I was never an au pair.
I was back in Paris, renting a room with a view of housing commission flats on the eastern périphérique. In the corner was my pack – everything I owned spilled from it onto the grey lino floor. My visa had been renewed, my money was running low. I planned to stay. I needed a job.
– Vous êtes sérieuse? Madame Durebex asked. You must be responsible. Je cherche une jeune fille sérieuse.
Mme Durebex looked to be in her late thirties. She was tall, trim and impeccably dressed. Her hair was streaked, her face too tanned for autumn in Paris. She had large brown eyes and a thin suspicious mouth. The foul breath that came from it was unexpected for one so sleek. A plump valet wearing a white uniform vacuumed around us as we drank tea in the kitchen, a room twice as big as the room in which I lived. Mme Durebex didn’t lower her voice when the valet vacuumed out of the room.
– You must do Laurent’s homework with him in English. I don’t speak a word of English. Pas un mot de français, d’accord? He’s absent-minded: I’ve enrolled him in chess classes to make him concentrate more. He loses his books, he forgets what homework he has, he never brings the right books home.
Mme Durebex put down her tea and laughed nervously.
– He can be very difficult.