the floor with the boys, building things out of Lego or wooden blocks, pushing around the cardboard cutouts of thirty-six-piece jigsaw puzzles. She read aloud book after book after book.
On occasion, she met her husband for a meal. But not often. Dexter worked a long day every day, and most evenings.
She looked forward to date night—ostensibly once a week but frequently canceled due to work, or travel. Date night in Washington hadn’t been important; it was optional. But now it was something she felt herself needing, the opportunity to share the detritus of housewifedom, to elicit and receive sympathy, validation.
So much of it seemed devoid of value. She walked around the apartment, picking up toys and clothing, straightening piles, filing papers. She washed the boys’ hair and soaped their armpits and supervised them on the fine arts of wiping their butts and brushing every tooth and peeing directly into the bowl, not just in its general direction.
She went grocery shopping and lugged bags. She prepared breakfast and packed lunches and cooked dinner and washed dishes. She vacuumed and mopped and dusted. She sorted laundry, dried it, folded it, put it into drawers and on hangers and hooks.
When she finished the chores, it was time to start each and every one of them again.
And her husband had no idea. None of the husbands knew what their wives did every day, during the six hours when their children were in school—not just the endless chores but the pastimes, the cooking classes and language lessons, the tennis instruction and, in special circumstances, affairs with tennis instructors. Meeting everyone for coffee, all the time. Going to the gym. The mall. Sitting around playgrounds, getting wet in the rain. One playground had a gazebo, where they could get less wet.
Dexter didn’t know about any of this. Just as he hadn’t known how Kate had truly spent her days back in Washington, when she’d been doing something completely different from what she’d claimed.
Just as Kate didn’t know, now, exactly what he did all day.
TODAY, 11:09 A.M.
“Bonjour,” Dexter answers. “Comment ça va?”
Kate looks around the gallery, empty except for the Spanish couple, the man running a constant low-volume commentary. He fancies himself a connoisseur.
“Ça va bien,” Kate answers.
They moved from Luxembourg to Paris a year ago, at the start of the new school year, in a new school in a new city in a new country. By New Year’s, Kate had concluded that neither of them was making sufficient progress toward fluency. So she convinced Dexter that they should speak only French on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Today is a Thursday, nine months later. But for this conversation, they need to speak English; they need to communicate on a different level.
“I just ran into an old friend,” she says. “Julia.”
Dexter is silent for a second, and Kate doesn’t push. She knows he’s considering the meaning of this woman’s arrival. “Quelle surprise,” he says flatly. “It’s been so long.”
Neither Kate nor Dexter had seen Julia since her hasty but not unexpected departure from Luxembourg, the winter before last.
“Can we make it for drinks tonight? Bill too is in Paris.”
Dexter pauses another beat. “Okay. It’ll be fun to catch up.”
“Yes,” Kate says. But she isn’t thinking of the fun they’ll have. “So how about seven o’clock, at the café in the Carrefour de l’Odéon?”
“Sure,” Dexter says. “That’s perfect.”
The café is around the corner from their parking garage, and a half-block from a busy Métro station. It has tiny windowless bathrooms, no back rooms, no back entrance. There is nowhere for anyone to hide, no way for anyone to sneak up from behind. The tables on the terrasse offer unobstructed views of the entire intersection. It’s the perfect place for a drink. And the perfect place from which to escape quickly.
“I’ll call Louis and reserve a table,” Dexter says.
On occasion, she met her husband for a meal. But not often. Dexter worked a long day every day, and most evenings.
She looked forward to date night—ostensibly once a week but frequently canceled due to work, or travel. Date night in Washington hadn’t been important; it was optional. But now it was something she felt herself needing, the opportunity to share the detritus of housewifedom, to elicit and receive sympathy, validation.
So much of it seemed devoid of value. She walked around the apartment, picking up toys and clothing, straightening piles, filing papers. She washed the boys’ hair and soaped their armpits and supervised them on the fine arts of wiping their butts and brushing every tooth and peeing directly into the bowl, not just in its general direction.
She went grocery shopping and lugged bags. She prepared breakfast and packed lunches and cooked dinner and washed dishes. She vacuumed and mopped and dusted. She sorted laundry, dried it, folded it, put it into drawers and on hangers and hooks.
When she finished the chores, it was time to start each and every one of them again.
And her husband had no idea. None of the husbands knew what their wives did every day, during the six hours when their children were in school—not just the endless chores but the pastimes, the cooking classes and language lessons, the tennis instruction and, in special circumstances, affairs with tennis instructors. Meeting everyone for coffee, all the time. Going to the gym. The mall. Sitting around playgrounds, getting wet in the rain. One playground had a gazebo, where they could get less wet.
Dexter didn’t know about any of this. Just as he hadn’t known how Kate had truly spent her days back in Washington, when she’d been doing something completely different from what she’d claimed.
Just as Kate didn’t know, now, exactly what he did all day.
TODAY, 11:09 A.M.
“Bonjour,” Dexter answers. “Comment ça va?”
Kate looks around the gallery, empty except for the Spanish couple, the man running a constant low-volume commentary. He fancies himself a connoisseur.
“Ça va bien,” Kate answers.
They moved from Luxembourg to Paris a year ago, at the start of the new school year, in a new school in a new city in a new country. By New Year’s, Kate had concluded that neither of them was making sufficient progress toward fluency. So she convinced Dexter that they should speak only French on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Today is a Thursday, nine months later. But for this conversation, they need to speak English; they need to communicate on a different level.
“I just ran into an old friend,” she says. “Julia.”
Dexter is silent for a second, and Kate doesn’t push. She knows he’s considering the meaning of this woman’s arrival. “Quelle surprise,” he says flatly. “It’s been so long.”
Neither Kate nor Dexter had seen Julia since her hasty but not unexpected departure from Luxembourg, the winter before last.
“Can we make it for drinks tonight? Bill too is in Paris.”
Dexter pauses another beat. “Okay. It’ll be fun to catch up.”
“Yes,” Kate says. But she isn’t thinking of the fun they’ll have. “So how about seven o’clock, at the café in the Carrefour de l’Odéon?”
“Sure,” Dexter says. “That’s perfect.”
The café is around the corner from their parking garage, and a half-block from a busy Métro station. It has tiny windowless bathrooms, no back rooms, no back entrance. There is nowhere for anyone to hide, no way for anyone to sneak up from behind. The tables on the terrasse offer unobstructed views of the entire intersection. It’s the perfect place for a drink. And the perfect place from which to escape quickly.
“I’ll call Louis and reserve a table,” Dexter says.
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