And What Do You Do?

by Sarah Long

  ‘Here you are, blondie,’ he called to his wife, and watched her in amusement as she flicked her new hair behind her ears. There was a neat symmetry to having wife and mistress with the same coiffure – less chance of him being embarrassed by the discovery of a blonde hair on his collar. And neither of them natural, as he alone could vouchsafe.

  Laura took the proffered glass but returned directly to the bedroom. She could hardly bear to be in the same room as her husband right now, and told Jean-Laurent he could watch what he wanted – she preferred to read her book.

  Jean-Laurent failed to interpret this as a snub and noted instead that his wife seemed to have acquired a Parisian sense of dissatisfaction which he found rather sexy. A nervousness, a tension that he put down to her continuing with the cabbage soup diet. Luckily, he felt he could dispense with that. He had a fabulous physique that kept two women – two blonde women – gagging for it, so he felt more than justified in taking a jar of foie gras and a packet of hazelnuts to prepare a luxury TV platter for one.

  Asa came into the kitchen, her combat trousers hanging shapelessly round her hips, while a child-sized T-shirt stopped just short of her belly-button. She clearly needed to have the danger zone exposed to remind her of the terrible price to pay for succumbing to the easy lure of empty calories. She winced at the sight of Jean-Laurent’s plate, and virtuously filled a bowl from the casserole of evil-smelling vegetable stew, which she loaded on to a tray together with a two-litre bottle of Evian, and disappeared into her bedroom.

  Jean-Laurent was just getting into Die Hard II when there was a ring at the front doorbell. He waited to see whether Laura or Asa might answer, but the bedroom doors remained closed, so he put the cassette on pause and got up, mildly irritated, to open the door.

  A middle-aged man with a grey ponytail stood in front of him, a guitar in one hand, and a bunch of flowers in the other. He looked rather embarrassed.

  ‘What is this, are you a busker or what?’ said Jean-Laurent.

  ‘I am sorry to disturb you,’ said the man in an American accent. ‘There’s clearly been a misunderstanding. I came to see Asa – she invited me. I think she thought you wouldn’t be here . . .’

  ‘Well, obviously I am allowed sometimes to spend Saturday night in my own home. Is this what happens when we go away – the au pair organises hippy singalongs?’

  He raised his voice, ‘Asa! Someone to see you!’

  ‘I am her sponsor, you see. We occasionally hold these informal evenings . . .’

  ‘Hi, Devon!’

  Asa kissed him warmly on the cheek. It was probably the first time Jean-Laurent had ever seen her smile.

  ‘I tried to reach you to cancel – I told everyone else, but you weren’t answering.’

  ‘Everyone else?’ Jean-Laurent interjected. ‘How many old blokes with guitars do you know, exactly?’

  Devon looked wounded.

  ‘I hear your aggression, Mr de Saint Léger, and I appreciate your concern for Asa, but surely she has the right to enjoy the company of caring friends?’

  ‘It’s not Asa I’m concerned about, it’s me,’ said Jean-Laurent. ‘I’m trying to watch Die Hard II. And I don’t like the idea that every time we go away for the weekend, Asa turns the place over to some kind of Bob Dylan revival.’

  Laura had emerged from her bedroom. ‘Devon, we meet at last. I’m Laura, and you’ll be pleased to know I managed to eat three rice cakes with my cabbage soup tonight. And not a trigger-food in sight!’

  She laughed to show she was joking, but Devon looked uneasy.

  ‘It’s OK, Devon, Laura is following my progress,’ said Asa.

  ‘Come in, Devon,’ said Laura. ‘It’s a shame you couldn’t bring your wife – I’d love to hear about her book on the menopause. Asa thinks it could be just what I need.’

  The three of them moved into the kitchen. Jean-Laurent returned to the salon and switched the video back on, but the evening was ruined as far as he was concerned. Clearly Devon had a libidinous interest in that charmless Scandinavian, though he couldn’t see it himself. He supposed you had to take what you could get when you looked like him. How low could you stoop, though, hanging around vulnerable girls young enough to be your daughter? Was this the future of adultery? When he was fifty, would he be reduced to knocking on doors, guitar in hand, to crave favours from the domestic staff of people younger and more successful than himself?

  He dismissed the idea, and tried to concentrate on Bruce Willis committing acts of effortless brutality. Bruce Willis must be around fifty, and Jean-Laurent was far more likely to look like him at that age than that sad old caring sharing American has-been.

  ‘You did it! I’m so proud of you, I really didn’t think you would!’

  Lorinda leaned across the table and helped herself to the remaining oysters on Laura’s plate.

  ‘Sure you don’t want these?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘So was it fantastic?’

  ‘Yes, in a word. High quality. You can tell he’s older, though. Everything sort of sags.’

  ‘Everything?’

  ‘Don’t be arch. I’m referring to the force of gravity on skin that has lost the taut elasticity of youth.’

  ‘Hasn’t bothered to take his own medicine then?’

  ‘Oh, I think a few hormones. At least that’s what he prescribes for all his patients over the age of forty, so he must do. And he’s very keen on trace elements. I imagine he’s knocking back a bit of melatonin.’

  ‘You’re very knowledgeable.’

  ‘He talked about it over lunch.’

  ‘No surgery though?’

  ‘Only the eyelids, apparently. He got a friend to do it, said it was the only place he showed his age, though I’m not sure I’d agree. But seriously, Lorinda, it was wonderful. And the best thing about it is that it made me feel so good about myself. I always thought I’d feel guilty and sneaky afterwards, but I didn’t. I felt great. I still do. I really feel as if I don’t care about Jean-Laurent and Flavia – I’ve freed myself from all that misery.’

  She chewed reflectively on a piece of bread. ‘I suppose I might feel differently if Jean-Laurent hadn’t turned out to be such a pig. If he was still my nice, decent husband, I would feel bad. But he’s not, so I don’t.’

  ‘When’s the next date?’ asked Lorinda, slipping the final oyster into her mouth.

  ‘Friday. Same place, same time.’

  ‘Lucky you – free lunch at the Ritz. Can I come? What if he doesn’t recognise you with your new hair?’

  ‘It’s OK, we’re meeting in the room.’

  ‘So you’ll need to come to the gym with me to limber up, then.’

  ‘No, I’ve finished with the gym. Too damned narcissistic. I’ve decided to take a practical view of my future. I’m thinking of going to see a life coach.’

  ‘Laura, you’re not! You hate therapists!’

  ‘Life coaches aren’t therapists – they don’t care about your relationship with your father or whether you were abused as a child. They just try to help you achieve your personal goals.’

  ‘Which are?’

  ‘I don’t know, that’s why I need a life coach.’

  ‘Marny Simpson had a life coach who told her that as a housewife she needed to treat her domestic chores and bringing up the children as a small business with its own mission. Is that what you want to hear?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I don’t have to do what he says, anyway.’

  ‘I don’t know why you need a life coach when you’ve got love in the afternoon lined up with Dr Bouchard. You don’t need to pay him, and you get a free lunch.’

  ‘And so do you today,’ said Laura, calling for the bill. ‘I believe it’s my turn, isn’t it?’

  Jean-Laurent didn’t know quite what had got into his wife, but whatever it was, he liked it. He might not have been so keen had he realised that what had got into his wife was Dr Bouchard, but being spared this detail he appreciated the new coo
lness in her attitude. He had noticed this morning that she had left a list of tasks for Asa to do, which was a welcome change from her usual method of suppressing her irritation and not daring to ask her to lift a manicured finger. It was, he thought approvingly, the way a French woman treated her domestics.

  Then there was her new hair, that resolute blonde crop that made her look tougher, more self-contained. It seemed to coincide with a greater detachment towards himself. Laura hadn’t seemed the slightest bit interested in what time he was coming home tonight, which was just as well as he had promised to take Flavia out to dinner.

  But at the same time, he found her apparent indifference towards him made him desire her more strongly than he had for some time. Seeing her zip herself into a new dress this morning, he had been overcome by a sudden impulse to cancel all his appointments and throw her on to the bed for a day of carnal pleasures.

  He settled back into the deep plush banquette and sipped his champagne. He was waiting for Flavia in Le Vieux Bistro, just across from Notre Dame. It was reassuringly traditional, perfect for a rainy winter night, with masculine pieces of meat spread across the plate instead of nancy morsels piled up high in a fragile tower, which was what too many restaurants were now committed to serving. Vertical food that collapsed as soon as you took a knife and fork to it. In London, they liked to call it Pacific Rim. They could keep it. It would be a sorry day, thought Jean-Laurent patriotically, when traditional restaurants like this one ripped down their burgundy awnings and gutted their dark insides to replace them with cool open spaces and pretty boy waiters.

  The door opened and Flavia came in, shaking the rain from her umbrella and handing it to the maître d’ as he took her coat. She looked small and vulnerable, her hair – now the same colour as Laura’s – falling in damp tendrils over her shoulders. For reasons he could not identify, Jean-Laurent felt a sense of foreboding as she approached the table. He stood up to kiss her and noticed she seemed a little too grateful to see him.

  ‘How was your day?’ he asked heartily.

  She shrugged. ‘It was OK. How about you?’

  ‘All right. Except that I hate the British. Always giggling among themselves about some joke that nobody else understands.’

  ‘But you are practically British yourself. You speak perfect English.’

  ‘Not like an Englishman. We were in a meeting today with lots of English people talking about focus groups. For some reason, every time a French person spoke they were laughing quietly to themselves; then I found out why. They had agreed before the meeting that they would get the French people to say “focus” as often as possible. With our accent, of course – “Ferr-cus” . . . like “fuck us”, you see? And they think that is funny.’

  Flavia smiled. ‘Well, you can see it could be funny if you were in on the joke. If you had a sense of humour, that is.’

  ‘Flavia, please, nobody could doubt that I have a sense of humour.’

  ‘Everybody believes they have a sense of humour, the same way that everyone thinks they have good taste. But yes, of course, darling, you have a wonderful sense of humour. That is one of the reasons I chose you.’

  ‘Chose me? You make me sound like the prize truffle in a box of chocolates. I thought the point about us was that it just happened, neither of us chose it.’

  Flavia chose to ignore this remark.

  ‘That and your fabulous body, of course,’ she continued, ‘not to mention your mind. I really couldn’t have done any better.’

  She looked at him complacently across the table.

  Jean-Laurent suddenly felt claustrophobic.

  ‘I really don’t know why I booked this restaurant. You feel so hemmed in somehow in these ridiculous booths. Shall we just have a drink and then move on somewhere else?’

  ‘No, it’s adorable here, so cosy. Anyway, you told me it was one of your favourite restaurants.’

  ‘All right, we’ll stay. Champagne?’

  ‘No, I’ll have a Perrier.’

  ‘You really are virtuous these days,’ said Jean-Laurent petulantly. ‘What happened to that wild South American spirit that used to drink me under the table? Come on, let’s enjoy ourselves, that’s what this is all about, surely?’

  ‘Jean-Laurent, of course that’s what you and me are about, enjoying life to the full, in every possible way.’

  ‘Good, so let’s get a bottle of champagne in. God, at this rate you’ll be telling me you’ve got a headache next.’

  ‘Never. I promise I’ll never have a headache for you.’

  Her eyes were shining as she gazed at him.

  ‘It’s just . . . Oh, I wasn’t going to say anything yet, but I can’t help it, it’s just so exciting. Jean-Laurent, I’m going to have a baby!’

  Jean-Laurent felt his stomach lurch as his life fell gently into ruins around him. He tried to put back the clock; he wasn’t in this restaurant, he wasn’t having this conversation. Flavia continued to stare at him, locked up in her own happiness, unaware of the devastation she was creating.

  ‘What did you say?’ he said weakly.

  ‘I’m going to have a baby. Isn’t it wonderful?’

  ‘No! No, Flavia, it’s a disaster, it would be a disaster. Thank God you’ve told me before it’s too late.’

  She frowned.

  ‘What do you mean, too late. I’ve just told you, I’m pregnant, I’m going to have a baby!’

  She had raised her voice and the couple at the next table turned around to take a look.

  ‘All right, sshh, please keep your voice down. Let’s talk about this sensibly.’

  His mind was racing, trying to keep hold of the situation.

  ‘Now, Flavia, you have to realise that this would be a terrible mistake. Your career . . .’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, Jean-Laurent! Just because Laura couldn’t wait to give up work to become a fat little hausfrau, you needn’t worry that I’m going to throw away my business the moment a baby comes along!’

  ‘Yes, but you’re young, this isn’t the right time, you’ve got years ahead of you for all that!’

  ‘This is the right time. All right, so it wasn’t planned, but the best things in life arrive when you least expect them. And I’ve met the man who is right for me – you’re the one I want to father my children, so what is the point in waiting until my eggs go off?’

  ‘But what about me? You didn’t think you should ask me what I want?’

  ‘It’s a well-known fact that men always need to be pushed into fatherhood. It is the woman who must decide. I didn’t force you to make love to me, by the way.’

  Jean-Laurent sank into his seat like a trapped animal.

  ‘But you seem to be forgetting, Flavia, that I already have children. I don’t need any more. Dear God, it’s the last thing I need.’

  ‘Jean-Laurent, look at the successful men you know – they all have second families. You can’t seriously think you are going to stay with Laura? You know you deserve better than that!’

  ‘Shut up about Laura!’

  Flavia picked up her serviette and twisted it in her hands. Tears welled up in her eyes.

  ‘I thought you’d be pleased! Shocked, perhaps, but then happy!’

  Jean-Laurent looked coldly at her. This was not the Flavia he knew – this weeping, needy woman was worlds apart from the independent, sexy release from the everyday that she had represented for him.

  ‘When did you find out? How many weeks is it?’

  She sniffed. ‘Five. I only just did the test.’

  Good, thought Jean-Laurent. At least that means I have time to pray for an accident. Or to persuade her to think again.

  Charles-Edouard and Pierre-Louis were sitting pink and warm from their bath in their pyjamas on the sofa when Jean-Laurent returned from the office the following day. He gathered them up in his arms and squeezed their delicious firm flesh, enjoying the particular sensual pleasure that is reserved for parents of young children.

  ‘Your beard st
inks, Papa,’ said Pierre-Louis, rubbing his father’s stubbly chin.

  ‘I haven’t got a beard, sweetheart.’

  ‘Your spikeys, then.’

  ‘Is Mummy here?’

  ‘She’s gone to get some flowers. Asa is looking after us because you are going out.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘Dad, look!’

  Charles-Edouard rummaged in his satchel and brought out an exercise book to show his father.

  ‘Eight and a half out of ten. Philippe only got seven!’

  ‘That’s my boy, you beat him!’ said Jean-Laurent, thinking how marvellous the French education system was in the way it fostered ruthless competitiveness. Not so good for those who were deemed ‘echecs scolaires’, or scholastic failures, but that was hardly likely to affect his children.

  Laura came in with a bouquet of purple flowers immaculately wrapped in a swirl of crimson paper and a golden bow of curling ribbon. She was wearing a cropped jacket over a pair of close-fitting trousers that showed off a waist a good deal trimmer than Jean-Laurent remembered. He pushed aside a sudden image of Flavia with a belly distended by pregnancy. How could he have got himself into this?

  ‘You look nice,’ he said, taking in her new blonde hair that had been brushed back to reveal a pair of gold earrings.

  Laura looked at him as though she couldn’t remember who he was. How could he appear so unaffected by her new coldness? How dare he patronise her with his little compliments when all the time he was at it with Flavia?

  ‘Let’s go, shall we?’

  They had been invited to a cocktail party at a friend of Laura’s that she had met years ago at the ‘Bloom where you are planted’ seminar organised by expatriate women for newcomers to Paris. It was something she had attended in a panic attack of loneliness when she had first arrived in France, and she was still embarrassed by the name, suggesting as it did that women were fragile hothouse plants dug out of friendly soil by cruel careerist husbands and then transplanted into alien territory.