18


But polyamory was not all sex and swinging. Far from it. There were more important things in life. Like shared housework.

“Your cleaner really isn’t doing a very good job, Louisa,” said Elena one day as I walked in the door from work.

“Oh?” Breathe slowly. Cleaning wasn’t my favourite subject even at the best of times. And was really low down the list when I got in from a full day’s work.

“Come here and have a look,” Elena commanded. What I wanted to do was sit on the sofa and look at an episode of Friends. What I did was go with Elena to the kitchen. And resented all seven of my steps. She knelt down and pointed to a gap between the door and the fridge. Where there was a stripe of black goo.

It was filthy. Very obviously so. And so obviously so that one must have been blind not to have seen it. Gilles and I had of course never seen it. Shame bubbled up.

After our Christmas together and until the time that I managed to pull off the move to England, Elena had been true to her word. She could barely live a week without Gilles. She regularly came over to Paris, and when she got there she could hardly tear herself away. On several occasions plane tickets were discarded. The price of love was steep. And not only in money.

My limits were being severely tested. I felt invaded. My whole house had been turned upside down by Elena’s X-ray vision. It appeared that we didn’t have the right products to clean, we washed our clothes neither at the right temperatures nor with the right kinds of environmentally friendly detergents, and our state of hygiene was generally very poor. It was like having my mother in the house. Which was the worst possible situation I could think of.

“That’s nasty,” I said honestly. It really was.

“Ah well, don’t worry. The rest of your house is fine. You just need to talk to your cleaner and show her what do to. Why don’t we go down and see her?”

My cleaner was the wife of the concierge. A man on whose good side it was imperative to stay. And now I was going to go and criticise his wife’s cleaning skills. Which admittedly were not good. I tried my last desperate attempt to resist without being rude.

“I’m really quite tired.”

“Oh it’ll only take a minute,” she said. “Why don’t we do it now?”

By now I was growling quite fiercely. Not out loud, of course. That would be rude. I could feel razors growing on my tongue, and it was only by biting my lip very hard that the shame I felt from my inability to keep my house clean and the antagonism I felt towards Elena for her judgement was kept firmly under wraps. And so I went with her.

She was my guest. She was Morten’s wife. She was Gilles’s girlfriend. But in my world, guests did not comment on their hostess’ ability, or rather lack of ability, to clean. Now the question was whether it was the place of my boyfriend’s wife to do so. I didn’t feel it was. But it may have been the place of my husband’s girlfriend. After all, it was his home and his inability as well.

“I’m so glad I can contribute to the household like this. You don’t seem to have time to look at things like this and well…” She looked over at Gilles, whose shoulders told me that he wasn’t in a good mood. “Gilles, bless him, has no idea. Oh, and I bought you some beautiful antique dusty pink roses. We all know Gilles’s block with flowers.”

Gilles’s shoulders looked distinctly unhappy. He turned round and his face told the same story. Her laughter tinkled. “Gilles got in a tantrum today because I asked him to make the bed for you. You like the bed to be made, don’t you?”

It was true. Only yesterday I had grumbled that the bed was yet again unmade. Gilles hadn’t listened, as usual. He had a Gallic attitude to life and to mess. Everything was met with a shrug of his shoulders. Bed making. Bof! But it had not been my intention to impose upon Elena. Or indeed give her fuel to use with Gilles.

The flowers sat in the middle of the dining table, which was set for three. Two on one side, one on the other. The best silver, the best crockery, the best glassware, the best, the best, the best. She had done this all for me. And I felt like an honoured guest. In my own fucking house.

As we settled around the table, she said sweetly, “Do you want to sit next to Gilles?”

Grrrrrrrr. And now I felt obliged to be polite. She was my guest.

“Oh no, no, no. Please go ahead.”

So there we were. The couple and the mistress. Who felt like me.

“Today we went and saw an exhibition of Monet’s water lilies.”

I looked at Gilles in shock. He nodded his head. Affirmative. My husband was doing something other than watching TV, checking chessbase.com or training at the gym. Who was this man? Because it sure wasn’t my husband.

“But I love impressionism,” I said, wading through my confusion.

“I didn’t know that.” Gilles looked at me.

“I visited Paul Cézanne’s house and specialised in him when I did my history of art exams. That print in the toilet is Picasso. The reason I chose my apartment was because it was in rue Maurice Utrillo.”

“It was also a hundred metres from the pub.”

“Yes.”

I knew that it was as much my fault as his that we never moved anywhere or did anything. More, in fact. Because he wouldn’t do anything without me.

During our monogamous years together, Gilles and I had lost sight of who we were when we first met; the balance that we achieved so happily and easily at first had become a caricature of those characteristics that fell to each extreme percentile. I loved his easygoing nature; he loved my insatiable curiosity. Until his easygoing nature became lazy and passive, and my curiosity was transformed into a thirst to learn more and more and to take power. In fact, each of us had become a product of the other and, ironically, as with many couples, this had driven us apart. Together we symbiotically fed each other’s weaknesses.

These weaknesses in my case were sometimes also my strengths. My ambition and drive had led to success in my professional sphere. But the weakness that I nourished in my husband had left him dissatisfied with his life. And with our marriage. Which left me dissatisfied with him. Because arguments between Gilles and me were few and far between. I gave him little to argue with. Nothing to push against. Indeed, the only time I had seen him shaking with rage was once before our marriage during an argument with his father. But he argued with his new girlfriend. And this one with Elena was a humdinger.

“I feel like you’re invading my home,” shouted Gilles.

“Is this about making the bed?” She was laughing at him.

“Why are you treating me like a child?” he screamed back.

Meanwhile, I sat on the sofa watching them in fascination. It’s not often you get to see a soap opera up close and personal. And seeing Gilles scream was ever so slightly attractive.

“Why is it that you can’t make the bed for your wife?” asked Elena patronisingly. “What else were you doing with your day? I suppose checking your email is more important than doing anything for her, hmm?”

“She doesn’t care about the bed!” he said, exasperated. “Louisa and I, we have our own dynamic.”

“But she does!” said Elena. “You’ve heard her say so every morning this week. You don’t care about her!”

“I love her and she knows I do. And what business is it of yours, my marriage? We can sort our own affairs out, thank you!”

“Maybe you can, but Louisa’s unhappy and you don’t even see it. Her relationship with Morten is far more equal.”

There it was. And once out, it couldn’t be unspoken. I sat with bated breath for Gilles’s reply. Surely he could win this argument. Surely he would be able to counteract what Elena said. I wanted my marriage to work. I needed his belief that it would too.

But Gilles simply retreated into himself and said stubbornly, “We love each other and we’re building a future together.”

Elena lost it. And started yelling. “She’s building a future. You aren’t doing much. You don’t have a job. You’re not even trying to get a job. You don’t help round the house. You resent even making the bed. If you aren’t careful, she’ll leave you.”

Oh my God.

It was strange how the verbalisation of an idea could suddenly make your vision shift focus. In that instant I realised that I wanted children and had wanted them for a long time and that whilst I was scared, I was also ready. As I looked at Gilles stuttering apoplectically, I also realised that he wasn’t. Not one little bit. I had always known it wasn’t yet. But I had assumed that it was sometime soon. I had been very wrong. If my husband resented making the bed, then how much more would he resent the time out of his schedule to look after a child?

In the theoretical world of polyamory I could have it all. Gilles was my best friend and soulmate — even if he didn’t want children. Morten would be having children with Elena first, and although I loved him, I wouldn’t expect children to come from that relationship for some years. So I was left with one man I loved who didn’t want children and one man I loved with whom I couldn’t have children any time soon, if at all.

So what was I doing with either of them?