by Sarah Long
‘You’ll think of something. There is no limit to a woman’s ingenuity, especially a cunning blonde like you.’ He flicked her hair playfully. ‘I thought we could spend two nights in Bangkok and then fly to Phuket for a weekend at Amanpuri.’
Laura’s head was spinning. Amanpuri, the ultimate fuck-off resort. That flat black swimming pool that seemed to pour straight into the deep turquoise sea – she had seen that, too, in one of the aspirational magazines she liked to indulge in. She could hide away there with her lover while Jean-Laurent remained in wintry grey Paris wrestling with his conscience. It would give her the distance she needed from him; she would see everything more clearly. And Antoine was such a darling. He wanted nothing from her except the pleasure – sensual and intellectual – of her company. A mini-break with no strings attached. How perfect.
‘I really don’t know, Antoine,’ she said. ‘It would require a lot of planning, and a lot of lying which I can’t bring myself to think about. Though actually, there is one thing that might work . . .’
Her mind was busily scheming. She was thinking of that hen party she was supposed to go to in Barcelona. Her old school friend Marion had finally got engaged and was celebrating by inviting her best women friends to a weekend of feckless celebration in the city she now called home. Laura had already mentioned it to Jean-Laurent, warned him that he might be left in sole charge of the boys for a couple of days.
Antoine smiled down at her.
‘Of course. You just let me know when you are ready. I am at your service, as you know.’
He replaced the champagne bottle and slid under the sheet to join her.
While Laura was dreaming of a luxurious Asian escapade with her lover, Jean-Laurent was having an altogether more pedestrian lunch with his mistress.
She had turned up unannounced at his office, and he had taken her, with bad grace, to the Panorama café down the road on the quai. ‘Panorama’ referred to the view of the medieval strongholds of the Ile de la Cité, but unfortunately this was obscured by five lanes of thunderous traffic. Flavia was aware of the slight. This was not a place Jean-Laurent would have dreamt of taking her to before she had made the greatest declaration of love that a woman can make to a man; before she had told him that she was carrying his child.
Of all her many potential impregnators – and God knows she could have taken her pick: they had always been queuing up for gorgeous, clever, cosmopolitan Flavia, South American but above all a citizen of the world, at home all over the globe – of all those men she could have had, she had chosen Jean-Laurent, who was now insulting her by bringing her to a two-a-penny café with grimy city-polluted windows.
She pushed her salade Niçoise around her plate while Jean-Laurent mournfully shovelled in the rabbit with mustard, the plat du jour, good value at ten euros. He could have been eating for nothing in the Directors’ Dining Room had Flavia not arrived, pale and vindictive, and demanded he take her somewhere. He looked at her eyes, puffy and unmade-up, her hair unwashed beneath her woolly hat.
‘Well you’re not exactly dressed for the Tour d’Argent, are you?’ he said, defensively.
‘I’m so tired. Tired, and worried, and very disappointed in you.’
Jean-Laurent looked away and caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. He was wearing the grey T-shirt today beneath his suit jacket. It was a look that sat well on him. He might abandon conventional shirts completely, except for formal meetings.
‘Look at it from my point of view, Flavia. You suddenly move the goalposts, you say nothing to me, and whambarn here I am, the innocent victim suddenly being cast as the heartless villain.’
‘Please don’t talk about moving the goalposts – this isn’t a game of football. Why do you use all those dreadful English sporting metaphors?’
‘All right, you rewrote the rules . . .’
‘What rules? What are you talking about? This isn’t a game, this is my life, our life!’
‘No, Flavia, it’s not our life, it is your life, it has nothing to do with me. I wasn’t consulted. Nothing was agreed between us. You used me like a sperm bank and now you want me to leave my family and trot after you like a tame dog, but I won’t do it! I can’t leave Laura and the boys.’
‘A sperm bank! Is that all you are! Is that all it was between us! How can you say that? Don’t you love me?’
‘Look, we had a great time, it was . . . great, all right? But that was then and this is now and everything is different.’
He slumped gloomily into his seat. Flavia took his hand.
‘You’re not thinking straight, you just need time to get used to it, that’s all. You know as I do that there is no pleasure without responsibility. You already have responsibilities, of course – you will continue to be a good father to your boys – but I know that you will also be a wonderful father to our child . . .’
‘Don’t say that! We don’t have a child! You are not my wife!’
She withdrew her hand crossly.
‘No, I’m not your wife, I’m not a sad sack of potatoes who sponges off her husband while dreaming of the career I left behind . . .’
‘Don’t talk about Laura like that!’
‘Who said I was talking about Laura? But obviously that’s how you see her. Hardly a suitable consort for someone as ambitious as you are. And she’s too old for you now.’
The young and gorgeous Flavia had played her trump card.
Damned if I do damned if I don’t, thought Jean-Laurent. If he stayed with Laura, he would be hounded by Flavia and forced to acknowledge his paternity of a child who would be a lifelong reminder of his marriage-wrecking folie à deux. If he left Laura—. But that was unthinkable. He had never seriously considered leaving her for Flavia. The game had turned into reality and he no longer wanted to play.
Why couldn’t it be like in the old days, when a pregnant mistress would obligingly melt out of sight, leaving the sire with no burden beyond the occasional wistful thought for the secret child he never knew. That was before DNA testing, which spelt the end to all freedom.
What about poor old Yves Montand, dug out of his grave to see whether or not he was the father of some money-grabbing little bitch? He wasn’t, as it turned out, but Jean-Laurent had no hope of a similar exoneration. Unless, of course, Flavia had been seeing someone else? But that was out of the question – she knew when she was already getting the best. Miserably he called for the bill and they left the Panorama café, the last poisoned gasp of their love drifting off into the traffic fumes of the quai de la mégisserie.
Laura cleared the breakfast things and opened a bottle of cheap red wine to marinade the rosbif for supper. Like all responsible mothers, she had avoided beef for a year or so, but now quite honestly she was bored to death with the alternatives, and what could you eat these days that wouldn’t kill you? She salved her conscience by jumping on the bourgeois bandwagon and paying twice as much for organic meat.
The neurosis about tainted foodstuffs had reached epidemic proportions – the luxury of a society with not enough to worry about. Not like the good old days, when every mealtime was a celebration that there was enough to eat, that another day had passed and here everyone was, happy and alive. Why couldn’t people just be grateful and get on with it?
Her enthusiasm for cooking had entirely evaporated. It was hard to imagine that just a few weeks ago the act of preparing food for her family could have brought her such pleasure. Poor, sad woman, whose days had revolved around waiting for her loved ones to return from their active lives to the nest she so willingly created.
Now she was still playing the waiting game, but of a new variety. She waited for Antoine’s phone calls, the summons to her new, secret life, where children had no place and each moment was savoured like the amuse-gueules that invariably accompanied their bottle of champagne. They met every Friday, and whenever else Antoine could fit her in between patients. Every time her mobile vibrated in her pocket, her stomach churned in excitement, hoping it
would be him.
That was the short-term waiting. There was also the medium-term waiting – the promised trip to Thailand which might happen soon if she felt able to lie about that weekend in Barcelona. This required a level of deception that she wasn’t yet up to. It would mean getting a step ahead of Jean-Laurent, and she preferred to consider herself still the injured party; her transgression was less than his – he started it. Not that he seemed to be reaping much happiness from his infidelity. He looked preoccupied much of the time and she sensed that he was dying to confess and seek forgiveness. But she rebuffed him, ignoring the searching looks, the hand reaching for her under the bedcovers. Let him suffer. He had brought it on himself.
She finished the marinade and went through to the study and sat at the computer. ‘Amanpuri, Phuket’s luxury resort’ floated up before her. She felt as if she had already been on her adulterer’s trip to Thailand, so thoroughly had she researched the promised venues.
She scrolled down the home page: ‘Amanpuri, a Sanskrit word meaning “place of peace”.’ Peace came at a price here, with room rates starting at $575. Each pavilion had its own sun-deck and dining area; she was rather hoping that Antoine would see fit to go for pavilion 105 at $1,400, as it had the best sea view.
She had thought that Buddhism was all about giving everything away and living in a cave while draped in an orange toga, but there didn’t seem too much evidence of that at Amanpuri.com. Perhaps they could take a day trip to see some bald-headed monks before returning to dine on Thai and European specialities at The Terrace.
She suddenly really fancied tucking into a plate of glass noodles studded with prawns and hot peppers, like the ones she had eaten with Jean-Laurent on holiday all those years ago. But it was all pie in the sky, anyway, this trip to Thailand. She just couldn’t see a way of making it happen, couldn’t imagine herself capable of the barefaced lying it would involve. That was her husband’s department, he could tell lies for England, he was so accomplished at it, or rather for France, his native and deceitful land. He was a world class liar.
She went offline, hoping that Jean-Laurent wouldn’t nosily try and check out the websites she had been visiting. Though it was very unlikely he suspected anything. He had made it quite clear that he no longer considered her the type of woman that other men might covet. If only he knew, she thought. The idea of his ignorance gave her a small sense of triumph.
Adultery might occur in random patterns, but nothing interrupted the ruthless routine of the school year. The Christmas party was a high point for the Organiser Mums, who filled many an empty diary page with pre-planning meetings. The Final Run-Through for the International Christmas Buffet was scheduled for Tuesday morning at the home of PTA Paula. Laura and Lorinda rolled in late and helped themselves to a cup of something indescribable from a thermos at the table at the back of the room.
‘I’m gonna teach you some Yiddish, Laura,’ whispered Lisa from New York, watching Laura wince as she sipped the cinnamon-flavoured coffee. ‘Pisch-wasser. That’s what you’re drinking!’
PTA Paula took the floor to address the motley gathering of multinational Full-Time Mothers. It was like a menopausal Miss World in which the dolly birds were replaced by older, plainer contestants.
‘Welcome, everybody, and thank you all for coming. Bienvenue à tous, et merci d’être venu. As you know, the international buffet is going to be the high point of the Christmas party. Fifty-seven nationalities represented by their native cuisine, and I want this to be the most spectacular event ever realised by our school. First of all, I’d like to go round the room and hear what you’ve managed to secure for your respective tables. D’abord, je voudrais demander à tout le monde ce que vous avez pu obtenir pour vos tables.’
‘What is this, the bloody Eurovision Song Contest?’ muttered Lorinda to Laura. She put up her hand.
‘Paula, if you’re going to say everything in two languages, it’ll take twice as long. Can’t you stick to one or the other?’
Paula was proud of her linguistic skills, and might have had a career as an interpreter had she not decided to put family first. She did not appreciate the interruption.
‘Let’s put it to the test. Mettons-le à la teste,’ she said, her French slipping slightly under stress. Is there anyone here who doesn’t understand English? Est-ce qu’il y a quelqu’un ici qui ne comprend pas l’anglais?’
A handful of French women raised their hands.
‘Et, quelqu’un qui ne comprend pas le français? Any non-French speakers? Yes, there, our Japanese ladies. I’m afraid that’s your answer, Lorinda! I’ll have to continue in both. Right, let’s start with the US. Lisa?’
Lisa stood up.
‘I’ve got Maryland chicken for 150, eight apple pies, six dozen brownies and ten tubs of Haagen-Dazs ice cream.’
‘That’s terrific Lisa, well over target.’ PTA Paula led the applause and Lisa punched the air before taking her seat.
‘Now, how about Eastern Europe. Anya?’
Anya jumped up, a diminutive Russian in a fringed jacket and make-up applied with a trowel.
‘Well, in fact a lot of the Russian mothers don’t know too much about cooking the Russian food, so we have decided to take a money collection and we have hired a caterer to provide stroganoff for sixty.’
‘That’s maybe not quite in the home-made spirit, Anya, but if that’s what you are happy with, then let’s go with it. Well done. Laura, how are we doing on the British table?’
Laura felt like the under-performing rep humiliated at the regional sales meeting. She squirmed in her chair and cleared her throat.
‘Well, the good news is that Trudy Yeoman has promised to make a dozen mince pies.’
Silence.
‘And I’m getting my husband to bring back a few packets of sausage rolls from M&S on his next trip to London. They are easy to eat so we won’t need forks,’ she added lamely.
PTA Paula looked grievously disappointed.
‘Laura, we are expecting two thousand people at this event. For the first time ever, we have a Brit heading up the PTA and I want to see a Big British Presence. I can’t believe you’re seriously trying to fob me off with a handful of sausage rolls and mince pies – this isn’t just a midmorning snack for the Christmas postboy! I shouldn’t need to be saying this. It should be self-evident that two thousand people are going to need a lot of feeding.’
Laura wondered if she could pull off a Jesus-style stunt and break the sausage rolls and mince pies into five thousand pieces. She shrugged.
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
She wasn’t going to apologise to horrible, ugly PTA Paula who was now shaking her head in despair.
‘See me afterwards, Laura, and I’ll give you a list of numbers of contact. People want to do this, you know, they want to contribute – it’s just a question of harnessing their energy.’
Laura stared angrily at the floor. I don’t need this, she thought. I’m a professional graduate career woman, not some sad little double-glazing sales person. What was the matter with these women that they chose to devote so much energy to something that nobody really wanted anyway? How desperate could you be to fill your time?
She sat silently through the rest of the meeting, thinking of Antoine. His voice, his delicate white hands with their perfect fingernails, their afternoons spent in voluptuous oblivion in the suite at the Ritz. These women should get themselves a lover, she thought – it was an infinitely richer way to fill the empty hours. Then they wouldn’t feel the need to draw up charts and schedules in a fury of pointless organisation.
Her thoughts turned to Antoine’s proposal to take her to Thailand. He mentioned it every time they met, urging her to make her decision, gently chipping away at her reasons for not going, which were beginning to sound tired and feeble. She imagined herself boarding the plane with him, sitting side by side like giant babies, their highchair trays of food before them. Then arriving in Bangkok with her lover, exploring the floati
ng markets and filling their arms with fresh flowers and rolls of richly coloured silk. Instead of which, she was stuck in this room with a boring crowd of women making arrangements for a school function. She ought, perhaps, to give Antoine’s offer her serious consideration.
‘Daddy, how long till my birthday?’
Pierre-Louis was lying on the sofa watching cartoons in a bored, half-focused way that infuriated his father. If he were a proper parent, he should leap up and switch off the television, engaging his son in a more suitable form of entertainment. Instead of which he was sitting next to him, trying to blank out the sound of the TV while rereading The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People.
‘A few months. Two hundred days,’ he added, remembering that his son didn’t understand months.
‘Two hundred! It’s not fair! I want my party now. I want the clown to come and everyone to give me presents.’
Pierre-Louis twisted himself in a convulsion of misery.
Waiting, we are always waiting, thought Jean-Laurent.
‘It’ll come soon. Why don’t you do something else instead of just watching television?’
The author of 7 Habits allowed only seven hours’ television a week in his home, a decision taken after a family council devoted to studying the data on TV-dependent sickness.
‘Like what? There’s nothing to do. I’m bored. I want to have my party now. I want presents.’
Jean-Laurent frowned at the realisation that his son was Possession and Pleasure Centred, which meant he would have only negligible power in later life.
‘Go and do some Play-doh or something. Where’s Mummy?’
‘She’s gone out. She’s taken Charles-Edouard to a party. You’re the one in charge.’
Jean-Laurent sighed. It was clearly time for him to make a deposit in the Emotional Bank Account of the father-son relationship, but it was so much more satisfying to read about it than actually to do it.
