-Sophie-
I often wonder what it would be like if I saw my own son again. Alain isn’t bringing his son round this time, thank goodness. Not that there’s anything wrong with Alain’s son. Matthieu is the epitome of filial perfection. He wears a suit, practises his already impeccable English on me, and is studying hard for his two-part Masters in philosophy. It’s just that we have to behave when Matthieu is here. Which is a bit awkward if Alain wants to stay the night. Matthieu, conscientious boy that he is, always wants to walk papa to the Métro. It’s only ten minutes to Place de la République from here, but he worries for old papa, particularly late at night. Would shock him, I suppose, to think of his father as a sexual being. Which he definitely is.
Not just sexual, of course. He is kind, funny in his own gently amusing way, and an excellent cook. Which is just as well, seeing as he has his own restaurant. Never got that Michelin star, never expanded it out into the chain that it deserves. But he continues to create these beautiful dishes, which his loyal patrons love. And he loves them right back – beams with pleasure when he comes out of the kitchen at the end of the night, still wearing his little pinny.
‘Bravo!’ people will shout, and applaud. ‘Encore!’ the cheeky ones will say. And he will then vanish back into the kitchen, and two minutes later appear with a crêpe in the shape of a star, so sugar-coated that it twinkles. Or his signature pot d’amour, a heart-shaped chocolate mousse so rich it really is orgasmic and which spurts out brandy cream when you insert your fork. Not classy, maybe, but nice. And amusing, in a safe kind of way. Then he’ll sit around with you while you finish your wine, and he’ll have the odd glass himself, talking to new clientele or schmoozing the old regulars.
That was how I first met him. The school’s Head of Music was having a birthday dinner and, as usual, invited me and his other staff along, expecting me to decline. Just to serve him right, I accepted, and stayed until the bitter end. And then there was this friendly little chef beside me, saying ‘Alors mademoiselle, parlez-moi de vous.’ Usually, those open questions asking me to tell someone about myself would terrify me. But that night, in that ambience, I could just tell him who I was at that moment. A teacher of music and English, alone but alive. I never thought I’d see him again, but when he asked me for my number, why refuse?
And so, on continue And like his cooking he is nice, and safe. I have to seem nice and safe too, of course, so none of it, none of the past, comes out. He must know there is some past. You do not get to my age without some. But so far, he has not intruded. It’s early days yet, but if we marry, or if we just live together, he’ll by then know everything about me, in the moment: how I brush my teeth; which side of the bed I sleep on; my favourite cereals; where I go for a run; what makes me cross; what makes me laugh; how many glasses of wine I can take before I get tipsy; how I deal with a hangover. Those are the things that matter, don’t they, to a lover, to a husband? Where is the past in that, if it doesn’t concern them? Why does it matter what I’ve done? This is my new second life. Which I must deserve a chance to preserve. Mustn’t I? Because it allows me a chance to live in the moment, too. To worry less about what I’d do if I saw my own son again. Who may not treat me with such filial respect as Matthieu already does. Who may evoke that old anger again. From whom I had to flee, in case he ended up dead too.
Because that’s the problem. If I saw Guillaume again, the result would not be good. I may not be able to hold back. And then, the past would not hold back either. It would all come out. And then Alain would know. And this second life, it would be gone.
And there is the bell. Not calling time, but sounding the arrival of Alain and his Camembert, which we will melt and enjoy together. There may even be a bit of saucy food foreplay. But there will be nothing else. Just the two of us, in this flat, no outside world. Like it used to be with Max, before Guillaume came along and changed everything. Except, not quite. Because nothing could be like me and Max. Not really. But I will treasure it for what it is. And I pray, I hope, this time I can keep it.