A Paris Affair by Adelaide Cole Page A

Reaching the final landing, she felt as if all her vitality had been leeched out, bit by bit, by those nasty streets, regulated offices, irritating shops, stifling Métro cars, and finally, their own never-ending stairs.
    Back in the apartment, Philippe was already home from work, having picked up Mathieu’s sister, Manon, from summer art camp. Though he looked wan and tired, he tried to summon a bit of enthusiasm as they pushed through the door.
    Sweaty and fatigued, Valérie left her shoes, still stinking and dirty, outside the door, making a mental note to clean them after the kids were in bed. Mathieu sank onto the floor and began to cry.
    Valérie dropped her bags, hung up her coat and walked directly to the bathroom. Maybe she would feel better after a hot shower, she thought. Before shutting the door, she said, “How about a nice glass of wine when I come out, dear?” Then she closed it behind her and undressed, leaving her things on the floor. The building’s ancient plumbing hammered and banged as she turned it on.
    By the time she finished her shower, Mathieu’s tears had tapered off. His attention was caught by a piece of a toy he’d found on the floor, and he was murmuring to himself. The shower did lift some of the stress of the day, and a moderately refreshed Valérie emerged from the steamy bathroom, wrapped in a robe and towel-drying her hair. She sat down at the kitchen table and smiled at Philippe. He gave her a tired smile and handed her a glass of Bordeaux. “ Santé ,” they both said joylessly in unison, clinking their glasses out of routine. To better days, they both thought to themselves.
    Valérie took a big drink with one hand and continued toweling her damp hair with the other. She sighed deeply. “So, how was work?” she asked, instantly regretting having done so.
    Philippe rolled his eyes upward and shook his head. “Politics, politics,” he said wearily. She didn’t ask for details, and he didn’t offer them. As with so many married couples, this was a rerun of many similar conversations. They fell silent and sipped their wine.
    The two had met while at university in Paris. She had grown up in the south, in Provence. He came from Bretagne, in the north. She was petite and olive-skinned, with a mass of dark, curly hair; he was blond, fair-skinned, tall and thin. She was emotional, effusive and Mediterranean, while he was cool and intellectual. Opposites attracted, and they had enjoyed the city together as a young, courting couple. They’d crossed the country together to meet and visit their respective families in the north and south. Their love was solidified in the shared fun of travel, and in the discoveries that new adventures brought. Valérie sometimes thought, lately, that their marriage felt so difficult now because those common joys had vanished with this new phase of their life.

    After they married, Valérie worked as a city librarian, and Philippe secured a job in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. He was smart and rose in the ranks, and within a year had won a junior posting in Copenhagen’s French consulate. That began their international life, and two more foreign posts, in Los Angeles and Hong Kong, followed over the next several years. They enjoyed an exciting time abroad, where Valérie had little more to worry about than how they dressed and the appearance of their home. Their postings were politically calm spots, and their lives were easy. But new milestones brought new difficulties.
    They started their family during their final post abroad, in the Canadian port city of Vancouver. They had both wanted children, but Valérie had difficult pregnancies and deliveries, and child rearing was a steep learning curve. She had always been emotionally and physically sensitive, and the twenty-four-hour days and mini-crises of minding babies and small children took a toll on her. Philippe was a caring husband and father, but he couldn’t take the time away from work that