I Am Having So Much Fun Without You (14 page)

Because even when she was acting out she remained useful and productive, Anne went into the yard and cut some lilacs for our lunch, arranged with wild laurel leaves in a crystal vase. Camille showed me the drawings she had laid out in the sunroom: sea horses, dolphins, giant sunfish, each one surrounded by a makeshift frame of sandy shells. I picked up a seashell and held it to the light. My heart felt like it was breaking. I took my daughter's hand and put the shell back down. “I'm so glad you're having fun here,” I whispered.

Camille held up her favorite drawing, a purple starfish. “I am!”

The meal started out civilly enough, with my in-laws inquiring after my parents' health, apprising me of the beaches where they'd gone for walks, pass the bread, the wine, the water.

It wasn't until the conversation turned to the exact reasons why I had to get back to Paris that things took a downturn.

“I'm not really understanding this,” said Alain, wiping at his mouth with a cloth napkin. “So you go all the way to London to deliver this painting yourself, but they hadn't already paid?”

“Eh, it was a wire transfer, Papa,” said Anne, passing the chicken.

“Very well, but if it's a simple question of a transfer, one would think that—”

“White or dark meat, Daddy?” asked Anne, holding the platter in front of him with two hands.

He chose dark.

At that point, Anne steered the conversation to her own work, updating the table on the charges the pregnant drinkers had officially filed: placing the lives of others at risk, attempting to mislead the consumer, manipulation of terms. We chatted about the potential factors behind fetal alcohol syndrome—a happy lunchtime topic if ever there was one—before Inès asked about my current projects, mentioning that Anne said I'd had great success with my last show.

“It's surprising,” I said, stress-eating French bread. “I mean, I always thought the genre was a bit prosaic, but apparently, narrative stuff sells.”

“Well, I don't see the harm in doing commercial work in public, and experimental work behind the scenes,” said Alain.

“Right,” I answered, clearing my throat. “It's just—” And then I mumbled something about Iraq.

Anne put down Camille's knife and quickly reached for the bowl next to her. “Potatoes? Richard? They're delicious, Mother. I love the sauce.”

“It's capers. Capers is the trick. And then with the lemon, you want to—”

“What's that about Iraq?” asked Alain, cutting into his chicken.

“Let's not get into this now, maybe?” begged Anne.

“What about Iraq?”

I took some potatoes as a conciliatory gesture, adding them to the silo of roasted fingerlings already on my plate. “It's interesting to me, being English,” I said, “that we're historically so rational, but with this—with Bush—Blair's full-speed-ahead on something so unfounded.”

“Well, I wouldn't say that the ethnic cleansing of hundreds and thousands of people by a dictator—”

“Right,” I interrupted, briefly meeting my wife's eyes before pursuing the conversation. “But the charge is that there are nuclear weapons. And none have been found.”

“I don't think,” said Anne, glancing at Camille, who was staring wide-eyed back at her. “Can we get into this later?”

“Well, I'm just interested to hear what Richard proposes,” said Alain.

“I don't have anything concrete yet,” I continued. “But there's the absurdity of searching for something that probably doesn't exist, and—of course—there's such symbolism around petrol.”

“Petrol's a necessity,” said Alain. “Nothing absurd about that.”

“More wine?” said Inès, holding the empty bottle at an angle.

“I'll get it,” I offered, grateful for a break. “White?”

“Might as well stay consistent,” said Alain, who hated white wine.

In the kitchen, I leaned against the counter and closed my eyes. When I opened them, I looked out the window, where a small, gray rabbit was making his way across the lawn. His tail was almost perversely cute: a veritable pom-pom on his bum. A haiku from a Japanese poet I liked in college popped into my
mind, something about walking on the roof of hell while gazing at the flowers.

I opened the fridge and took out a bottle of white wine, taking in the colorful snapshot of the time I'd missed. There was a fruit salad swimming in its own liquid in a giant Tupperware; half an avocado tightly wrapped in plastic; three bottles of cider; and all the fixings for savory crêpes:
sarasin
pancakes, Emmental cheese, eggs, tomatoes, ham, crème fraîche. I loved eating crêpes in Brittany—cutting into their buttery, eggy center with a cold bowl of cider, the way it was traditionally served in the northwest.

As I stood in front of something as familiar as this fridge, it truly seemed impossible that the worst would come to pass. How many times had I carried grocery bags into this kitchen? Swept the beach sand up from the tiles? Changed the litter for the sociopathic British shorthair that Inès used to have before it took off for fairer pastures? You didn't just throw out a near decade of togetherness. We had a goddamn
life.
I felt a rising confidence being around the physical things that Anne and I and Camille had enjoyed over the years. It was good for me to be here. It was good for me to be seen.

The upturn in my outlook was dashed by the changed atmosphere on my return. Camille was on the carpet, forming a battalion out of candlesticks, and Anne had moved her chair back from the table and pushed her plate away. Inès had a pinched look to her face. Alain's cheeks were reddened, as if he'd just fallen silent on my behalf.

“Everything all right, then?” I asked, walking around the table to fill up empty wineglasses with feigned cheerfulness.

When I got to my own glass, Anne watched me pour with narrowed eyes. “You probably shouldn't be drinking before such a long drive.”

“It's Thursday,” said Alain. “It's preposterous to go back so close to the weekend. And as to what you said, Anne—”

“Alain,” said Inès, “leave it.”

“Suit your damn selves,” said Alain, draining his glass. “I'll just go back out on the green if you're going to be impossible.”

I looked from Alain to Inès, whose face was pained. All of the sudden I knew why. I followed her gaze to Anne, who had two tears streaming down her face.

“Chérie,”
said her mother, reaching for her arm.

“Anne,” I said quietly. It came out like a plea.

“Honey, can you . . .” She swiped at her eyes and turned around to face Camille. “Sweetheart, can you go and play upstairs for a little while? The grown-ups need to talk.”

Every synapse in my body readied itself for flight. I felt like my very pores were begging her,
Anne, don't.

Camille looked up at her mother, her expression changing from preoccupied to concerned when she saw her mother's tears.

“It's okay, love,” Anne said, reaching for her. “You go on and be a big girl? I'll be up in just a minute and we'll read that new book
grand-maman
bought, okay? And you can take a cookie on the way up, love.
D'accord?
”

She kissed Camille's temple. Camille looked at me. Anne kissed her again.

“Go on,
mon coeur
.”

We all watched Camille walk away, which took a while, because she kept turning around to see if one of us was going to get up and come with her.

When Camille was out of sight, the room fell quiet. No one dared cut into their food or reach for a glass of wine. I tried to meet Anne's eyes to beg her not to betray me, to betray
us
,
but she kept her gaze on the table. She started tracing the grain of the wood with her right hand.

“He cheated on me,” she said, almost inaudibly.

My insides went molten hot with the realization that she'd done it. My entire body was paralyzed. My legs felt like they were stuck in moon boots, magnetized to the floor.

Alain and Inès both looked at me, waiting for an explanation, for some kind of defense, but I just kept standing there, completely dumbstruck. As the silence lingered, I watched color fill Alain's cheeks.

He crossed his arms in front of him. “
What
is going on?”

Anne looked up at me, her eyes flashing. “Do you want to explain, or should I?”

This was foreign territory: I didn't know whether I should be honest, or try to save my reputation. But the energy coming off the three of them made me feel like there was nothing left to save.

“Richard's been having an affair,” said Anne. “With an
American.
”

There was an audible inhale of breath from the other end of the table. Inès got up and moved over to where Anne was sitting. She tried to put her arm around her, but Anne pushed her away.

“All right,” Inès said calmly, folding Anne's napkin into a perfect square. “All right.” She looked at me for some kind of assistance, but was apparently disappointed by whatever she saw in my face.

“Goddammit, Richard,” said Alain, standing up.
“Qu'est-ce que tu peux être maladroit!”
He began pacing around the room. With each footstep, my throat tightened. I was having a hard time getting air. My nasal passages felt like they were on fire.

He had called me clumsy.
Maladroit
is worse than clumsy: it's inept, it's bumbling, it's unfit to be dealt with. It's all of Alain's initial hesitations about me, confirmed.

“Oh, for fuck's sake,” said Alain. “I'm getting something stronger.” He walked out of the dining room and left the three of us alone. Anne wiped fiercely at her cheeks with the napkin her mother had folded for her, and Inès rubbed Anne's back. I tried to push past the sludge of humiliation in my brain to find a way out of having these people despise me, but my mind was throbbing black.

Alain returned with a bottle of whiskey and four glasses, which he filled and passed around.

“So, are you going to say something, you shithead?” he asked, knocking his glass back.

“Alain.” Inès scowled.

“Well, I'd like to know what the plan is!” he said, starting to pace. “Why are you telling us this? Why drag us into it? This is the kind of stuff you have to figure out on your own!”

“Va te faire foutre,”
Anne mumbled.

“What?!” shouted her dad.

“You're my parents!”

“I
never
would have embarrassed my family like this,” he protested. “This is private!”

“Oh, come off it,” said Inès. “Would you sit the hell back down?” She glared at her husband before turning her attention back to Anne. “Listen. Both of you. It's difficult. I'd never say the opposite. In thirty-five years, you can bet that Alain and I have had our troubles, too.”

“Inès,” he said, “don't.”

She shook her head. “Now, your father has had his
dalliances—
”

“Dammit,” said Alain, swiping at his whiskey glass. “I'm leaving.”

Anne grumbled, “Good.”

“No, you're
not
,” said Inès, slamming her hand down on the
table. “You sit back down, Alain de Bourigeaud, or I am going to show you what a problem really is. Now listen. It's unfortunate, but it happens. But the important thing is looking toward the future. You have to be able to forgive.” She looked across the table at me. “Honestly, the very best thing would be if you enlarged your little family.”

My legs flooded with a rush of circulation. I made use of this new development to exile myself to the window at the end of the long room.

“I know you two don't like to hear this,” Inès continued, “but you're still young. It's the best thing, really.”

“He has an affair, so we have another baby?” said Anne. “This is great fucking advice.”

“What elegant language,” said her father, glaring at Anne. Then he nodded over at me. “And that one. Is he even going to say anything?”

I spun around. “What am I supposed to say here?” I said, visibly shaking. “I had no idea this was coming! What do you want me to say?”

“I agree,” he said. “Say nothing.”

I pressed my head against the window. The glass stung cold.

“Alain, I think you
should
leave,” said Inès. “You're not helping.”

“Fine by me,” he said, standing once again. “I'm keen to see where this is going to leave us in the morning. Quite a vacation, if you ask me.”

“Just go,” Inès repeated. “Go golf. Get out.”

Alain bid us good afternoon with vitriolic cordiality and left the room with his whiskey glass and the whiskey bottle.

“Sit back down here,” Inès called after me. “Listen, this is going to be all right.”

When I did sit, Inès reached her hand across the table to cover mine. I still hadn't made eye contact with my wife.

“I'm going to ask you a question,” she said, moving her other hand over Anne's. “And just be honest! I've been married almost four decades. I've been through this, too. When is the last time you made love?”

“Mom!” cried Anne, flushing red.

“Well?”

“My God. It's none of your business!”

“In a way, it is,” said Inès. “You brought it up.”

Anne pulled her hand out from under her mother's and put it against her forehead. At this point, any shred of pride I had had slipped under the table, dissolved into the carpet, and seeped into the ancient cracks along with decades' worth of crumbs.

“Who are you going to talk to about this?” Inès continued. “Probably not each other! But it's the most important part. It's like falling off a horse, you know. You have to get back on.”