my lover – one day his wife called and suggested we meet. I was stunned. She must have been nosing around in his computer, and she’d come across some e-mail exchanges between Jacques and me. At the end of the conversation, before hanging up, she said, I hope you won’t tell him anything about this, I’d like it to remain strictly between us. I called up Jacques immediately and said, I’m seeing your wife this Wednesday. Jacques seemed to know all about it. He sighed. It was a coward’s sigh, and its meaning was, well, since there’s no way around it. Couples disgust me. Their hypocrisy. Their smugness. Tothis day I’ve been unable to do anything to resist the attraction exerted upon me by Jacques Ecoupaud. A lady-killer. My male counterpart. Except that he’s a junior government minister, a secretary of state (but he always says
minister
). With all the appurtenances. Cars with tinted windows, chauffeur, bodyguard. A restaurant table always set aside for him. Me, I started from less than scratch. I don’t even have a high school diploma. I climbed up the slope without anyone’s help. These days I’m in event decoration. I’ve made a little name for myself, I work in the film world, in politics. Once I dressed a function room in Bercy where a National Seminar on the Performance of Self-Employed French Entrepreneurs was being held (I can still remember its title; we stuck flags into the flower bouquets). That was the event where I met Jacques. The Secretary of State for Tourism and the Craft Industry. A pathetic title, if you consider it closely. The kind of no-necked, stocky man who steps into a room and scans it to make sure he’s caught everyone’s eye. The hall was packed with entrepreneurs from the provinces who’d come to Paris like visiting nobility, accompanied by their dressed-to-the-nines wives. During the event, a vice-president of a chamber of trades made a speech. I was at the back of the hall, near a window, and Jacques Ecoupaud came up to me and said, you see the guy who just started talking? Yes, I said. —You see his bow tie? —Yes. —It’s a bit large, don’t you think? Yes, it is, I said. It’s made of wood, said Jacques Ecoupaud. —Wood? The boy’s a craftsman, a framing carpenter, Jacques said. He made a bow tie out of wood and shined it up with Pledge. I laughed and Jacques laughed, with his laugh that’s half seduction and half electoral campaign. And you see the one with the velvet James Bond briefcase?Jacques asked. Do you know what his name is? It’s Frank Ravioli. And he sells dry dog food. The following day Jacques parked his Citroën C5 outside my apartment building and we spent the first part of the night together. Usually, where men are involved, I’m the one who leads the dance. I turn them on, I wrap them up, and I clear out just at daybreak. Sometimes I let myself go with the flow. I get a little attached. It lasts while it lasts. As long as I’m not bored. Jacques Ecoupaud pulled the rug out from under me. To this day I cannot understand what it was that made me so utterly dependent on that man. A no-neck guy who comes up to my shoulder. A standard-issue sweet-talker. He immediately presented himself as a great libertine. Like, I’m going to corrupt you, little girl, that sort of thing. He always called me little girl. I’m fifty-six years old and five feet ten inches tall, with an Anita Ekberg – type chest. Being called little girl moved me. It’s stupid. A great libertine, and you can say it again. I still don’t know what it means. As for me, I was ready to experience things. One evening he came to my house with a woman. A brunette around forty who worked in public housing. Her name was Corinne. I served aperitifs. Jacques took off his coat and tie and sprawled on the sofa. The woman and I stayed in our armchairs and talked about the weather and the neighborhood. Jacques said, make yourselves comfortable, my dears. We undressed a little, but not
minister
). With all the appurtenances. Cars with tinted windows, chauffeur, bodyguard. A restaurant table always set aside for him. Me, I started from less than scratch. I don’t even have a high school diploma. I climbed up the slope without anyone’s help. These days I’m in event decoration. I’ve made a little name for myself, I work in the film world, in politics. Once I dressed a function room in Bercy where a National Seminar on the Performance of Self-Employed French Entrepreneurs was being held (I can still remember its title; we stuck flags into the flower bouquets). That was the event where I met Jacques. The Secretary of State for Tourism and the Craft Industry. A pathetic title, if you consider it closely. The kind of no-necked, stocky man who steps into a room and scans it to make sure he’s caught everyone’s eye. The hall was packed with entrepreneurs from the provinces who’d come to Paris like visiting nobility, accompanied by their dressed-to-the-nines wives. During the event, a vice-president of a chamber of trades made a speech. I was at the back of the hall, near a window, and Jacques Ecoupaud came up to me and said, you see the guy who just started talking? Yes, I said. —You see his bow tie? —Yes. —It’s a bit large, don’t you think? Yes, it is, I said. It’s made of wood, said Jacques Ecoupaud. —Wood? The boy’s a craftsman, a framing carpenter, Jacques said. He made a bow tie out of wood and shined it up with Pledge. I laughed and Jacques laughed, with his laugh that’s half seduction and half electoral campaign. And you see the one with the velvet James Bond briefcase?Jacques asked. Do you know what his name is? It’s Frank Ravioli. And he sells dry dog food. The following day Jacques parked his Citroën C5 outside my apartment building and we spent the first part of the night together. Usually, where men are involved, I’m the one who leads the dance. I turn them on, I wrap them up, and I clear out just at daybreak. Sometimes I let myself go with the flow. I get a little attached. It lasts while it lasts. As long as I’m not bored. Jacques Ecoupaud pulled the rug out from under me. To this day I cannot understand what it was that made me so utterly dependent on that man. A no-neck guy who comes up to my shoulder. A standard-issue sweet-talker. He immediately presented himself as a great libertine. Like, I’m going to corrupt you, little girl, that sort of thing. He always called me little girl. I’m fifty-six years old and five feet ten inches tall, with an Anita Ekberg – type chest. Being called little girl moved me. It’s stupid. A great libertine, and you can say it again. I still don’t know what it means. As for me, I was ready to experience things. One evening he came to my house with a woman. A brunette around forty who worked in public housing. Her name was Corinne. I served aperitifs. Jacques took off his coat and tie and sprawled on the sofa. The woman and I stayed in our armchairs and talked about the weather and the neighborhood. Jacques said, make yourselves comfortable, my dears. We undressed a little, but not
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