by Sarah Long
She turned on the radio, but that bad-tempered man on the Today programme was preventing his guest from finishing his sentence. Irritated, she tuned into a French station on which a marriage guidance counsellor was explaining why one in two Parisian marriages ended in divorce. Love, she said, was not enough to ensure a successful marriage. You needed a common goal, an ongoing project that you shared.
Well, we have a common project, thought Laura, we have the children. And the country cottage, though that was perhaps more of a common millstone. And then they had their common bête noire, Asa the bogeyman, the one they whispered about together in bed as they listened to her rustling through the kitchen cupboards in search of a late-night snack.
And what about infidelity? asked the interviewer. Was that what brought most couples to see the counsellor? Not at all. It seemed that lack of communication was the main problem in marriages today. Did that mean it was OK to go to bed with your lover as long as you talked about it over dinner with your spouse? How was your day, dear? Oh, not too bad, but my girlfriend gave me a hard time because I forgot her birthday. Oh, poor you. Tell you what, I’ll put it in my diary, then next year I’ll be able to remind you.
Asa came into the kitchen with the post that had just been slipped under the front door by the gardienne. She tossed an electricity bill across the table to Laura, and put down her own pile of handwritten letters while she helped herself to four large oranges which she began squeezing into a tall glass.
‘There’s a carton of orange juice in the fridge,’ said Laura. ‘Save you going to all that trouble.’
Asa pulled a face.
‘It’s not the same. You only get the vitamins when you squeeze them yourself. And I need to restore my chemical balance after the party last night.’
‘Did you get shit-faced then?’
Laura was saved from Asa’s contemptuous stare by the phone. She went into the hall to answer it.
‘Laura? It’s Lorinda.’
Lorinda. The bringer of bad tidings. Or the underemployed rumour-monger. Laura would know soon enough and judge her friend accordingly.
‘Oh, hi,’ she said in a neutral tone; not too chilly but with less than her usual warmth.
‘Do you hate me? Say you don’t hate me.’
‘Why should I hate you? You were only trying to do your duty as a friend. Now it’s up to me to draw my own conclusions.’
‘That sounds terribly mature. I’m glad you see it that way. I thought afterwards, though, that perhaps I shouldn’t have said anything . . .’
‘Well, you did, but as far as I’m concerned, the subject is now closed. At least between us. For the time being. I’m not alone here, by the way.’
‘You’re not? Is Jean-Laurent there?’
‘Think again. Think Northern Lights, think regurgitating geysers, think humourless Norsewomen.’
She can’t be that furious, thought Lorinda, she’s making jokes.
‘Oh, her! Well, if you ask for a Scandinavian you get what you deserve, in my opinion. How did her party go?’
‘I’m just about to find out. I’ll get all the horrible details once you’re off the phone.’
‘OK. So I’m glad you don’t hate me, anyway. Are you going to the gym today?’
‘No. I’ve got other fish to fry.’
‘How intriguing. What fish might that be? The duplicitous cod flesh of your husband? Or the exotic deep-sea red snapper of your ardent suitor?’
‘I need to get things clear in my own mind. I’ll speak to you again once I have. Goodbye Lorinda.’
‘All right then, don’t tell me. I know you will in the end. Bye!’
Laura hung up and went back into the kitchen where Asa was stirring her fresh fruit cocktail.
‘It was fantastic, actually,’ said Asa, wiping the juice from her upper lip with a freshly laundered linen napkin that Laura normally reserved for dinner parties. ‘Devon brought his guitar and led us all in a sing-song. He really made us feel that we were united in a common purpose.’
‘How touching. Did he bring his wife?’
‘No, she feels it is important for them to be able to grow in their own separate spaces.’
‘I can imagine which space he would like to grow in.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Never mind.’
Asa looked at Laura critically.
‘I know it’s none of my business, but I think you could learn a lot from Devon. You should try to be strong and separate rather than always hanging around waiting for Jean-Laurent to come home. He’d respect you more for it.’
Laura’s hackles rose.
‘Well, thank you for your advice, but I think that my relationship with my husband is my business.’
Asa drained her glass and slowly crossed the kitchen to open a cupboard door. With infuriating nonchalance she helped herself to a new packet of rice cakes.
‘Devon read us this wonderful passage from The Prophet, where it talks about marriage and how both partners should grow like trees, not overshadowing each other.’
‘Oh, please! I can’t remember a wedding where that hasn’t been used as a reading!’
Asa shrugged. ‘I thought it was beautiful. But I suppose one day I’ll become as jaded and cynical as you.’
‘In fact,’ said Laura, ‘I’m going out tonight. By myself, like a strong and separate tree, you’ll be pleased to hear. I’d like you to babysit, please.’
Laura pulled her coat collar up around her ears and clapped her gloved hands together. She glanced at her watch. It was seven-thirty, and she had been sitting in her parked car for an hour now, her eyes trained on the entrance of Jean-Laurent’s offices. Ahead of her she saw the curved alcoves of the pont Neuf, made for lovers, suspended over the darkness of the river. She had seen a few people she recognised coming out of the office, hurrying down to the metro, going home or off in search of the city’s distractions.
Then she saw him, tall and striking in his long overcoat. He didn’t look hurried. He was alone – François was nowhere in sight. She watched him walk past the car park. He wasn’t taking the car, then; she would have to follow him on foot. She locked the car and followed him up the dark road until he turned right on to the rue de Rivoli. What was the optimum distance if you were shadowing someone? Ten metres maybe? She hoped to God she didn’t bump into anyone she knew; she couldn’t afford any delay or she would lose sight of him.
He continued down the rue de Rivoli, walking against the traffic, until he turned left up another side street. She followed him through the narrow maze of seventeenth-century streets that made up the Marais, now the favoured meeting place for gays in Paris. Maybe he was off for a secret tryst with another man? Maybe he was calling her bluff?
They eventually came to the place des Vosges. He walked slowly down the western arcade, glancing casually in the shop windows. He paused outside an antiques store, glanced at his watch and stepped inside. From a careful distance, she saw him pointing to a small jewellery box. Oh my God, he was buying her a present, the bastard. The assistant took it to the desk and carefully wrapped it, embellishing it with a swirl of golden ribbon. He smiled at her, handing over his card, then walked towards the door.
Laura quickly retreated into the shadows as he stepped out and continued walking under the romantic arcades until he reached what she supposed must be his destination: L’Ambroisie, a restaurant that Laura had read about in one of her greedy browsings through the Food Lover’s Guide to Paris. She remembered it was supposed to glow with antique, upper-class French charm. She had suggested to Jean-Laurent that they go there, but he had obviously preferred to keep it for a different dining companion.
She watched the waiter showing him to his table by the window. Flavia was already there. She stood up to kiss Jean-Laurent, who handed over the present. Laura felt sick. She sat down on a bench, unable to take her eyes off them. She felt as if she were attending her own funeral. Above all, she felt horribly lonely.
S
o that’s it then, she thought. Her husband was a cheat and liar, and she was just another deceived wife. She leaned over and vomited on to the venerable paving stones, within spitting distance of where her husband and his strumpet were already raising their glasses of champagne in a toast, she supposed, to their own cleverness in managing to dupe his stupid English wife.
NINE
‘Go on, say it,’ sobbed Laura. ‘Say “I told you so”, why don’t you?’
Lorinda sighed and reached across the table for her friend’s hand. Laura had abandoned all pretence of anger with Lorinda after last night and had summonsed her for an emergency morning meeting in their favourite café.
‘You knew too, Laura. You just didn’t want to face up to it. And now you know for sure, which is good. Come on, it’s not the end of the world. You should see this as an opportunity.’
Laura glared at her, wiping the tears off her blotchy cheeks.
‘Are you mad? An opportunity to realise that I’ve been a stupid docile cow who has driven her husband into the arms of someone thin and gorgeous with far more to say for herself than his fat wreck of a wife whose only conversation is homework and paintings at the bloody Louvre!’
‘Two perfectly good topics, I’d have said. And let’s face it, Jean-Laurent isn’t exactly overburdened with interesting things to say, unless you’re looking for a human wine compendium, that is.’
‘Of course he’s interesting! Why else would I have married him? I know you’ve never liked him, but I won’t hear you slagging him off – he’s my husband and I love him, and it’s my fault that I’ve bored him into adultery!’
‘Laura, you’re suffering from poor self-esteem. It’s very common when people discover they’ve been cheated on.’
‘Stop it! You sound like Asa spouting all that loony psycho rubbish! I’m sure she knows. You should have seen the way she was looking at me this morning – a horrible mixture of pity and triumph, as though she couldn’t wait to enrol me in one of her damned classes!’
Their coffee was brought to the table and Laura stirred six cubes of sugar into her large crème. She was struck as usual by the pallor of the waiter’s skin. She now knew, of course, that Parisians were pale because they spent all their time indoors having sex with people they weren’t married to. Silly of her not to have realised earlier.
‘The thing is, Laura, you need to decide what you’re going to do about it,’ continued Lorinda.
‘You mean, like cutting off his dick then throwing myself off the top of the Eiffel Tower?’
‘That’s one option. Or you could go for a more controlled form of revenge.’
Laura’s face crumpled once again.
‘I don’t want revenge, I want him all to myself! I’m going to tell him I’m sorry, I understand why he did it and that I’m going to improve myself – lose weight, get a job, do anything he wants, so he won’t be forced to seek his thrills with that . . . bitch-face.’
‘Laura, stop making out it’s your fault! He’s the one who lied to you, remember. And there’s no point in grovelling after him – what good will that do? As I see it you have two options. Assuming you’re not prepared to leave him, that is.’
Laura shook her head.
‘Right, so you want to stick with him, though God knows why. Option one is, you do nothing. You put up and shut up, like a good French wife. He’ll never leave you unless you push him into a corner with your weeping and mewling, in which case he’ll find you so depressing he’ll be forced to go off with her – which is what she’s after, of course.’
‘Bloody bitch-face,’ whispered Laura. ‘She’s not breaking up my family.’
‘That’s the spirit. Which brings us to option two. Very proactive, and much more fun for you. You beat him at his own game.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He’s cheated on you. Now it’s your turn to cheat on him.’
Laura sniffed back her tears and took a slow sip of coffee, trying to take in what Lorinda was suggesting.
‘Antoine Bouchard,’ she said slowly, pronouncing his name carefully. Her admirer. Could he become the instrument of her revenge?
‘Exactly!’ said Lorinda. ‘The timing is absolutely perfect. Bring in Doctor Bouchard on his pure white charger and let the show commence!’
‘As a matter of fact,’ said Laura, ‘I’m supposed to be having lunch with him on Friday at the Ritz.’
‘Well there you are, the stage is set!’
‘But I can’t! It’s all very well having a flirtatious lunch with him, but I couldn’t possibly let him see me naked! I haven’t taken my clothes off in front of anyone for years!’
‘Poor Jean-Laurent, no wonder he’s had to look elsewhere!’
‘I’m not counting him, of course.’ Laura fought back the image of Flavia undressing slowly in front of her husband. ‘I can’t, Lorinda, it’s just so embarrassing!’
‘But you do find him attractive – you said so.’
‘Yes, but . . .’
‘And you can no longer have any objection on the grounds of betraying Jean-Laurent?’
‘No . . . I suppose not.’
How naïve she had been to worry about an innocent lunch when all the time Jean-Laurent had been having it off with that little tart. How long had he been seeing her? A few weeks, months? Years, even? How could he come home to their bed after that? How dare he humiliate her by telling those lies, by letting her live out alone the fantasy of their perfect family life?
‘So there you are,’ Lorinda continued. ‘It’s the perfect way for a woman of character to respond to her husband’s infidelity. Fantastically upbeat and ingenious. Turning a problem into an opportunity.’
Laura pulled a face.
‘Sounds like you’ve been reading one of the man formerly known as my husband’s business books.’
But why not, she was wondering as grief hardened to anger and she thought of the contempt he had shown her. Why the hell not? She was damned if she would continue to play Laura the loyal, the good old homebody, sure and dependable, keeping the family going, while he flitted off to first-class hotels with his mistress whenever he fancied it. Well, screw you, Jean-Laurent, she thought, I’m going to go for it. I am going to have a love affair with Dr Antoine Bouchard.
‘I’ve always told you Jean-Laurent is boring,’ Lorinda continued, ‘and now you’ve found out he’s a love rat as well. I tell you, you’ll have a much better time with Doctor Bouchard. He can treat you to all the gossip on his famous patients’ secret lives . . .’
‘I think perhaps you’re right,’ said Laura. ‘Do you know, Lorinda – I think I might be really on for it!’
‘Good girl!’ said Lorinda. ‘Very good girl!’
She picked up the bill and whipped out a ten-euro note. Good God, thought Laura, she must be feeling sorry for me.
‘What’s more,’ said Lorinda, ‘I’m going to take you shopping now for a full set of sexy black underwear!’
‘I have to say, darling,’ said Jean-Laurent, pushing his plate away from him in displeasure, ‘that was slightly below your usual standard.’
He and Laura had just finished dinner, which had consisted of a watery cabbage soup unenlivened by fat or flavour in any form.
‘It’s not supposed to taste nice. It’s a diet. Joanna Lumley does it once a year. You eat nothing else for three days and lose half a stone.’ She watched him fill his glass. ‘Unless you wash it down with a bottle of wine at every sitting, that is.’
She was looking at her husband through new eyes tonight. His smug smile, his slightly spreading stomach, the way he sucked the wine through his teeth, everything about him filled her with disgust.
‘Anyway, I daresay you got a good bellyful last night. With François.’
He shifted in his chair.
‘Mmm, let’s say it was slightly more appetising than this. What’s for dessert?’
‘More cabbage soup. How was the restaurant?’
Jean-Laurent picked
up his newspaper.
‘What restaurant?’
‘The restaurant you went to with François. How was it?’
‘Oh, you know. The usual.’
‘The usual?’
‘Yes, the usual! What is this, Laura, the Spanish bloody Inquisition? It’s always the same with you when you go on a diet, you get so irritable! It really doesn’t suit you.’
‘So what does suit me? Bouncing around the kitchen like one of the Two Fat Ladies, ladling cream on to everything?’
‘Yes, actually.’ He saw her face darken as she left the table. ‘Hey, come on, I was only joking.’
But Laura had stormed off to the bedroom, slamming the door behind her. She took a sheet of paper from her bedside cabinet on which she had drawn two columns. The left-hand column was entitled ‘Reasons why I shouldn’t sleep with Antoine Bouchard’ and had just one line underneath it which rather lamely read, ‘I am married to somebody else.’ The right-hand column, under ‘Reasons why I should sleep with Antoine Bouchard’, extended right down the page, but there was just enough space for her to scratch one more furious line: ‘My husband thinks of me as a Fat Lady.’
She read back over the list:
My husband is screwing bitch-face.
My husband is a cheat and a liar.
My husband is a deceitful Frenchman.
Antoine is an attractive man who finds me seductive.
I need to focus my life away from the home (that sounded as if it had been written by Asa).
Lorinda thinks it’s a good idea (pathetic, that one).
I need to broaden my sexual experience while I have the chance.
And, finally, the apocalyptic:
Vengeance is Mine.
It rather looks as if I don’t have much choice, thought Laura, trying to think of something else to add to the ‘Why I shouldn’t’ column. She heard Jean-Laurent banging around the kitchen, opening and closing the cupboard doors. He shouted down the corridor after her: ‘Laura! Where did you put those chocolates that Francine and Dominique brought?’
