French Kissing

by Catherine Sanderson

  As I came to the end of my monologue, the waiter arrived with the main course, a braised lamb shank. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m feeling unwell and I won’t be staying,’ I mumbled, taking down my coat and hanging it over my arm.

  Giving Nico one last defiant glare, I turned and stormed out of the restaurant, my head held high. It had been a mistake, accepting his invitation, and I wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

  13

  Once the Toussaint holidays were over, the next few weeks scurried by in a blur of routine. When I woke Lila in the mornings, the sky outside her window was dark, and in the evenings when we trudged home from school the street lamps were already lit. I reverted to old habits: hibernating in front of the flickering television screen. I’d sworn off Rendez-vous for a while, although my profile remained online and the monthly payments still left my bank account, regular as clockwork. I met with Anna and Ryan for lunch on weekdays when our teaching timetables permitted and we’d enjoyed a long boozy brunch on my last child-free weekend. As for Kate, she’d cried off two of our fortnightly lunches in a row, citing last-minute work emergencies each time.

  When there was no sign of Danièle, the paralegal I taught every Wednesday at three, I leafed through my notepad and found a blank page, intending to use the down time to work on my Christmas-shopping list, instead. There were three weekends before Christmas, true enough, but braving the crowded shops with a four-year-old in tow was not my definition of fun, so it was high time I got myself organized.

  I’d need presents for Mum and Dad, with whom Lila and I would be staying for a few days either side of Christmas, and several things for Lila, of course. Kate had been on my list for years, and she and I had got into the habit of buying gifts for our respective children. I was less sure what to do about the Canet family. Traditionally I’d always been in charge of finding something for Catherine and Philippe, even if the tag claimed the gift came from ‘Sally, Nico & Lila’. Similarly, ‘Lila’ had always bought something for Lucas, and Sophie always reciprocated. Adding these names to the bottom of my list, I frowned at the page. I would send Nico’s parents a couple of nice bottles of wine as a token of my gratitude for all the time they spent looking after Lila during school holidays, I decided. Quite apart from the unexpected confidences she’d shared with me, hadn’t Catherine made a point of remembering my birthday on her last visit?

  The one name conspicuously absent from this year’s list was Nico’s. I flirted with the idea of buying him something tagged ‘from Lila’, but rejected the impulse before I’d had time to finish the third stroke of the letter ‘N’. Deep down, I knew, if I did so, my motives would be murky at best, Machiavellian at worst. I’d coaxed Lila into crafting a home-made Father’s Day card back in June, and Nico had been touched when she’d pressed the envelope into his hands. It was his visible discomfiture when he’d realized he’d let Mother’s Day slip by unacknowledged that had given me the greatest pleasure, though, and I’d resolved never to stoop so low again. Gift-giving should never descend into a shaming game.

  I was still agonizing over what on earth to buy for Mum and Dad when Danièle made her tardy entrance. ‘Sorry I am late, Sally,’ she gasped in English, her face flushed and her breathing laboured, as though she’d been running. ‘My department had a little Christmas celebration lunch today,’ she explained, pulling out the chair opposite mine and flopping into it. ‘We lost all notion of the time… And yes, I know, we are only December 5th today,’ she added, reading my mind, ‘but one of the girls is going on her congé maternité tomorrow and we wanted her to join with us.’

  I had a soft spot for Danièle. Short and a little on the round side, her cropped hair was dyed the aubergine shade of brown favoured by many French brunettes in their late forties as they fought back the advance of their first grey hairs. She wore small, dark-rimmed glasses that would have looked severe on anyone else, but on Danièle, who was rarely to be seen without a smile, they somehow ended up looking jaunty.

  Danièle’s command of English was surprisingly good and she’d been upfront with me from the start: she hadn’t signed up for my lessons out of any real need to improve her language skills. ‘Some time far from my desk is important for my sanity,’ she’d told me good-humouredly at the beginning of her first session. ‘The firm pays for language tuition and I choose English every single year because I enjoy it…’ To say that she didn’t take herself too seriously would have been an understatement.

  But today, as our lesson unfolded, I realized Danièle wasn’t just her usual good-humoured self, she was really rather tipsy. Her responses were slurred and, when I handed her a photocopied sheet to use for a reading exercise, instead of poring over the text, she began to use it to fan herself. ‘This room is too hot, no?’ she said, stumbling to her feet and lunging for the thermostat on the far wall, without waiting for my reply. As she crossed the room, she snagged one of her heels in the piece of loose carpet which had been used to conceal the wires snaking from the nearby video projector and, unable to check her forward momentum, she stepped clean out of her right shoe. ‘I do not fool you, do I?’ she said, putting a hand out to grip the sideboard to steady herself, giggling like a teenager. ‘I had a few glasses of champagne with lunch, and they climbed straight to my head. I have no idea how I will work this afternoon.’

  ‘Why don’t you sit down, and I’ll turn down the heating and fetch a carafe of water,’ I suggested, my mouth twitching with mirth as I closed my textbook. ‘I don’t see any reason why we can’t spend the rest of the lesson “practising your conversation skills”.’ I drew airborne quotation marks around the last four words with my fingers – a gesture I’d picked up from Ryan – to make it clear we’d be going through the motions. In Danièle’s current state, there was no sense in trying anything ambitious. So, once I’d served her a large glass of water, I asked about her plans for the festive season.

  ‘My son and his wife will come to dinner on Christmas Eve,’ she replied, after draining her glass in a single, thirsty gulp. ‘They’re expecting their first baby, you know,’ she added, beaming. ‘I’m going to be a grandmother next year.’

  ‘Congratulations! That’s fantastic news!’ I couldn’t remember how it had come up in conversation but, on more than one occasion, Danièle had told me how impatient she was for her son to start a family. Her enthusiasm today was infectious and I was genuinely thrilled for her.

  ‘And you, Sally? Where will you spend the holidays?’ Danièle leaned forward in her chair and eyed me speculatively. ‘Will you take your daughter to see your parents, in England, or will you stay with your French beaux-parents, instead?’ She seemed to be taking an excessively personal interest in my reply, and I suspected she was projecting ahead, wondering which set of grandparents her son and his wife would favour at this all-important time of year.

  ‘Well,’ I said slowly, ‘Lila and I are going to stay in England for a few days over Christmas, and then she’ll go with her father to see his family for the second half of the school holidays. No doubt we’ll do things the opposite way round next year…’

  For a second Danièle looked baffled. ‘You are separated?’ she said, when understanding dawned at last. I nodded in confirmation, and she gave a tiny grimace, no doubt hoping such a fate would never befall her unborn grandchild.

  ‘It will be our first Christmas apart,’ I explained, keeping the focus of our conversation on Christmas, as opposed to my failed relationship with Nico. However much I liked Danièle, I wasn’t comfortable straying into territory too personal – such as why we’d chosen to separate – during lesson time. ‘I’m kind of finding my way,’ I added with a sigh. ‘I was in the middle of deciding whether I should still buy Christmas gifts for the French side of the family when you walked through the door.’

  ‘And what did you decide?’ Danièle looked at me intently. Our subject matter seemed to have had a sobering effect on her. She was no longer slurring her words.

  ‘Well, they’re still
Lila’s grandparents, so I’m keeping them on my list,’ I replied. ‘The only difference will be that this time the gift will be from me only.’ Danièle nodded, seemingly satisfied with my decision.

  ‘I hope that something like this never happens to my son’s couple,’ she said, touching her palm to the wooden table superstitiously as she did so. ‘But if one day it does, I hope my belle-fille will be as sensible as you. I really do.’

  Deep in thought as I crossed the foyer of Danièle’s law firm, I didn’t see the tense figure waiting for me – just to the right of the sliding doors, where the sensor couldn’t detect her presence – until I was almost close enough to reach out and touch her arm. ‘Kate? What on earth are you doing here?’ I said, slamming on my internal brakes and executing an exaggerated double take. ‘Did I miss your call? I had no idea you were coming to meet me…’

  Kate shook her head. She looked a mess. Not tired and dishevelled, like she’d been at Ryan’s housewarming dinner a few weeks ago. No, there was more to it than that: it was as though every muscle in her body had been pulled taut with tension. I was so accustomed to envying my friend her confidence, her polish, that it came as a shock to see her this way, her eyes bloodshot, her jaw clenched. Her forced smile of greeting, as she murmured my name and kissed the air next to my cheeks, mechanically keeping up appearances, seemed to cost her a great deal of effort. It was plain to see that something was horribly wrong.

  When I gestured in the direction of the café across the road, Kate gave a terse nod. I’d never set foot in the place before – on Wednesdays I finished at four and had got into the habit of using the free hour before I had to pick up Lila to run a few errands, as Kate well knew – but with its burgundy awnings and marble-effect brasserie tables, it had a reassuring air of anonymous, generic efficiency. Heads bowed to protect ourselves from the icy drizzle which had begun to fall while I was with Danièle, we narrowly missed being mowed down by a courier on a motorbike who had decided to cut across a corner of the pavement to save himself the bother of stopping at the traffic lights. ‘Connard!’ I shouted, shaking a fist at his retreating leather-clad back. Kate shook her head and said nothing.

  We chose a table in a corner, as far away as possible from the only other customers, four businessmen who were lingering over coffee and digestifs after what must have been an unashamedly long lunch. We’d only had time to remove our coats when an elderly career waiter in a white shirt and black apron appeared, right on cue. With a slight inclination of his head and a rising intonation on the word ‘Mesdames?’ he managed both to greet us and to enquire about what we’d like to order, all in two economical syllables.

  ‘Un café pour moi, s’il vous plaît,’ I replied without even glancing at the menu, ‘et un grand verre d’eau.’ Kate ordered a pot of mint tea. Her hands shook as she set her handbag on an adjacent chair and I noticed that, for the first time in years, she wasn’t wearing her trademark carmine nail polish.

  ‘I’ve done something awful,’ Kate said in a low voice, ‘and you’re probably going to find yourself hating me when I tell you what it is.’ Her eyes met mine for the briefest of instants before darting away, evasively.

  ‘I can’t imagine anything you could possibly do that would make me hate you,’ I said, mystified. ‘Is it work-related?’ It must be, if whatever Kate had done was set to affect me in some way. Was she thinking of selling Tailor-Made? Or moving away? Had Yves accepted a job abroad? None of those scenarios seemed likely. As far as I knew, Tailor-Made’s turnover was healthy, and Yves had invested a significant sum in the business using his last Christmas bonus. And after a brief stint at the head office of his bank in New York, back in the days when he was a lowly analyst, Kate’s husband had never shown any sign of wanting to uproot his family.

  Our waiter appeared before Kate could answer, setting down first her teapot, then my coffee and water. Glad of something to occupy her hands, she began agitating the teabag in the hot water with her teaspoon, cursing when the string spiralled around the stem like bindweed, impossible to dislodge. ‘I’ve been unfaithful to Yves,’ she said suddenly, setting down her spoon with a clatter and looking straight at me with watery eyes. ‘And I’m pretty sure he suspects something… Now I know that after everything you went through with Nico, you’re the last person I should be burdening with this,’ she added, her voice beginning to waver, ‘but I didn’t know who else to tell.’ She dug deep in her handbag for a packet of tissues, dangerously close to tears. ‘I’ve fucked up, Sally,’ she said pitifully. ‘So badly. And I’m terrified I’m going to lose him.’

  ‘Been unfaithful? With who? Why? Kate, I… I don’t understand.’ I stared at my friend, aghast, feeling as though the floor had been pulled out from under me. Over the past few months I’d got so used to – indeed, so comfortable with – playing the role of the wronged woman whose partner had strayed that it fitted me like a second skin. Kate had been so supportive throughout all that. She’d even made a point of introducing me to Anna. But now here was my best friend in the world telling me she’d behaved no better than Nico… Maybe Kate had indeed chosen the wrong shoulder to cry on – because my first instinct, despite the feelings of antipathy Yves had always aroused in me, was to think myself into his shoes. These were unexpected emotions: I was sorry for Yves, and furious with Kate. In the space of a few sentences, Kate had managed to turn my world on its head.

  ‘Who it was is kind of beside the point,’ said Kate, with a dismissive gesture. ‘Although you did say something rather close to the bone a few weeks ago, at Ryan’s housewarming.’ I stared at her, my eyes narrowed. The missing pieces of a jigsaw I hadn’t even known I was assembling were now clicking into place. The unfamiliar male voice I’d heard in the background that day Kate had phoned me, flustered, about my cancelled lesson; the missed lunches; her reluctance to talk about her flirtatious VIP client in front of Anna and Ryan. It was obvious: Kate had succumbed to the charms of one of her VIPs. She must have been gadding about with him while the rest of us were at work.

  ‘I can guess what you’re thinking, Sal.’ Kate tensed her hands around her teacup, but did not raise it to her lips. ‘You need to let me explain, though,’ she added. ‘There are things – important things – that you don’t know about. Things which won’t justify what I’ve done, but that will explain my actions, at least…’

  ‘Well, I’ve got half an hour,’ I replied, pivoting my wrist to glance at my watch. I felt sick to my stomach, but what choice did I have but to hear my friend out?

  ‘The first bit you know about,’ Kate said quickly. ‘The VIP I told you about, François, the one I always referred to as “le PDG”. He made a few passes at me over the years – inviting me to lunch, asking me to go on a business trip to interpret for him, that kind of thing – and I always sidestepped his invitations as politely as I could. I didn’t want to lose his business, as you know. I couldn’t afford to offend someone so important…’

  I kept my eyes riveted on Kate’s face. ‘So what made you change your mind?’ I prompted, as she paused for a moment, gnawing her bottom lip. I scarcely recognized my own voice: it sounded harsh, accusing and cold. Had Nico and Yves conducted a perfect mirror image of this conversation back in March, with Nico describing how he’d fought off his secretary’s advances until, one day, for some reason I knew nothing about, he’d found his resolve weakening?

  ‘I lost a baby in April,’ Kate said quietly. ‘I was four and a half months pregnant. We’d had all the routine scans and blood tests, and my doctor encouraged me to have an amnio, because the chances of Down’s Syndrome looked abnormally high. But before we even got the results, before we’d even got as far as discussing whether we’d terminate if the baby tested positive, I lost her.’ Tears shone in Kate’s eyes now and her voice was desolate. ‘I didn’t tell anyone about it at the time,’ she continued. ‘That was how I coped: I kind of pretended none of it had happened. Luckily for me, I wasn’t really showing much, and we’d held off telling a
nyone the news until the tests were completed. But Yves and I went through a really bad patch afterwards. I was angry because he didn’t seem to be grieving the way I was. I accused him of never even wanting a third child in the first place…’

  Tears prickled the backs of my own eyes as I tried to cast my mind back to our lunches in April. Had there been obvious signs of distress: clues that I’d missed, wrapped up as I’d been in my own dramas? I must have sat opposite Kate and gone on and on about Nico and Mathilde, blind to Kate’s grief, assuming that she was upset only on my behalf. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I stammered, putting my hand over hers. ‘I wish I’d known… I wish you’d told me… You must have been to hell and back. But, forgive me: I still don’t understand how this relates to François?’

  ‘Well, the physical side of things suffered a lot,’ Kate replied, blushing as she always did whenever she evoked sex. ‘What happened had driven this huge wedge between us, and Yves worked later, and went on more business trips. He never seemed to touch me any more and I was horribly lonely and sad. My self-confidence hit rock bottom. With the baby gone, I felt like a useless empty vessel. One day in June, when François asked me to join him for dinner, I found myself saying yes.’

  Kate spared me the details of what had happened, where or how often, and I was grateful for that. It would have been unbearable, imagining her inventing work appointments as alibis, meeting in hotel rooms, treading the same path Nico had when he’d skulked around in the shadows with Mathilde. She told me only that she’d met with François semi-regularly from June until September and that spending time with this gallant, attentive man had diverted her attention away from her grief. In his presence she’d felt sexy and confident, instead of numb and empty. But these feelings had come at a price: Kate was loosening her grip on Tailor-Made and deceiving Yves and everyone around her, all for a fling which she’d known from the outset would never have any future. In October she’d explained to François that she couldn’t see him any more, and he’d been surprisingly sanguine, as though for him, too, the fling had run its course. Kate had terminated his lessons and turned the page. More clear-headed than she’d been in months, she was ready to invest some serious time and effort into resuscitating her relationship with Yves.