by Sarah Long
‘Seeing the children, you fool.’
Lorinda watched her critically as she splashed champagne into the glasses.
‘Laura, give me the bottle – I’ll show you how to do that properly. I was serving a French captain of industry on a plane once, and he was so shocked at my lack of savvy that he snatched it off me and gave me a lesson on the spot. Watch this. You hold the bottle underneath and stick your thumb into the hole, making sure you show off the label so the gratin in first class can check you’re not fobbing them off with any old sparkling wine.’
‘So you’re an air hostess!’ said Dominique admiringly. He was old enough to belong to the generation that considered this a proper occupation for a woman.
‘Now put out to grass, luckily,’ said Lorinda, handing him a glass. She looked up and saw Jean-Laurent and Flavia. ‘Ah, here comes our host and his lovely assistant.’
‘Hardly my assistant,’ smiled Jean-Laurent. ‘I couldn’t justify paying Flavia to type my letters. She’s a Jungian psychologist and top-drawer research professional. And she speaks five languages.’
Bully for Flavia, thought Laura.
‘Most of the Air France staff have three or four languages,’ said Lorinda. ‘But strangely enough they have nothing of interest to say in any of them.’
Flavia smiled at her patronisingly and shook hands around the coffee table, bending over conspicuously to show off her faultless haunches. She made a particular fuss of Etienne, who blushed at the attention, miserably aware of his shortcomings as a dinner partner for such a creature. She reminded him of the girl in the advertisement for an Internet dating service. He had spent many a lonely journey in the metro staring at the poster and wondering whether he would ever find himself within lungeing distance of such a pouting beauty. And now he was. She didn’t seem to be repulsed by him, but he suspected, quite correctly, that she was just being polite.
‘You’re an engineer?’ she was saying, ‘At the Ponts et Chaussées?’
Hard to believe that this dull little man had followed the most prestigious career route known to the overachieving French school child – a degree at Polytechnique followed by a post as a high-flying haut fonctionnaire spending public money on roads and bridges. Not the kind of thing that would turn an Englishwoman’s head, but in French women’s eyes it was enough to turn an insignificant toad into a very marriageable prince.
‘No wonder you’re still single,’ she breathed in genuine admiration. ‘No time for matters of the heart when you’re on that kind of fast-track career.’
Etienne smiled gratefully, feeling that his stock was rising. Jean-Laurent frowned. He liked to think that he, too, was a high achiever, but in France the marketing of fast-moving consumer goods was considered the poor relation to public service. And unlike Etienne, he had found the time along the way to lumber himself with an overweight wife and two children.
‘Shall we go through?’ he said. ‘Flavia, I’ve put you next to Etienne, so he can talk you through his meteoric rise at the Home Office.’
Flavia gave him a look of such flagrant complicity that Lorinda checked to see if Laura had noticed, but the hostess was on her way into the kitchen.
Dominique murmured into Jean-Laurent’s ear as they made their way into the dining room.
‘God, she’s a hot little piece, old chap. I’m clearly in the wrong business.’
‘Luckily for you, Dominique, I’ve put you on her other side. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll just give Laura a hand with the entrées.’
Laura helped herself to the last slice of creamy Rigadon. It was a shame to waste it, and no one else seemed to want seconds. The evening was quite a success so far, she thought, and Flavia was proving to be an excellent guest – lively and easy on the eye. The kind of catalyst you needed to enliven dinner parties made up of couples. She watched her across the table, pushing a spoonful of dessert around her plate while holding forth amusingly about cultural and national stereotypes. Etienne and Dominique were both enraptured by her, but Jean-Laurent looked rather irritated. Perhaps he had heard it all before.
Flavia was reaching the climax of her set piece: ‘And of course, the Austrians, well, they are just like the Germans, but without the sense of humour!’
The table erupted in appreciative laughter. ‘Oh, very good, yes!’ said Dominique. ‘Heil Hitler! He was an Austrian, of course!’
‘And tell me, Flavia,’ said Lorinda, annoyed at being kicked off centre stage, ‘how do you define a Franco-Brazilian-Italian – that’s your own parentage, I believe?’
‘Absolutely,’ smiled Flavia. ‘Well, I suppose I’m just perfect – a potent mix of French cleverness, Brazilian sexiness and Italian joie de vivre! Always supposing that I don’t turn into a frumpy spaghetti-stuffed mama the moment I hit thirty, of course!’
‘Oh, I don’t think there’s much risk of that,’ said Etienne, emboldened by several glasses of Pomerol.
‘In fact,’ said Dominique, ‘if you were a wine, Flavia, I would say you were definitely vintage champagne. Sparkly, aristocratic, strictly for special occasions.’
‘Oh really,’ said Francine. ‘And what does that make me? Cheap old vin de table, I suppose.’
Dominique looked at her affectionately.
‘Of course not, my dear. You are a high quality Bordeaux – from the Right Bank or its satellites. And Lorinda is, let’s see, a spicy Côtes du Rhône – a funky animal, definitely Shiraz. Laura, too, is not what you would term a classic Bordeaux. No, she is more of an earthy burgundy peasant wine – full-bodied, well rounded in the barrel.’
‘Well, thanks a lot, Dominique,’ said Laura. ‘Excuse me while I slip into my smock and clogs.’
‘Which is why Flavia has such perfect potential as a trophy wife!’ continued Dominique, now well into his stride. ‘Let’s face it, when you’ve spent thirty years grinding up the ladder on a diet of vin ordinaire, you feel you deserve something better at the end. Yes, a nice refreshing bottle of vintage champagne, that’s what you want!’
He turned and grinned leerily at Flavia, who laughed prettily.
‘And what makes you think,’ asked Lorinda, dangerously, ‘that a classy champagne would be interested in an old bottle of stout like you? No offence, Francine, but don’t you think she might prefer something more potent, someone more virile, like Jean-Laurent, for instance?’
‘Why thank you, Lorinda. I never realised I was the object of your secret fantasies,’ said Jean-Laurent, bluffing over his discomfort.
‘Oh, I wasn’t putting myself up for a trophy wife, no thank you,’ blustered Dominique. ‘I’m perfectly happy with the old model, aren’t I, Francine? I know when I’m well off – I was only talking theoretically.’
‘Talking theoretically?’ scoffed Lorinda. ‘When did you ever catch a French person not talking theoretically? We all know the joke about the Frenchman dissenting in the meeting – that is fine in practice, gentlemen, but how does it work in theory? Now, in theory I would say that when a fine bottle of champagne is going cheap amidst a shelf-load of supermarket plonk, it’s a recipe for disaster.’
Laura had caught the edge in Lorinda’s voice, and wondered why she seemed determined to play the bitch tonight. Of course, it was always galling to share a table with a younger, prettier woman, but it was terribly bad form to show it. She would have to have a word with her later about the need for graciousness. There was nothing to be gained by turning spiteful.
‘Take no notice of Dominquie and his nonsense,’ said Francine. ‘It’s just the sad hallucinations of a menopausal man. He’s stuck with me and he knows it. But it may not be too late for us, girls, to score a young trophy husband. Look at Sylvie Marceau. Her husband is years younger than her – it’s not just men who can earn the right to firm young flesh. Have you seen them, by the way, Laura?’
Laura quickly swallowed the last of her Rigadon and faked nonchalance.
‘Funny you should ask. As a matter of fact I dropped in for an aperitif last
week.’
Jean-Laurent looked up from his plate. ‘Oh really? You didn’t tell me.’
To her annoyance, Laura felt herself blush. ‘I forget to mention it. Yes I did actually. You know, they live just down the road from us. You couldn’t describe her husband as firm young flesh, though, could you? Fifty if he’s a day.’
‘Firm enough when she married him,’ said Francine, ‘and she must be pushing sixty now. It’s all relative.’
Laura stood up. ‘Would you like some coffee? Let’s move into the salon. I know Jean-Laurent is anxious to ply you all with cognac.’
It was after two o’clock when they finally shut the door on their guests. Jean-Laurent put his arms round his wife, comforted by her familiar curves, relieved to be free of Flavia and away from Lorinda’s accusing stare.
‘Well done, darling. That was quite an evening.’
Laura gently detached herself from his embrace.
‘Your friend Flavia created quite a stir. Dominique practically had his tongue hanging out, and poor little Etienne couldn’t believe his luck. I don’t suppose he meets girls like that at the Ponts et Chaussées.’
Jean-Laurent laughed non-committally.
‘He should move into a sexy business like mine. Gorgeous girls by the score.’
Laura looked at him.
‘Lucky I’m not the jealous type, or I might start worrying about you. Lorinda seemed to have it in for her. I don’t know why – I thought she was perfectly pleasant.’
‘She’s just bitter. It can’t be easy being a jaded ex-air hostess approaching middle age. Every time you see a pretty girl it reminds you of what you used to be.’
‘What about jaded ex-ad-women approaching middle age? Isn’t it just as bad for them?’
‘Darling, you have a brain and a distinguished career behind you – it’s quite different. Inner resources. The life of the mind. That’s why I love you.’
He drew her to him and realised, with a jolt of surprise, that it was true. He led her to the bedroom and began to make love to her gratefully. His wife was a sensible woman, she took a balanced view of things. She even liked his mistress. Everything was going to be all right.
But Laura had other ideas. Even as Jean-Laurent was giving attentive physical expression to his love of her mind, she was thinking about the doctor. Healing hands that would run over her body in a reverential ecstasy of discovery. Practised hands that would delight her in a way that, to be honest, her husband’s hadn’t for a very long time. She would call him. Soon.
EIGHT
‘Good morning, could I speak to Doctor Bouchard, please?’
‘His line is busy. Will you hold or can I take a message?’
‘Oh no,’ said Laura, ‘no message. I’ll hold, thank you.’
She paced nervously up and down the salon, trying to focus her attention on the vase of yellow roses standing on the Interesting Oak coffee table. They had been delivered this morning with a card from Francine and Dominique thanking her for a soirée exceptionelle.
‘He’s still busy. Would you like to try later?’
‘Oh yes, good idea,’ said Laura in relief. ‘I’ll try again later.’
‘Shall I tell him who called?’
‘Oh, no, no, really, it doesn’t matter. I’ll call again. Thank you.’
Laura hung up and gazed out of the window across the Seine. That was a lucky escape. What did she think she was doing, chasing Antoine like some kind of desperate frustrated housewife. She remembered how her mother used to disapprove of her phoning boyfriends when she was a teenager. ‘Let them call you, dear,’ she would say, banging round the kitchen in tight-lipped disappointment that her daughter should be reduced to making the first move.
She sat down on the sofa and picked up the style section of last Sunday’s English newspaper. There was a photo of an It Girl in a tiny pair of white trousers posing with two celebrities outside a nightclub. She didn’t suppose an It Girl would ever need to stoop so low as to call a middle-aged endocrinologist to add zest to her life.
‘Oh good, you’re off the phone.’
Asa had appeared from nowhere. At least Laura supposed it was Asa – it was hard to tell beneath the thick layer of pale grey plaster that was hardening over her face.
‘I need to call Devon to sort out the arrangements for tonight.’
‘You’ve got a date with that old pervert? Watch out with that face mask, it just dripped over the sofa.’
‘Of course not, he’s like a father to me. Don’t you remember? It’s the Thanksgiving party tonight.’
Like many self-centred people, Asa presumed that everyone took a detailed interest in her plans.
‘What Thanksgiving party?’ said Laura. ‘Why aren’t I invited?’
‘It’s a joint party for the OA and the AA. At the American Church.’
Laura snorted with laughter.
‘Oh my God, Overeaters and Alcoholics! What a brilliant combination – like Jack Sprat and his wife. I suppose the fatties have to drink all the wine and the drunks stuff themselves on pumpkin pie! All beneath the watchful gaze of Higher Power, or whatever you call him. Oh, please, can I come? I could qualify on both counts. I eat too much and I’m a hopeless old boozer.’
Asa stared at her coldly, her eyes mottled and discoloured against the white of the mask.
‘I don’t find it funny’, she said. ‘I happen to think it is brave of people to face up to their problems and try to resolve them in a positive environment. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll make my call from my bedroom.’
She picked up the phone and swept out.
Laura dabbed at the sofa with a tissue to remove the face mask stain, then settled back with the newspaper to find out what she should be wearing to this year’s Christmas parties. Not that she had been invited to any. The French had a tedious approach to Christmas, which was limited to a family dinner on Christmas Eve where everyone ate foie gras and behaved with dignity. There were no opportunities for pulling crackers or wearing paper hats. And you never saw anyone being sick on the metro after getting drunk and embarrassing themselves at the office party.
She succumbed to a wave of nostalgia for the tinselly, bad-taste, London Christmas season. In Paris, all the decorations were so aesthetically correct that you longed to install a flashing Santa Claus in your apartment window to jar against the perfect Christmas bouquets of silver twigs, mistletoe and Clementines on sticks that people bought from the florist. You couldn’t even get a bog-standard mangy Christmas tree that festively dropped its needles the moment you got it home. Instead you had to pay fifty pounds for a Nordman grey-green thing that left your parquet floor pristine.
‘Laura! It’s for you!’
Asa came in with bad grace and passed the phone to Laura.
‘It’s a man,’ she said helpfully.
‘Hallo?’
‘Is this Laura?’
‘Yes.’
Oh my God, it was Antoine. Asa was staring at her. Laura stood up and took the phone into her bedroom, closing the door behind her.
‘Hallo, I’m sorry, I’m just retreating from my au pair – you know how it is, no privacy, well, no, you probably don’t know, I don’t suppose you need one for the dogs. What a coincidence, I just tried to ring you.’
She was gibbering hopelessly.
‘I know. My secretary told me that someone with an English accent had called, and I guessed it was you.’
‘Really? How did you know it wasn’t Jane Birkin ringing up to get her thyroid checked? No, you’re right, she wouldn’t need to. But there are other English women in Paris, you know.’
‘I was expecting your call. I was hoping you might suggest that we meet again.’
‘That would be nice.’
Oh for God’s sake, how gauche could you get?
‘How about Friday. One o’clock at the Ritz. I have a free afternoon.’
A free afternoon. In a hotel. This was it then. She was to be ruined.
‘Al
l right,’ she said faintly.
‘Good. I’ll see you there. Au revoir.’
‘Ciao.’
She hung up. Ciao? When did she ever say ciao? What was she, some teenage piece of Eurotrash? She walked into the kitchen to be confronted by Asa sitting down to a monster bowl of fat-free yoghurt.
‘Who was that?’ asked Asa. ‘You look quite flushed.’
‘Oh, a friend. And at my age, you tend to flush. The Change, you know.’
‘You are a little young for that,’ said Asa kindly. ‘But there is someone at the group who runs a seminar on Approaching the Menopause. I can give you her number if you want.’
‘No thanks,’ said Laura. ‘I was only joking. Though I don’t suppose that translates into Finnish.’
At ten to two, Laura was standing beneath the glass pyramid of the Louvre looking out for Lorinda and her other cronies amongst the crowds of tourists. She was honouring one of the non-essential engagements that punctuated her uneventful days. The Louvre, after all, was the cultural epicentre of Paris, and what was the point of living in the city if you didn’t take advantage of all it had to offer?
Amongst her circle of Parisian women who preferred not to work, it was universally agreed that living in the suburbs was out of the question. They had not given up their careers to vegetate in a no-man’s-land where you had to get the car out to buy your baguette. So they chose to sacrifice the chance of a large comfortable house in favour of a city apartment that just begged you to leave it to enjoy the attractions of the outside world. And while the shops and the hairdressers and the beauticians clearly held the most appeal for these femmes inactives, they also attached great importance to Culture. Which is why Laura and Lorinda, together with ten other women, met once a month at the Louvre to enjoy a guided tour of its works of art. On this particular Monday, it was the turn of Jean-Baptiste Pigalle to come under scrutiny from the Ladies Who Lunched.
The guide led them through a hall of marble to arrive at their destination, a sculpture of an unfortunate-looking woman. ‘As you can see,’ she said critically, ‘this poor lady has not been spoilt by Mother Nature.’ The ladies laughed appreciatively, nothing being more enjoyable than the spectacle of an ugly woman. They then moved on to ponder the aesthetic decline of Madame de Pompadour, captured in full blowsiness by Pigalle.
