And What Do You Do?

by Sarah Long

  ‘Ask Asa!’

  A moment’s silence, and then, ‘I’m just going down to the cellar!’

  Laura guided her pen towards the right-hand column to add a final nail to the coffin of her too-long-preserved fidelity. She wrote, ‘My husband is a wine bore who should be banged up Edgar Allen Poe-style in his own damned cave.’

  Jean-Laurent sat at his desk and gazed out over the Seine. It reassured him that his office boasted this breathtaking view over the Conciergerie and the Ile de la Cité. Plenty of his contemporaries had to make do with a window over-looking the ventilation shaft. Admittedly the ventilation shaft had been refurbished in the form of a Japanese garden, but a few lines of gravel and an occasional stiff little plant hardly matched up to the sweeping panorama that had been offered to him, Jean-Laurent de Saint Léger, as a token of the esteem in which he was held by the company. He was marked for greatness, it was clear, which is why he had been among the few clients chosen to meet the new global chairman of their advertising agency.

  The agency had pulled out all the stops with a lavish menu constructed around truffles, but the Chairman had flexed his American muscles by refusing everything and demanding an undressed green salad and a piece of grilled fish. Jean-Laurent had found him deeply impressive. He spoke in that low whisper that Americans acquire when they get seriously powerful, just like the Godfather. When you had really made it, you left the shouting to the second rank and simply sat there quietly, exuding success.

  And his clothes said it all. Whilst his henchmen were dressed up nervously in smart suits, the Godfather had worn a grey T-shirt beneath his jacket. OK, his sixty-year-old neck looked a bit scrawny sticking out of it, but still, it was fabulously fuck-off. Jean-Laurent wondered how he could incorporate T-shirts into his own office uniform. He had a well-built neck, and it should be shown to advantage. He jotted down on his pad: ‘Buy T-shirts, white, grey, black’.

  The Chairman’s wife had been at the lunch, and she, too, had given Jean-Laurent food for thought. Young and thin, of course, but that wasn’t enough these days. Anyone could get a bimbo, and there was no kudos attached to marrying the first pretty secretary who came along.

  The Chairman’s wife had been a senior figure in the organisation before she married him, and now she had added the ultimate sexual partner to her portfolio of achievements. She was so confident, she had been wearing training shoes to the lunch. Training shoes! The impudence of the woman! Jean-Laurent could quite see himself as a whispering magnate in a T-shirt – he was on the right track for that – but if he was honest he couldn’t imagine Laura as a suitable consort. Flavia, yes. But Laura? Even in her best earrings and squeezed into one of her new Kenzo suits, she just wouldn’t do.

  He sighed and thought back to Laura as she had been before the children. Tough and edgy, she had been a hotshot in the advertising agency she worked for in London. He had been flattered that she had agreed to give it all up to follow him to Paris. He had seen her as a feather in his cap. But now she seemed to be standing still while he was on the way up. Flavia seemed far more in tune with his ambitions – she was hungry, like him, and that hunger brought an electric charge to all their secret rendezvous.

  He shifted in his chair as he thought back to their last dinner at L’Ambroisie, and the love-making that had followed at her apartment. She had put the jewellery box he had given her next to the bed. That way, she said, she would think of him every time she went to sleep; every night she would dream that he was with her. But afterwards he had suffered his usual pangs of remorse and found himself thinking about his children, already regretting that he hadn’t been there to see them before they went to bed. He couldn’t imagine how it would be if he only saw them every other weekend.

  And Laura, the focus of his home life, a warm, safe place that was his anchor, he couldn’t possibly pass it all up in spite of the increasing pressure from Flavia. Every time he saw her now, she would make casual reference to their future together, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to dodge the subject. Let the future take care of itself, he had said, we are together now, why can’t we just enjoy it? She had gone all sulky and said that only animals lived for the present and the future didn’t take care of itself, it needed to be worked out.

  He doodled on the pad in front of him and stared back out over the Seine. Poor me, he thought, poor, wonderful me, everything is going my way, yet I find myself in an intolerable position.

  Laura parked the car on the champs de Mars and flipped down the vanity mirror to reapply her lipstick. What I really need now, she thought, with the future of my marriage lying in the balance and adultery beckoning me into its dark abyss, is a wine-tasting soirée chez Harry Bullock.

  She had completely forgotten about it until that morning when the invitation had fallen out of her handbag. ‘Oenophiles one and all!’ it read. ‘Our next degustatory encounter takes us to the south-west of France. Prepare yourselves for some muscular Madirans and some gay Gaillacs! It had become a matter of pride for Harry to provide alliterative descriptions of the wine communes that were presented at his monthly tastings. Last time it had been mellifluous Margaux and spirited Saint Estèphes.

  As usual with Harry, though, nothing came free and there was a reminder to bring along thirty euros and a contribution to the ‘pot luck supper’ that meant their stomachs were lined so they could safely swallow everything in their glasses instead of wastefully ejecting it into the copper spitoon provided. On Laura’s invitation, Harry had scrawled at the bottom, ‘I’ve put you down for three dozen foie gras tartlets and a couple of cheeses.’ What infuriated Laura was that there was always far too much food, which was subsequently ferreted away in the Bullocks’ fridge. No doubt the leftovers kept them going for a week.

  Jean-Laurent was already installed at the table when Harry ushered her in. He liked these occasions as they gave him the opportunity to display his superior nose. He was usually the only French person present, which made him feel a cut above, and he liked to think he gave the English teacher a run for his money. ‘Of course, you know why French people have all got big hooters?’ Harry had guffawed towards the end of the last evening. ‘So they can absorb all that bloody vanilla and sous bois and apricot overtones. As far as the rest of us are concerned, it’s all just damned good alcohol!’

  Laura nodded to the others round the table. Some she recognised from the last occasion, like Chester the square-jawed American banker, wearing his off-duty uniform of sky-blue shirt and beige slacks. He was accompanied by his wife Janice who loyally shared her spouse’s eagerness for European culture, affecting French elegance with a scarf that did little to enliven her dull skirt and jumper.

  As at most gatherings of expats in Paris, there was a small representation from the OECD, fusty academics given a faint sheen of international glamour by their diplomatic car number plates. Laura remembered one of them from last time. Her name was Josephine, a blue-stocking psychologist with a haircut from hell who apparently specialised in Deprivation. ‘Not tonight, though, Josephine,’ Laura had joked, watching her face flush behind her specs as she filled her glass from a fifteen-year-old bottle of something very expensive.

  Harry’s wife Susie came out of the kitchen with a trayful of thimble-sized dollops of mashed potato, each one crowned with an erect mini-banger, Dennis the Menace-style. Susie acknowledged the appreciative murmurs about her creativity and relieved Laura of her tartlets and cheese. ‘Oh, good girl, Ossau-Iraty, perfect for the region. I’ll just cut it up.’ She disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a considerably reduced quantity of the cheese, cut into small pieces on sticks and spread thinly around the plate. Laura made a mental note to sneak a look in the fridge later to see if she could find the rest of it.

  ‘Shall we begin?’

  The teacher hung his tweed jacket on the back of his chair and launched into the historical background of the wines of south-west France. Laura retreated into her own thoughts, swerving her gaze occasionally to avo
id eye contact with the American Banker sitting opposite her, who nodded assertively every so often to show he was following the oenologist’s thrust.

  ‘Can I ask a stupid question?’ asked the American Banker’s wife at one point.

  ‘Hey!’ said her husband, running a patronising arm around the back of her chair, ‘there are no stupid questions.’ Everyone nodded in agreement and looked so supportively at the banker’s wife that she became covered with confusion and couldn’t remember what her question was, so the oenologist continued uninterrupted.

  He produced the first bottle, which was dressed in a chainmail sheath to conceal its label from cheats, and passed it solemnly around the table. Everyone had to write down what it tasted of.

  ‘Janice,’ said the teacher, once everyone had finished making their notes, ‘would you like to lead the commentary?’

  ‘Oh no, I’m not working tonight!’ she twittered. ‘Ask Chester!’

  The teacher turned to the American banker.

  ‘Chester?’

  Chester looked pleased. He clearly felt it was his kind of wine from the description he gave. Masculine, angular, structural, with plenty of fresh liquorice and tobacco, a long finish. He would hazard a guess that is was an Irouléguy.

  Laura was aware of the vibes of irritation coming from Jean-Laurent beside her.

  ‘Very good,’ said the teacher. ‘What year?’

  It was fair enough, thought Laura, being able to identify the regional origin of a particular wine, but how in God’s name were you supposed to know what year it came from?

  ‘1992,’ said Chester confidently.

  ‘No, it’s much younger,’ chipped in Jean-Laurent, ‘1996, maybe even 1997.’

  The teacher unsheathed the bottle.

  ‘Spot on, Chester. 1992 it is!’

  A murmur of admiration ran around the table. Only Jean-Laurent remained tight-lipped.

  ‘Watch out, Jean-Laurent old boy,’ said Harry Bullock. ‘You’ve got a bit of competition there from our Yankee friend!’

  ‘There’s no need to sulk,’ said Laura later as she drove them home, ‘just because you were burnt off by an American stiff.’

  ‘I’m not sulking. But I hate these evenings. It is so artificial to sit around like that eating those stupid little bits of sausage and mash, horrible English food, no wonder it put me off.’

  ‘There were my foie gras tartlets. Though not as many as there should have been. They really are cheap, those Bullocks.’

  ‘And just because I didn’t get the year of the Irouléguy right, Harry felt he had to go on about how useless the French are. How our failing knowledge about our own wine was only another part of the general decline that also encompasses our “shortfall in military grandeur since 1815”.’

  ‘He was only joking. Anyway, he borrowed that expression from a French historian. François Furet, I believe.’

  ‘And then that stupid joke about why were Parisian boulevards planted with trees.’

  ‘So the Germans could march in the shade? I thought that was quite funny.’

  ‘Well I didn’t. I felt I was the victim of a racist attack in my own country.’

  Laura couldn’t help feeling rather pleased at her husband’s discomfort. There’s worse to come for you, she thought to herself, and tomorrow is the day. She felt a cold clamp in the pit of her stomach.

  On her second lap around the place Vendôme, Laura paused outside the Boucheron window and tried to calm herself by concentrating on her breathing. She gazed at a diamond-encrusted watch in the shape of a terrapin, on sale for thirty-five thousand pounds. Thirty-five thousand pounds! And it was horrible, a nasty shiny bauble, real magpie’s nest material.

  Who bought this stuff, she wondered. Nouveau-riche Russians, perhaps, the ones who dressed like prostitutes, clipping around the city in their high heels and heavy make-up, their post-Perestroika purses stuffed with crisp new banknotes. She glanced at her watch. Five to one. Just a couple more minutes of window shopping and she wouldn’t be too shamefully early for her date with destiny.

  She was glad she had decided against the red dress – that would have been just too corny. Far better in her safe black, in mourning for her life of virtue. She had run her bath in a spirit of solemn self-sacrifice that morning, stepping into the foaming water as if to baptise herself into her new life as an adulteress. A born-again cheat, that was her. When lovely woman stoops to folly, she had murmured as she ran her fingers first over her armpits to check for stubble and then over her Caesarean scar.

  It had been a long while since she had offered the imperfections of her body up for fresh scrutiny. The last time had been for Jean-Laurent and there had been a lot less to apologise about in those days. Beneath the black dress she was wearing the expensive new parure that Lorinda had helped her to choose. Forty pounds for a pair of knickers! It was scandalous, but she couldn’t risk humiliation at the final hurdle, and she didn’t want Antoine’s ardour to be dampened at the sight of her greying sports bra and fraying briefs.

  She crossed the square and tried to look nonchalant as she headed towards the doors of the Ritz. She wished she had arrived by car instead of metro, but she had been worried about parking, not realising that one of the flunkies hanging around the entrance was there for the sole purpose of relieving you of your limo. But that would have presented the dilemma of how and when to tip him, and she would have embarrassed herself by handing over too much and then worrying about him getting biscuit crumbs and bits of old tissue stuck to his smart uniform. A lived-in Renault Espace was not the ideal carriage to convey an international Woman of Mystery to her dangerous liaison.

  She smiled nervously at the doorman and headed down the long gilded corridor, where members of staff graciously acknowledged her at every five paces. There was something repugnant, she thought, about people being paid to be nice to you. No wonder the rich became paranoid and suspicious about the motives of everyone who gave them the time of day.

  Antoine was already at the table. While Laura felt gauche and out of place in this archaically sumptuous dining room, he looked perfectly at ease. Expensive and elegant. If a man’s appeal always depended on how he fitted his environment, then this was the ideal showcase for Dr Bouchard. He wouldn’t look so good on a desert island, she thought, suddenly struck by the ludicrous image of him as Tarzan stripped to a loincloth, his soft hands ill adapted to fighting beasts and constructing a rude shelter. But here in the epicentre of old European luxury, he looked exactly like what she wanted.

  He kissed her lightly on both cheeks and ordered her a glass of champagne. She sat back, relaxed in the knowledge that she could be guided by him through the minefield of the menu without risk of a long discussion with the sommelier essential to any outing to a grand restaurant with Jean-Laurent, who usually enjoyed throwing his weight around by sending a bottle back once he had tasted it.

  ‘You look different today,’ said Antoine. ‘More assured.’

  ‘Do I?’ she replied. ‘I don’t feel it. To have lunch with you once could be overlooked, but twice in a week is a bit compromising, isn’t it?’

  ‘Eight days,’ he said, stroking the stem of his champagne glass.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Eight days since I saw you, not one week. Eight days during which I have thought about you every single moment. Have you been thinking about me?’ He leaned forward, his dark eyes searching hers for reassurance of a reciprocal passion.

  It was a far cry from the light and civilised tone of their last meeting.

  ‘Yes. Yes, I have. Of course I have . . .’

  ‘Good. That is all I ask. That you should keep me in your thoughts, your most secret thoughts.’

  Was that all he asked? Was their affair to remain on a strictly thought only basis? She had better put her cards on the table right now – he might have been misled by her previous coyness.

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ she said quickly, ‘I think you should know that I have reached a decision.
That is to say, I accept your proposition. You know what you said at the dinner party about taking opportunities for happiness? Before it’s too late? The fact is I no longer have any objections to deceiving my husband, since he turns out to be a grubby cheat and a liar who has been screwing a . . . colleague . . . behind . . . my back.’

  Her voice grew tight and she felt tears rising. Damn, this wasn’t how she had planned it. She had come here to get away from all that pain.

  Antoine was looking concerned. He raised his hand and stroked her cheek. His touch was warm and soft, a doctor’s healing touch.

  ‘Don’t judge him, Laura,’ he said gently. ‘You don’t know how things are for him. He didn’t mean to hurt you, and if you hadn’t found out you would never have been harmed by his little affair. He is a Frenchman, as I am, and we believe in the creation and enhancement of pleasure. And so do you, clearly, else why would you have come here today and told me what you just have?’

  How comforting he was: he could just dismiss the cause of her suffering so lightly, whilst reminding her that she was about to do the same herself. He was right, of course.

  He continued in that lovely low voice, stroking her cheek.

  ‘Let me be clear, Laura. I am certainly not interested in being party to any form of revenge. Your husband is your business; it does not concern me at all. All that concerns me is the potential for the most elevated form of human happiness that we can share in the hours that we have together.’

  Doctor Love, I love you, thought Laura, sipping gratefully at the glass of champagne that a waiter had just brought to the table. Everything was going to be all right. She would put Jean-Laurent out of her mind and concentrate only on this, her new venture, her married woman’s love affair, creating a cocoon of joy away from the turmoil and confusion of the outside world.

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ she said boldly.

  Antoine took his hand from her face and raised his glass, and Laura noticed his perfectly manicured nails resting lightly on the stem.