A Paris Affair
Authors: Adelaide Cole
Tags: #Erotica, #Short Stories (single author), #Fiction
A Paris Affair
Adelaide Cole
After years of child rearing, chores and career challenges, Valérie feels the sexual heat in her life has cooled. All she wants is a break from her everyday routine—until an unexpected reunion with a man from her past awakens the pure sexual wanting she thought she’d lost….
Contents
The Streets of Paris
“Oh-laaa! Tu me fais chier quoi, Paris de merde! Ville des putain de lumières! Tu m’emmerdes!”
Valérie swore angrily as she tried to wipe the thick smear of soft, fetid dog shit off her shoes. “City of fucking Light! Go fuck yourself!” she muttered. The quaint Paris cobblestones, and in fact all the streets of Paris, were a landmine of dog turds. And they were a racing course of nasty little speeding four-cylinder cars, and of scooters driven by rude and careless teenagers.
She found the building. With Mathieu trailing, she entered the courtyard and tried to wipe her dirty shoe on a mat. She and her son made their way up the four flights to the medical specialist’s office.
The receptionist looked at Valérie with undisguised boredom. “I’m sorry,
madame
, but there’s nothing I can do for you. Your son requires
this
form—” she held one up in the same manner that a primary-school teacher would use with a pint-size pupil “—
before
he can have this appointment with the doctor.”
“But I have the appointment
already
. This is
it
. It is
now
,” Valérie said, pointing to her watch for effect. “How can someone have given me an appointment that I’m not allowed to have? It makes no sense.” Mathieu was whining at her side. He’d been complaining for most of their errands. “
Maman
, juice! Thirsty! Juice!” he repeated, tugging at her pant leg.
Valérie rummaged in her handbag and found a small bottle of water and handed it to him. He drank. The break in his whining felt like a release of some of the overwhelming, exhausting pressure in her head. Mathieu, her younger of two children, was almost five, and should have been speaking in complete sentences. But he wasn’t, and when her veil of self-denial was finally lifted by the primary school’s refusal to admit him because of language development issues, she’d unhappily begun to travel the routes of help for developmentally delayed children.
The receptionist sighed heavily. “The appointments are given six weeks ahead.
Madame, all
the families understand that they have those six weeks to have their
assessment
done before they are permitted their initial follow-up here.
Everyone
knows that before they arrive here. I’m terribly sorry you didn’t understand that,
madame
, but it’s commonly understood by all the doctor’s patients.”
Valérie had fought so many of these grinding, bureaucratic battles since they’d returned to Paris that she knew it was utterly pointless to continue any exchange with the receptionist. “
Bon. Merci, madame. Au revoir
,” she replied, with necessary courtesy.
“
Au revoir, madame!
” clipped the receptionist in return. Valérie gathered her grocery bags and stuffed the folded blank forms inside. They left the office and made their way back down the four winding flights of stairs.
Mathieu hung on her coat they walked through the drizzling rain, dodging aggressive human and car traffic. “Watch your step for dog poop, Mathieu,” she instructed. They walked back down into the métro, where Mathieu’s jacket pocket became snagged on the turnstile. He got stuck and began to wail. People behind him complained loudly and shoved their way through the next turnstiles. She unhooked his pocket and untangled him. They struggled through the crush of humanity on the platforms and trains, through six stops and two line changes. The air was stuffy and stale and the cars were crowded. Valérie fought her way to empty seats and plopped her son on them to keep him from whining for at least a few stops.
Then, back up the escalators and stairs from the métro to the street, where she tripped over the knee of a woman sitting on the pavement, begging for money. The woman yelled at Valérie, who decided this city was a horrid little piece of hell.
After walking the four blocks to their building, they wearily climbed their own three flights. Each step up drained energy from Valerie’s body. 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 Valérie’s constitution seemed to require. He worked hard in his position, and at home felt put upon.
Philippe and Valérie had experienced a joyful bond as a childless couple, but found it difficult to make the transition to their new life with children. Their love and caring did not wane, but some of their happiness together did. Valérie often felt isolated, and those feelings only multiplied when Mathieu began showing odd behaviour as a toddler.
At the same time, Philippe was offered a desk position back in Paris. It was not a job he particularly wanted, and it paid less than the international posts did; but it was strategically important in the schema of his career. It was a stepping-stone position, so it was impossible to refuse. They left their life in green and airy Vancouver, and settled back into crowded Paris and its cramped apartment existence…this time with two young children, one of whom was showing developmental problems.
In this new life, Valérie shouldered the burden of the children’s care. While their international positions had afforded a nanny and housekeeper, this Paris assignment didn’t come with those luxuries. She was on her own. Philippe wasn’t any help on the domestic scene, since his days were spent in a Machiavellian cauldron of colleagues jockeying for position. The couple missed the days of their foreign postings. CONSUL license-plated SUVs conferred special status, and cocktail parties were filled with easy, empty diplomatic conversation and the champagne that advertised France’s good life to the world.
Valérie missed those parties and dinners. And she missed the stylish distinction of being a Frenchwoman abroad. Being French attracted an automatic cachet she had enjoyed. “Oh, Valérie,” she would hear from a new friend in a foreign country, “I couldn’t pull off that look with that scarf. Only a Frenchwoman can do that. You always look so elegant.” And felt so lighthearted.
But the breezy confidence that foreigners gave her turned into yet another casualty of their move back to Paris. Now she was now just another forty-something wife and mom among a million stunning French girls. She tried to maintain her standards, but the demands of two children didn’t leave her with the same motivation or time that she’d had before, when a nanny helped with child care and a housekeeper with the mundane tasks that were now hers alone.
The children’s needs, plus her husband’s new job, also took a toll on their romantic life. They were never alone together in the tiny apartment, and sex became perfunctory, if they weren’t already too tired to bother. Their love and commitment was intact, but sexual heat had dissipated, at least in these days of grocery shopping, child rearing and career challenges.
“I’ll get the kids dinner,” Valérie said, pushing herself up from the table. She took her glass with her.
“I’ll help. I’ll make a salad,” Philippe said, getting up as well.
She boiled pasta for the children and recounted what had been accomplished that day along the lengthy progression of Mathieu’s diagnosis and treatment. Life abroad had been deceptively easy, and they had taken it for granted. If they’d been less self-deluded in their former post, they would have noticed signs that their son wasn’t developing normally, but the easy international scene had seduced them into thinking that their entire life was a carefree ride. Had they noticed, they would have sought help earlier and avoided the degree of difficulty they now faced.
The discovery that Mathieu sat somewhere on the ever-widening autism continuum brought with it despondency as they fought to regain their equilibrium as a couple, as parents and as a family. Valérie and Philippe both struggled to relegate Manon to last-in-line for care and attention as they tried not to grieve over the loss of a dream of having two perfect children. Life weighed heavily back here in Paris.
