did need the sparkle of adventure, as he put it. ‘You Anglo-Saxons,’ he had said, as though referring to Beowulf-hunting savages living in mud huts, ‘you Anglo-Saxons insist upon the misery of serial monogamy. You destroy your families for the thrill of the new, and then the same thing happens all over again. It is futile. We Latins know that love does not destroy, it enhances.’ He had made it sound so simple.

  Was that what they needed, she and Jean-Laurent, a bit of enhancement at the hands of the suave Dr Bouchard? It was tempting, but she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t deceive Jean-Laurent. It would be so unfair.

  ‘Do you have to wear that apron?’ asked Jean-Laurent crossly.

  It was half past seven and Laura was busy shelling langoustines over the kitchen sink. Her dress was protected by a jokey pink plastic apron which had enormous breasts printed on it. It had been a present from an ex-boyfriend who believed it was their shared sense of humour that made their relationship work. Jean-Laurent found it inappropriate.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, ‘I’ll take it off before the guests arrive. Have you set the table?’

  ‘Almost. I just need to find two more underplates.’

  ‘Not those things! They serve no purpose and they don’t fit in the dishwasher.’

  ‘So what? Asa can wash them up tomorrow – that’s what she’s there for, isn’t it?’

  Jean-Laurent held the French view that au pair girls should be used as cut-price servants.

  ‘It’s Sunday tomorrow. And it’s not one of her duties.’

  ‘I keep telling you to get rid of her and find yourself a Sri Lankan houseboy. They wait at table too, you know.’

  ‘For the pittance we pay Asa? I don’t think so. Anyway, who are we trying to impress? We’re not diplomats, are we? I hardly see the need for white-gloved manservants hovering round the table.’

  Jean Laurent sighed.

  ‘Laura, I do wish you wouldn’t be so practical all the time. If you had your way, we’d all be pigging it in the kitchen so everyone could put their own plate straight into the dishwasher. You seem to have no aesthetic sense of how a dinner party should be presented.’

  He opened a cupboard and brought out a pair of massive frosted-glass underplates which he carried huffily through to the triple living. Decorating the table was his contribution to their entertaining effort, and he had to admit the results were pleasing. The table was groaning with glass and crockery, conforming with the Parisian idea that a dinner at home should as far as possible resemble a night out in a stuffy restaurant.

  He looked across at the salon, where two angular s
ofas were aggressively parked opposite each other in readiness for confrontational conversation. Bookcases made from recycled industrial steel were sprinkled with a careful mix of English and French texts. It was, he thought with satisfaction, an appropriate setting for interesting, contemporary people.

  Laura had done well, once he had educated her out of her homely preference for Osborne & Little chintz and introduced her to the Conran Shop in rue du Bac, where third-world chic was elevated beyond the reach of the vulgar masses by reassuringly first-world prices. His real decorating triumph, though, had been his solution to the television problem. Some people got round this by installing a cabinet with sliding doors to hide the offending object, but this was too petty bourgeois. Instead Jean-Laurent had hit upon the creative idea of a cast-iron screen with a hand-painted panel that flipped up to expose the telly when required. In practice, though, the television was on almost continuously, so the screen remained propped up against the wall like a heavy white elephant. He dragged it now across the parquet, completing the tableau. There: now they were ready for their guests.

  Laura called him from the kitchen.

  ‘Jean-Laurent, could you get the boys to bed, please, I’ve still got to finish the pudding.’

  ‘Whatever you say. You know me, New Man extraordinaire.’

  She came in carrying a large platter of langoustine salad.

  ‘I would hardly say that putting your children to bed once a week and fussing about with table decorations qualifies you as a New Man.’

  ‘And I would hardly say that patiently hanging around all week like a good housewife waiting for your husband to come home qualifies you as a New Woman, so we’re well matched.’

  He squeezed her bottom playfully.

  ‘Get off. Anyway, how do you know I’ve been hanging around waiting for you. I might have been seeing my lover.’

  Jean-Laurent snorted. ‘I hardly think so – you know when you’re already getting the best. Now, if you had married an Englishman, that would be different. Lucky for you you had the sense to marry me.’

  He thought back to last night, reassured by the memory of her undemanding behaviour in bed. It had been quite a relief, after the acrobatic performance he had felt obliged to put in all week at the Lygon Arms, to be safely back in the marital bed with the mother of his children.

  ‘Ah, the great French lover-man, another modern myth. Tell me, Jean-Laurent, is there anything you French don’t believe you’re best in the world at?’

  Jean-Laurent frowned as he pondered the question, then his face cleared.

  ‘Yes, I’ve got it. Cricket.’

  He wandered into the boys’ bedroom where they were waiting for their bedtime story. He enjoyed reading to them – he acted out all the voices and they loved it because of its rarity value. Laura was always much more brisk and businesslike. Tonight they wanted Babar, one of Jean-Laurent’s favourites which reminded him of his own childhood. He lay especial emphasis on the last line, with its relevance to his own role as paterfamilias:

  ‘“Truly,” said Babar, “it is not easy to bring up children, but aren’t they worth it?”’

  The long-suffering father closed the book and kissed Pierre-Louis on the soft hair that spiralled out from the crown of his head.

  ‘Goodnight, my angels.’

  From the other bed, Charles-Edouard looked up from his book.

  ‘Dad, can we go to La Tête dans les Nuages tomorrow?’

  La Tête dans les Nuages was a cavernous inferno of video game machines, and therefore a paradise for boys.

  ‘Oh, I should think so.’

  ‘Yes!’ Charles-Edouard punched the air in delight.

  It was so gratifyingly easy to please them, thought Jean-Laurent as he made his way into the salon to see to the drinks. Oddly enough, he felt quite relaxed about the evening ahead. Flavia was right: it was perfectly normal that they should appear to be on friendly terms. They were colleagues, after all, and when Lorinda had seen them at the airport they were only doing the normal thing – sharing a taxi back from the airport. It was a bit embarrassing the way he’d squeezed her hand against his bum, but he felt he’d done a good job of laughing it off. It wasn’t as if she had run into them in a restaurant when he had told Laura he was working late; that would have been more difficult to explain.

  He had just put the champagne into the ice bucket when the door bell rang.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ called Laura, whipping off her larky apron.

  His carefully rehearsed calm fell to pieces when he saw Flavia walk through the door. Why was she so early? He had told her not to come before nine.

  ‘Hi,’ said Laura, smiling. ‘You must be Flavia, unless Jean-Laurent has invited some other pretty stranger he hasn’t told me about.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Flavia, kissing Laura on both cheeks. She was wearing a straight, knee-length skirt, which was very ‘in’ this season. Laura had tried one on herself, but it had made her look like a policewoman.

  Flavia did not look like a policewoman. A soft cream jumper hugged her upper contours, straight blonde hair streamed down her back and she carried a cutie-pie handbag with little handles instead of a shoulder strap. She looked like an upmarket Barbie, one of the special collectors’ models that gay men pay five hundred pounds for. Laura’s father would have described her as top totty.

  ‘I’m sorry I’m early. I rather hoped I might have a chance to meet the children before they went to bed.’

  ‘Too late, I’m afraid,’ said Laura, ‘but they’re probably still awake. Jean-Laurent will take you down if you want.’

  Jean-Laurent stepped forward.

  ‘Flavia, we meet again,’ he said, a touch too heartily. He went to kiss her but they both went for the wrong cheek and their lips brushed clumsily.

  Flavia reached into her toy handbag and pulled out a package.

  ‘Laura, this is for you. It’s from Frères Mariages.’

  ‘How kind!’ said Laura, ripping off the black paper to discover a hexagonal jar. ‘Tea-flavoured jam – what an original idea. Thank you, Flavia. Jean-Laurent, why don’t you take Flavia down to say goodnight to the children, then we can have a drink.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Come and meet the little terrors.’

  He led her down the corridor. As soon as they were out of Laura’s sight, Flavia took Jean-Laurent’s hand and gave it a conspiratorial squeeze. He shook free angrily.

  ‘Why are you so early?’ he whispered.

  ‘I simply couldn’t wait – I was bursting with curiosity.’ She giggled. ‘Laura’s quite . . . matronly, isn’t she?’

  Jean-Laurent felt a surge of defensive indignation. That was his wife she was talking about.

  ‘Be quiet, they’ll hear us.’

  They arrived at the children’s bedroom.

  ‘Charles-Edouard, Pierre-Louis, this is Flavia, who works with me.’

  Charles-Edouard looked up from his computer magazine. ‘Hallo’, he said shyly. Pierre-Louis dived under his duvet and refused to come out.

  Flavia sat down on Charles-Edouard’s bed.

  ‘My word, Charles-Edouard, that’s a grown-up magazine. Would you like to work with computers when you grow up?’

  ‘Not really,’ he said, shrugging.

  ‘What would you like to be then?’

  What was this, a job interview? thought Jean-Laurent. She’d be asking him where he saw himself in five years’ time next.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Charles-Edouard. ‘I’d like to do nothing, like Mum.’

  Flavia laughed. ‘I don’t think you’d find that very interesting.’

  She herself would present a far more acceptable role model for these children. You really couldn’t expect them to become high-fliers if you set the kind of example that Laura did. A plump homely figure sacrificing her career for the comfort of her family – what kind of message was that sending out to the next generation?

  Jean-Laurent ruffled Charles-Edouard’s hair affectionately.


  ‘He’s got plenty of time to worry about all that. Right now, he’s more interested in beating me at FIFA 2002 . . . On the Nintendo,’ he added in explanation, seeing that Flavia hadn’t a clue what he was talking about.

  ‘Oh, I see. What fun!’ she said, with a bright smile.

  Jean-Laurent was suddenly reminded of a scene in The Sound of Music which he and Laura had watched with the children last weekend – the bit where dowdy Julie Andrews has run back to the convent, and the haughty baroness is left trying to play ball with the disconsolate children. Flavia had no business being in his children’s bedroom. She belonged in a different compartment altogether.

  ‘Come on,’ he said impatiently, ‘let’s go and have a drink.’

  ‘Goodbye, boys, it was nice to meet you,’ said Flavia.

  In the salon Laura was serving champagne to the other guests, who had arrived together. Francine and Dominique sat on one sofa, nibbling at radishes. Lorinda and Arnaud faced them across the coffee table, a macho slab of oak which had been specially commissioned by Jean-Laurent. He justified the expense on the grounds that an interesting table created a focal talking point, and had got the interiors architect to drive him and a carpenter deep into the forest so he could choose the tree for himself. It was a tale that Jean-Laurent took pleasure in recounting to his guests over the aperitif, though Laura was often anxious that they might all have heard it before.

  Francine’s brother, Etienne, sat stiffly in an art deco occasional chair. Laura did not hold out much hope for him as an entertaining guest. He had what she now recognised as the Boring Frenchman look, which was found mostly in émigrés from provincial towns. Neat hair and glasses were the key features – why did so many French men wear glasses? – together with a wan complexion and a locked-in expression. The French had a word for it: coincé – squeezed in, repressed. The opposite was branché – plugged in and vibrant, cool and free-wheeling, which is how all French people wished they were.

  ‘Where’s Jean-Laurent?’ asked Lorinda.

  ‘Oh, he’s in the bedroom with Flavia,’ Laura replied.

  ‘Already?’ said Lorinda archly.