Monsieur (26 page)

‘Tell me.'

‘“I find that terribly arousing.”'

For the first time in weeks, Monsieur and I share a moment of laughter, like partners in crime who find the spectacle of vice awfully amusing. Then there is a delicious instant of silence, followed by his whisper: ‘You have such a lovely voice, Ellie.'

There is a hint of sadness in his tone. I take advantage of it, gazing at the strange blue shade of the sky, hating every word: ‘Why did you leave?'

‘Ellie?'

Forgive me, I think. I hate myself but I have no choice. I must know.
I try to sound neutral, hoping that, three hundred kilometres away from me, Monsieur will not notice that my heart is about to shatter. ‘I haven't done anything wrong. I just don't understand.'

‘What don't you understand, sweetie?'

(‘Sweetie'. I realize my status has changed: I am now labelled like all the others whose existence I suspect. How does ‘my love' turn into ‘sweetie'?)

‘I can't understand how from one day to the next you stopped calling me, answering me, communicating with me in some way. I can't understand how it can prove easier for you to act like that, instead of just telling me you've had enough.'

‘I never did have enough. I—'

‘Stop. Please, stop. Let me finish. I know you pretty well and I get the feeling you've had enough. Otherwise you wouldn't have stopped.'

‘Ellie—'

‘You're like me. As long as things feel fine, you'd carry on.'

‘You, of all people, should know it's not easy. All this has nothing to do with my desire for you.'

‘So what's the problem, then?'

‘I felt we were moving in the wrong direction. Things were becoming dangerous.'

Shit. I freeze. Here we are. The moment when I can choose to believe him or decide that he's lying through his teeth. This is the moment my head splits in two. It'll affect me for days and he, of course, won't have a clue what's going on inside me. Frankly, I have no wish for Lucy to be a witness to this, because right now I no longer have anything in common with the witty and brilliant Ellie I can be when I'm with her. What with my wet ponytail and my father's shapeless sweat-shirt, I look like shit. I try to get my nerves under control, twisting my curls into unwieldy clumps and knots.

‘How can I be dangerous? I never asked you for commitment.'

‘That's not what I'm talking about. I mean risks I can or cannot take. It's not easy for me, you know.'

‘Because of your wife?'

‘Because of many things. We were heading in the wrong direction. You know we were.'

I have difficulty in controlling my anger. ‘So why the hell are you calling me?'

‘I wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed your letter. You put so much of yourself into it.'

‘But if you read it all, you will no doubt remember that I ended it by suggesting we meet up again to fuck.'

‘That's right,' Monsieur says, and I see his smile light his face. ‘It's a part of the letter that charmed me.'

‘Just that particular part?'

‘And the prospect of fucking you. The thought of your arse.'

For a few more minutes at least, the Ellie Lucy is watching has an opportunity to shine.

‘So?'

‘So what, sweetie?'

‘What do we do, Monsieur? Do we fuck or don't we?'

He explodes with laughter, but for just a second, within the beauty of the sound, the open-throated roar, there is an unmistakable overload of joy that betrays him: Monsieur is uncomfortable. He's probably thinking he had the monopoly on indecent proposals, and the misunderstanding is so typical of our situation. He is totally unaware of the misery he's put me through. I've been playing the game too subtly. Subtlety has to be perceived on both sides of the fence. I have no choice but to be openly wanton: it's the only way I can exploit such brief moments of grace.

‘I don't know,' Monsieur answers. ‘What should I say, Ellie?'

‘Don't you feel like it?' I'm being evasive, in search of a new tone, with all the lascivious inflections of a courtesan putting forward the right arguments.

‘I'm dying for it, as you well know. Every time I see you, I get a boner.'

(In many ways, Monsieur is like Pink Floyd's
Eclipse
: on occasion, the words he pulls out burst inside me, taking me light years away from where I stand to unimaginable places where all he says must happen.)

‘So, tell me we're going to fuck. It's so simple, you and me in a room, on a Tuesday morning.'

‘I'd love to. You know that.'

‘So, let's do it! You keep saying “you know that”, but I don't seem to know anything. You talk to me as if you're dying to see me, but you seem to spend your life running away from me. It hasn't been easy for me either. From one day to the next you just faded away. If it's over I'd rather you told me so.'

‘There is
no way
I could say that to you.'

What is the bastard trying to do to me? Is he dumping me or not?

Through the mist surrounding his voice, I can vaguely hear the soft rhythm of his car's engine and, further afield, the sound of traffic in Parisian streets. I hold back the deep sigh that would let Monsieur know how much I miss the city, how much I would like to be sitting next to him, looking at him, because I know he would want to touch me. Which is all it would take. Night falling across the Marais streets and Monsieur's hands delving under my dress as he explains that our relationship can never work.

‘I'm sorry, some of the drivers around here are so awful. Can't you understand that the whole situation is a thousand times simpler for you?'

‘How so? Do explain, because from where I stand I'm pretty convinced you're the one who has the advantage.'

‘Me?'

‘Yes, you. You have your wife, your job, and on the side a chick whose only demand is to be fucked. You have everything.'

‘You're looking at it in the wrong way. You're twenty, you have no ties, the whole world belongs to you. I have many obligations. Believe me, you have it easier.'

‘That's so WRONG!' I cry out, forgetting that Lucy is listening to me and my father is lighting the barbecue close by. ‘It's wrong, and so unfair of you to even think it. You say things like that as if what the two of us have shared hadn't touched me inside, as if I'd already forgotten about it. Has it ever occurred to you I might have an opinion on our relationship? I wasn't asking for much – even “Go to hell” would have been enough.'

‘Maybe there was so much violence in our relationship that it called for a violent ending.'

I react to this with a lengthy, indecisive silence, even as the core of me is screaming: ‘No way was
that
violent, darling. You merely disappeared off the face of the earth, and I couldn't reach you however hard I tried. It was terribly painful. Speaking bluntly, it was as if you'd run into me with your car and left me for dead on the side of the road. But I wasn't dead. You should have been the one hanging on the telephone, piling up masses of incoherent messages. You should have been in my place and me in yours. That would have been fun, no? Then we'd see if you'd prefer a quick death or an endless one. And I . . .'

But hold on. Hold on hold on hold on. Why is he going on about an ending if . . .?

‘If you thought it was over, why did you acknowledge a letter like the one I sent you? All you had to do, yet again, was nothing.'

‘I was thinking of you.'

How can you argue with that sort of man? Monsieur always finds a way to turn the situation back to his advantage, so I'm mad with rage and overflowing with joy that he still has me in mind, however briefly, even if his thirst for me can be quenched at will.

‘A pretty good reason,' I mournfully concede.

‘You seem strange today,' Monsieur remarks, and doesn't know how right he is.

‘It's just that I have no clue where all this is leading, and I don't know what to think.'

Monsieur struggles for inspiration. ‘I don't know, either. When are you back in Paris?'

‘Not sure.'

A single word, a date provided by Monsieur, would be enough for me to go and purchase my return ticket, but I like the way my ‘not sure' sounds. I'm not sure and don't give a damn about finding out.

‘I'm about to drive into the car park so I have to leave you. I can call back any time you want.'

‘As you wish.' I sigh. ‘You can call me tomorrow when you go to work.'

‘OK.'

Even though I'm desperately biting my lip, I have to squeeze out a PS in a pitiful attempt to counter the indifference I fear I have just conveyed: ‘I thought you no longer loved me, that's all.'

‘Don't think that, Ellie.'

‘No?' My smile has returned.

‘No. If I could see you, if it weren't so risky, I would do so as soon as possible.'

‘Good.'

‘OK, sweetie?'

‘OK,' I say, to the voice that is so delightfully nibbling my ear lobe.

‘So, all's fine, then. I have to go. I'll call you tomorrow.'

‘Tomorrow.'

‘Kisses,' Monsieur whispers.

‘Me too,' I whisper back, and there is no way for me to describe with any clarity the three or four seconds of silence that follow the end of the conversation, a short eternal instant while I listen to his breathing, wondering if I should say any more, the deep hum of the car's engine and then nothing. It's over. I'm going to have to manage until tomorrow morning, compiling the inventory of everything else Monsieur and I could have said between these two parentheses.

I stand, arms hanging at my sides, in the wet grass. So, Monsieur has returned. From nowhere. I have no idea how he spent all that time away from me. All I know, and it makes me perfectly happy, for a couple of minutes, is that Monsieur is back. Monsieur exists. Monsieur is alive. I've spoken to him. My whole body is on fire.

‘So?' Lucy asks me, approaching me, as she always does, in total silence.

‘I still don't know.'

‘He wants to go to bed with you again?'

‘Yes. Or I think so. He seems to want to, at least. Unless he's lying. I never know. This is Monsieur we're talking about.'

As we walk back to the house, I'm tormented by lack of understanding. What does he want from me? I know I shouldn't but I send him a text with a final question: ‘Do you want me to stop squirming in your presence like a cat in heat?'

Monsieur answers within seconds: ‘No.'

Permission to remain happy . . . for the time being.

The following day at a quarter past eight, I'm smoking my first cigarette of the day in my grandmother's small garden. As Alice, Lucy and I stayed up late, I have difficulty in keeping my eyes open. Right now, Monsieur must be rushing out of the misted-up bathroom, a towel round his waist. Perfectly shaven, a discreet touch of cologne behind his ears and across his wrists. I'm sure he jerks off under the shower, slowly, beneath the streams of hot water. What he's thinking of when he does so I cannot fathom, but he could possibly be thinking of me. Then he dresses in silence in the muggy heat of the bedroom where his wife is still sleeping. He meets Charles in the corridor, briefly strokes his long hair. In the kitchen Monsieur drinks a cup of coffee and initials Adam's schoolwork. He doesn't sit down, breakfasts in a hurry. It's only at the surgery that Monsieur allows himself to slow down, act with care. It's only at the clinic that he is a genius. In the rest of his life, he runs, is always on the run, no matter what. I've often heard him complain about it, but he would find it difficult to live any differently.

Eight thirty: Monsieur kisses Estelle, who's just emerged from the bedroom in her nightie. The kids have already left.

‘See you tonight,' he says, and a few minutes later he is in the car.

His mobile is in the side pocket, connected to a speaker. The world outside appears smoky behind the dark windows. I can see it all without much thought: I imagine his smell in the car, the corners of his lips that would still taste of coffee if I were to lick him there. Monsieur exits the car park, negotiating the sharp corners by instinct, ready to face the new day. Outside, on the quai de la Mégisserie, all pink and pale in the sun, pedestrians nod to him, as if he weren't even there, just a shadow behind the tinted glass of the windscreen. If Monsieur allowed me to cross his car's path, I think I'd stand paralysed in the glare of his headlights.

A quarter to nine: amid the traffic jams, Monsieur is fuming. He speaks to Estelle about the holiday arrangements, but he's not really concentrating on what he's saying as the holidays are still so far in the future. Three operations today, and God only knows how many consultations. His head is full to
bursting
. No space left for thoughts of being alone in the sun with his wife. Or me.

Five to nine: Monsieur parks in front of the clinic's iron gates. As soon as he leaves his car, he's intercepted by a colleague who wants to talk and walks with him to the main building. In the changing room, where he slips on his scrubs, Monsieur leaves his briefcase, his wallet, his mobile and me, and locks them all away. Monsieur is
operating
. Monsieur is a
grown-up
. Monsieur has
responsibilities
.

As I have no genuine responsibilities, I go back to bed. In the bed, my youngest sister turns over, grumbling: ‘What's up with you?'

‘Nothing. I just couldn't sleep.'

Louise has probably fallen asleep again. The living room is in total darkness. In a few minutes, my grandmother will be up. If I don't doze off by then, I'll be in trouble. What should I do? My hatred for Monsieur is keeping me awake.

Once I've sufficiently annoyed Louise with my fidgeting, I get out of bed. I go to the first floor where Alice and Lucy are sleeping in a blue room full of damp. I squeeze into my sister's bed and, still snoring, she shifts to make room for me. In the depths of my desolation (or should I say my infinite sadness?) the only prospect I can dangle in front of me to reach a blessed state of sleep is the thought of smoking. Since the advent of Monsieur, it's a good thing I have drugs to compensate for his absence.