Claude kept glancing sideways at me, doubtless overjoyed that the magic was working.
Shivers of delight ran down my spine. I felt as if I was connected to some higher force without being able to say exactly what it was. Despite this, the sensation filled me with strength and vigor.
I sat through the rest of the concert on cloud nine.
At the end, we decided to go and have a drink at the Caveau des Oubliettes.
“Claude, I’m sorry for the way I behaved earlier. It wasn’t fair of me. You’re doing all you can to help me, I know . . . And if I fail, it won’t be your fault.”
“‘Success consists of going from failure to failure without loss of enthusiasm,’ as Winston Churchill used to say.”
“There you go again with your quotations.”
“Whoops, sorry! I simply wanted to tell you again that what you’re experiencing at the moment is not failure. It’s part of the hazards and pitfalls of a successful business start-up. I brought you to the church this evening to show you how strong a fervent belief can be. You must keep faith. Above all, in yourself. I believe in you!”
“Mmm . . . ,” I muttered, still wary.
“So, you’ll try again?” he asked, extending his hand.
I hesitated a couple of seconds, then held out mine as well.
“I’ll try again.”
A few days later, I succeeded in getting an appointment with Populis Bank. I had read in a magazine that they had a reputation for supporting small businesses that had been turned down by traditional financial channels. This time I didn’t let myself get my hopes up. That way I wouldn’t be disappointed.
When a week later I was told on the phone that my proposal had been accepted, I could hardly believe it. I waited until I had hung up before I let out a shriek of joy that would have scared the spots off a leopard. I was an inch away from pulling my T-shirt over my face and running round the room like a madwoman, howling, “Gooooaaaaal!!!”
At last I had been given my passport to a new life.
twenty-nine
This success earned me a fourth lotus charm, this time a purple one. I put it on my necklace and stroked it constantly, like a good-luck talisman. I hadn’t dared to hope I could attain all these levels of change, but I had to admit that the method had worked. Now that I had the necessary funds, I could finally set about launching my concept of leasing haute couture baby clothes at accessible prices. I planned to open my boutique in six months’ time. And in the run-up to the opening I wouldn’t have a day to spare. Sometimes, I felt I had become a bionic, multitasking robot. I had to be everywhere at once: coming up with ideas, bringing them to fruition, sorting out the logistics.
I was going to have to look for help. I needed a second pair of hands. As it turned out I allowed myself the luxury of taking on four: four pairs of incomparable hands that I found among young fashion designers who—I was so flattered—saw that my project could be a springboard for their own careers. They therefore agreed to join me for very little pay until my business was properly launched, betting it would be a success. We set ourselves up in a boutique I had rented on rue Le Goff, a stone’s throw from the Luxembourg Palace. It wasn’t huge, but it was big enough to start with, and it had loads of charm. Exposed beams, a mezzanine, a very airy back room, and even a basement that could be used for changing rooms and a kitchenette.
I took Adrien to visit.
“It’s really cool, Mom!”
What he really wanted to know was if I was going to get rich. He listed all the things we would be able to buy if I did. He could already see himself in the most beautiful cars: a red Porsche one day, black Bugatti the next . . . He was so sweet, his eyes gleaming with excitement, and his joy made me joyful too. Thank god it would be years before he had to knuckle down and take on adult responsibilities.
Dream, my boy, dream, I said to myself. And may reality forever be kind to you!
I had also moved heaven and earth to find partners who would supply at a reasonable cost the basic garments made of organic cotton and hemp, as well as others made of alpaca, yak wool, and bamboo.
When I finally received my orders, I stroked these unbelievable fabrics, reveling in the thought of what I was going to make out of them.
During this period, I was filled with unbelievable creative energy. I didn’t get much sleep and yet strangely enough felt no ill effects. This astonished me: usually I was like a sedated snail if I missed even an hour of sleep. It was as if I were on drugs. And in a certain sense I was: high on enthusiasm! Bringing to fruition the thing that I wanted most in life was more satisfying than anything I had ever done. I had never known such incredible energy.
thirty
Claude followed my progress like a father hen. Speaking of fathers, he often reminded me that on the list of objectives I still had to tick off was sorting out my relationship with my father.
I protested.
“Claude, it’s really not the time to ask me to do that. You can see I’m completely overwhelmed. I don’t have even a minute to myself.”
“On the contrary, there’s no better time, Camille. And besides, you know it’s been niggling at you for years, like a stone in your shoe. Why put up with the pain another day? You’ll be so relieved to have taken a step toward reconciliation. The new Camille doesn’t leave problems hanging, does she?”
“All right, all right . . . I’ll see if I can find a minute.”
I was annoyed that he was insisting I do this right now. But was he really insisting? Deep down inside, I knew he was right. I couldn’t let the situation drag on. I had to confront it. I had swept that particular problem under the carpet of my conscience, thinking it would, in the end, be forgotten. Some hope! Over all those years it had never stopped gnawing away at me. Guilt and resentment were all mixed up inside me and undermining my confidence. But how could I forgive the person who left my mother and me before I had even taken my first steps? He wasn’t a father; he was just a . . . a sperm donor.
I hadn’t seen my father in six years, ever since a terrible scene when I had tried to settle scores with him. On that occasion I really did try to mow him down with a Kalashnikov of reproaches. I had sprayed him with angry bullets without giving him the slightest chance to defend himself. I couldn’t have been more bitter if I had swallowed poison. I was determined to hurt him. A little girl’s anger can knock over tables and break chairs. All the negative feelings stored away for years had surfaced, erupting like a volcano. I wanted to make him pay for his absence. Why had he left my mother? Where had he been when I was frightened, when I was ill, when I needed a father?
Unfortunately, my settling of scores had blown up in my face like a grenade and resulted in an outcome I had not really wished for: a complete break.
Weeks, months, and years had gone by without my daring to take the first steps toward reconciliation. I was afraid of how he would react and, even worse, of being rejected once again. With hindsight, I had begun to understand more clearly why he had left home. I was an accident that happened to him when he was far too young. At twenty-three, he wasn’t mature enough to cope with a child, nor did he really want to. Nonetheless, he had helped my mother as far as he could afford to and came to see me from time to time. Those rare, precious moments had left a lasting impression on me, a memory like the sweet taste of cotton candy.
It took me a while to unearth my telephone address book, hidden under a pile of dusty papers stuffed at the back of a closet.
His number was in it.
I sat for several long minutes beside the telephone, heart beating fast, hands moist, mouth dry at the thought of not knowing what to say. Finally I plucked up my courage.
It rang several times before he picked up.
“Hello?”
Silence.
“Hello? Dad?”
Silence again . . .
* * *
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—
“FORGIVENESS DOES NOT CHANGE the past, but it does enlarge the future,” Paul Boese said. How true! After my phone call to my father, I felt much lighter. It was as though I had cut the rope dragging a line of heavy barrels along in the wake of my boat, holding it back. At first our conversation was stilted, strangulated, struggling to emerge. Soon, though, we discovered the sincere, honest voice of our hearts, and our words somehow built a bridge between us. We agreed to have lunch together. We replaced the silences and question marks of our past history with a new dialogue.
I could scarcely believe it.
thirty-one
Oddly, ever since I had reconciled with my father, I had also begun to feel more relaxed about my marriage. Perhaps I was becoming aware of how much, over the years, I had conflated my father’s behavior with that of my husband? How far had my relationship with Sebastien been soured by my fear of being abandoned like my mother? But now that was over and done with. Never again would I allow the past to interfere with the present or affect my relationships.
Of course, I couldn’t stop my husband leaving me for someone else, if that was what fate decided. But now I was much more serene about it: I knew that whatever happened I could count on my inner resources to cope. And that certainty gave me a strength I never thought I had.
So it seemed I had made my peace with the males of the species.
One morning I was enjoying this thought, drinking a nice cup of green tea, when Sebastien came into the kitchen and handed me an envelope.
“Here, there was a letter for you.”
Inside was a brief message:
Rendezvous on Thursday at Espace Mille et Cent Ciels, for a summit meeting! Be on time: exactly half past one. See you Thursday, Claude.
What was he up to now?
Sebastien, who had buttered a slice of bread, was staring at me out of the corner of his eye as he ate it.
“More work?”
“Er . . . yes. Sorry, nothing I can do about it!”
“You never stop.”
I sensed he was worried or ill at ease—I couldn’t exactly tell which—and went over to give him a kiss.
“Don’t fret; it’ll be worth it. And you’ll soon see how wonderful it’s all going to be!”
“I guess so . . .”
On Thursday I abandoned my assistants in the workshop with instructions for the afternoon and rushed to my rendezvous in a glamorous outfit that won me some wolf whistles and compliments in the street. I blushed, but the meeting place was in the smartest area in town, so I had told myself I needed to fit in. And wasn’t it also a perfect occasion to see how I was getting on in the skin of the new Camille? If I was to believe the flattering looks I received, it was going quite well.
As I entered the Espace Mille et Cent Ciels, the sight took my breath away. The lobby itself was like a hymn to the beauty of Asian palaces. Rich fabrics, elegant furniture, subtle fragrances, beguiling colors. I felt as though I had been transported in time and place. It was glorious. And the chandeliers, the antique lamps, the soft, thick carpets, laid on parquet floors or handmade mosaics. I was captivated at once by the seductive semidarkness that threw mysterious shadows onto everyone’s faces.
But the greatest mystery remained: Why had Claude invited me here? That was the question I was asking myself when I went up to the receptionist.
“Where’s the bar, please? I’m supposed to be meeting someone.”
“At the end of the corridor, immediately on the left.”
I followed her directions, my heart beating loudly. What was the elaborate setup for this time?
The bar was as magnificently decorated as the lobby. I studied all the people there. None of them looked like Claude. I silently cursed him for being late: I’ve always hated having to hang around in a place like this. Men are quick to misinterpret what a single woman might be doing there. I tried hard to adopt a distant, self-assured look, repeating over and over in my head a mantra that had become a habit in recent weeks: I am Audrey Hepburn, I am Audrey Hepburn . . .
My neighbor at the bar had his back turned to me, offering me a good view of his navy blue suit—which, it has to be said, was very well tailored. Nice pair of shoulders, I said to myself before realizing to my horror that the back was turning toward me.
“What are you doing here?” said the man with a disarming smile.
“But . . . but . . . what’s . . . ?”
“Well, as you see, it’s not only your Claude who can spring surprises!”
Sebastien took my face in his hands as if it were a precious sculpture and gave me a languorous kiss. I was instantly aroused, although slightly embarrassed by how indiscreet and incongruous such a kiss was in a place like this. Luckily, the barman pretended to be looking elsewhere. Sebastien pulled back and stared into my face to judge how I was feeling about his surprise. I had not seen such passion in his eyes for a long time. Too long.
I stammered, “In-incredible! How did you manage to—”
“Shhh. It turns out that your Claude is much cooler than I thought. He was perfectly happy to help me organize this little piece of theater. He wrote that message to make you think it was him you were meeting . . . Fun, wasn’t it?”
“Wait till he hears what I have to say about that!” I said, but I was far too pleased with the result to bear Claude a grudge. “Well then, what do you intend to do with me to make up for tearing me away from several hours of precious work?”
“Mmm . . . Things that will make you glad you came! Besides, a few moments of relaxation will only make you that much more productive, won’t they, my favorite businesswoman?”
He had come up with a tough schedule. Hammam, sauna, pool, a gentle scrub with black eucalyptus soap. We lay side by side and surrendered ourselves to the expert hands of young Balinese masseuses, whose expertise took us somewhere close to seventh heaven. I relaxed completely, all the while holding on to Sebastien’s hand, which only added to the sensuality of the experience. By the time we left the spa, I was floating on air.
The candlelit dinner that followed was the climax of our day together and sent my taste buds straight to nirvana. This place indulged the senses like nowhere else. But what enchanted me most was to discover that Sebastien was gazing at me in the way he used to do: I was his Scheherazade.
And that was more than an objective ticked off. It was a dream come true.
thirty-two
That idyllic interlude with Sebastien did indeed give me renewed energy. Luckily, because the period that followed was terribly stressful. I had to put up with infuriating delays, bargain with grasping suppliers, manage a still inexperienced team, deal with unbelievable amounts of admin, be creative at night but supremely organized by day. In short, I was on the verge of losing it. Fortunately, I had an extraordinary support network. Family and friends came to my workshop to offer loud, sincere encouragement. It warmed my heart. I so wanted them to be proud of me!
Claude, my dear Claude, did not let me down either: he had promised to get in touch with his media contacts, assuring me he knew lots of people. That was one thing at least I wouldn’t have to do . . . How was I ever going to thank him?
For now, my baby was becoming ever more lively. The delivery date was fast approaching, which meant it was time to find a name for him. I organized a brainstorming session in the back room of the boutique. Claude had advised me to invite people from a variety of backgrounds to enrich the session—we’d get differing and interesting ideas. So in addition to my team, I asked my hairdresser and my masseuse, who kindly agreed to take part. I told them all about the essential rule for any creative effort: the CQFM. No criticism or censorship; a great quantity of ideas; some fantasy; and ideas that multiplied, one linking to the next. We also had to keep in mind these key points: our target was children from birth to three, and we offered ethical haute couture at off-the-rac
k prices thanks to our leasing model.
To get our brains working we began by writing down as quickly as possible on a piece of paper all the words that came into our minds. Next we decided to explore more closely the specific vocabulary of early childhood: “Tiny tot, beansprout, stork, pooh-pooh”—we agreed no censorship!—“knee-high to a grasshopper, abracadabra, pat-a-cake, little minx, kitty-cat bambino, peekaboo, pirouette, sweet pea, cradle, this little piggy . . .”
We also wrote down words connected to the worlds of clothes and fashion—“a stitch in time, bluebonnets, nimble fingers, better by design”—and other phrases from nursery rhymes: “Three little kittens, they lost their mittens . . .”
Claude helped us do a positioning map. On the diagram two lines intersected to make four quadrants: the practical world of children; the world of the “enchanted” child; ethical, fair-trade clothing; and fashion for hire. This helped us sort our suggestions, which would make our choice easier.
Then we began the roll call of names.
“‘Fashionimo,’” suggested my hairdresser. “Words that end in ‘imo’ are good, aren’t they? There’s Nemo, Geronimo, or Pinocchio . . . Or how about ‘Minimode’?”
“Good! I’ll put that up.”
“Why not ‘Little Goldfingers’?” said Geraldine, one of my seamstresses.
“Or ‘Stitches in Time’?” cried Lucie, clearly delighted with her bright idea.
“What about ‘Fortune’s Child’?” said Fabienne. “It’d remind people of Destiny’s Child. But I guess they’re not trendy anymore?”
“‘Biomode,’” was my masseuse’s idea.
“No! It sounds too medical.”
“We said we wouldn’t criticize, remember?”
“‘The Bee’s Knees’?”
“Great, but it already exists.”
“Oh . . .”
After we eliminated names already taken, ones that were too long, others that didn’t sound right, and those that were too complicated, we were left with a list of four possibilities: Cuddleeco, Green Bambino, FashionFairies, and Li’l Trousso. They all contained a message and said something about the project.
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