How to cheat on your wife [part one]

Friday night.

It's raining and I'm sheltering by the rear entrance of the opera house, smoking a clandestine cigarette before my meeting with Anthony. He's a journalist I've been cultivating in the hope of gaining some publicity for Etienne wines. I'm already late for my rendezvous, but isn't that the lady's prerogative anyway?

I stub out the end of my fag on the pavement and cross the street to the restaurant. Tony is waiting in the bar downstairs, bottle of wine already opened, reading the Telegraph. He looks up as I enter, gets up and takes my coat. A true gentleman.

Vesper, he says.
I beg your pardon?
Casino Royale. You look just like the girl, Vesper Lynd. Fabulous.
I see where he's coming from. My dress has a plunging neckline just like the one worn by Eva Green.
I sit down opposite tony and he pours me a glass.
Bet you didn't know Eva was also born in Paris, and only a few weeks before me.
Amazing. You could almost be her double.
Here's another fascinating thing. In September I stayed at a hotel just across the water from the Villa in the movie.
Uncanny, he says, smiling.
He's staring at my cleavage, of course.
You are a sumptuous feast for sore eyes, he says. If I weren't happily married....
Does that stop anyone these days?
It should, he says glancing to his left.
The waiter is hovering, so we follow him upstairs to the restaurant.

The menu looks expensive, but Tony isn’t bothered.
Have anything you like , he says, we’re not paying for it.
And I thought you were taking me out to dinner, I chide him.
If I were we wouldn’t be dining here, he replies.
We both order a rib eye steak, on Tony’s recommendation.
He leans back and drains his first glass of wine, grabs the bottle and pours out some more.
What a great job I've got, he says. I get to have dinner with a beautiful girl, and I don’t even have to pay.
I'm sure you say that to all the girls
No really, you do look fabulous Sandrine.
You have a quite a reputation with the ladies.
I lean my chin on my elbow and sip some wine. A nice Chablis, actually. So he knows his wine.
He smiles.
All in the past. Since I met Charlotte things have settled down. Course I still drink like a fish, but that’s all part of the job.

Anthony isn’t that good looking – balding, bespectacled, late thirties – but he makes up for it with wit and intelligence. Like many journalists he has plenty of contacts, but it helps having been educated at Eton and Cambridge.
Opens so many doors, he admits.
He’s a ferocious name dropper too, with stories about the mayor of London, and many MP's including Cameron.
The next PM, he says. Thank god, this country will be run by its natural leaders, the aristocracy.
I'm not so sure
Well, you’re French he says, no offence, but you’re a bolshy lot.
We laugh together at this.
I tell him that I’m half American, and he goes into detail about his time in New York working for one of the literary mags. He knows Brooklyn and Manhattan well, and is knowledgeable on the cultural scene over there. Tony also claims to have dated many attractive women, including the ex girlfriend of a famous English actor.
But not Eva Green, I say.
Sadly not, he smiles, but you’re not a bad double.
Are we going to talk about wine at all, I ask.
Well, I'm no expert, but I can certainly write an article on the merits of the Luberon wines, with special mention of your cousin's vineyards.
He suggests a visit might be necessary to see for himself.
I don’t see why not, I reply.
We drink to the entente cordiale.

After dinner we stand on the steps and tony hails a taxi.
The night is young, he says. How about coming to my club for a drink? This ones on me.
Well, in that case, I accept.
Except its not really a club – more like an illicit underground drinking den that stays open all night. Its in a dimly lit cellar somewhere near Lincoln’s inn.
Tony orders a bottle of champagne and we sit together in a dark corner.
He snakes an arm around my back and squeezes me. I sense that the drink is taking him over. We chat about Etienne’s business and my role as its London agent. At 3am he insists on walking me home and we head for my flat in Trafalgar.
I tell him I’m amazed that he hasn’t made a pass at me all night.
You’re a great girl, he says, but I couldn’t get it up if I tried. Not with all the booze I’ve had tonight. I thought you were a lesbian anyway
Not exclusively, I say.
He puts an arm round my shoulder and points to the square.
Great view isn’t it, he says, if it wasn’t for that Nelson fella we might be overrun by frogs
You’d hate that wouldn’t you.
I stare into his eyes for a long time and kiss him lightly on the lips. He plays with my hair as I lean against him.
Sandrine, Sandrine. you’re a lovely girl, but.....
I know. You’re married.
Just bad timing, I guess. He shrugs
I didn’t want an affair, I tell him. Just tonight.
Our bodies are touching and I feel his erection against my stomach.
Trouble is it wouldn’t end there. Before you know it there’d be more nights. And then.
Maybe some other time, I suggest
I don’t think so. Goodnight Sandrine.
I cant believe he’s walking away and we haven’t made love, hardly kissed. I must be losing my touch.

But the next day he leaves several messages on my phone asking me to contact him before I leave town.
I phone him after the third one.
I just need to check a few things for the article, he says.
I might have room to squeeze you in. what did you have in mind?
Can we chat at your place.
Chat. Yes, of course, two clock’s fine.
He’s hooked, I can tell. I check my hair in the mirror.
Sandrine, you’re a very bad girl. I giggle to myself.

Rue des Dames

Lucien Lacombe, Bistrot des Dames, Rue des Dames, Batignolles, Paris. September 2009.

It was right here, in the Rue des Dames, that I first set eyes on Sandrine Krantz. It was that moment that changed my life.

I had a little studio in the Place Fillion, a house in Montmartre, a beautiful English wife who loved me. Everything was roses.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not blaming Sandrine for any of this. What happens happens. Que sera sera. But if I hadn’t run across her that day in the Rue des Dames, maybe I’d still be happily married.

Instead I live alone, on the second floor of an art deco building in the Rue Truffaut. Maybe I should move away from here, to avoid the memories, like Sandrine did. But whatever I think, this is where I belong.

I remember that when we met, Sandrine was with a girl I knew, a street girl named Anouk. They both lived in the same building on Rue Truffaut. I was struck straight away by her dark good looks, and her ample figure. We got into conversation and I asked if she’d ever done any modeling. She laughed, said her mother had been a fashion model, but she herself had only sat for artists. She insisted that she was a poet, and her mind was going to be her living. From where I was sitting I’d have disagreed though.

I met my wife, Amy, when I was on a photography assignment in London. This was when I worked for a men’s magazine, and she was one of the models. Now I’d seen plenty of naked girls, but she was something else. Natural blonde hair, blue eyes, sweet smile, voluptuous body. The camera loved her, and in time so did I. We dated for a year then got married and came to live in Paris. But I digress.

Sandrine agreed to let me photograph her, if I’d read some of her poetry. She came round to my studio the next day, and I took some black and white photos of her in lace underwear. She looked terrific, very sensual. After that, we became good friends. She was always hanging around the cafes on the Rue des Dames, and we spent time together, chatting about intellectual things – poetry, literature, art. It was a refreshing change from Amy, who despite being a charming girl was not at all cultured. I found myself slowly being captivated by Sandrine.

At this time Batignolles was a hotbed of artists and writers, bohemians and intellectuals. Sandrine soon infiltrated this milieu, became muse to several poets, working her way through their bedrooms. She became the darling of the poetry circle, even had her work published in literary magazines.

Amy, on the other hand, busied herself by becoming a society hostess. She had style and panache, and our home was tastefully decorated. She loved to hold extravagant dinner parties and invite anyone who was anyone. She liked to demonstrate that the English could beat the French at their own game – cooking – and she did so with aplomb.

I remember well the party to which Sandrine was invited, as my guest, during that fateful year, the year of the millennium. If memory serves me correctly there were six people present, including Raoul, a film producer, Emilie a young actress, and Jacques, a journalist. The party went with a swing, and Amy hit it off with Sandrine straight away. She even stayed behind to help clear up, and they continued drinking into the middle of the night, after I’d passed out on the sofa.

After that night Amy and Sandrine became good friends, and Sandrine spent more time round our house than she did in the cafés of Batignolles. I began to resent this, and although it sounds ridiculous, I believe I was jealous of my own wife. But I didn’t discover what was really going on until later.

A week or so later Sandrine posed for another set of photos, this time in the nude, and they were sensational. I tried to persuade her that she should turn professional, but she refused. She didn’t want to follow in her mother’s footsteps she said, she wanted to be known for her art.

Amy called by my studio one day and happened to see some of these photos displayed on the walls. She couldn’t stop staring at them. She’s very beautiful, don’t you think, she said. I agreed. Then she asked me if I’d slept with Sandrine, which I denied. Well, it was true, I hadn’t. If you mess with her, I’ll leave you, she said. I assured her that she need not worry.

One week later I found them in bed together. It was mid-afternoon, and for some reason I’d come home in the middle of the day, I can’t remember why now. The house was silent except for the occasional murmur of pleasure coming from the direction of our bedroom. I peered round the open door and saw them lying spread eagled together on the bed, both naked. Sandrine was lying on her back with Amy’s head between her legs. Amy turned her head and giggled. Darling, she said, what a nice surprise. Come on in, the fun’s just starting.

I glared at her. Suddenly I didn’t know my wife. I stared at her for what seemed like minutes, but probably wasn’t. Then I turned and stormed out of the house, started running back towards Batignolles.

After that Amy and I were never the same again. Although Sandrine left Paris soon after, we never recovered from that episode. Amy now lives in London with our daughter, Charlotte, and I visit them occasionally. We get on okay, but it’s just civil. She opened a successful bistro in Covent Garden and is married to a banker.

I didn't see Sandrine again until earlier this year when she showed up at my flat in Batignolles. God knows how she found me. We fell into each others arms and had a passionate affair that lasted a month or two. But I sensed that she was just passing through again, and so it was. One day she’d left, without a goodbye. I’ve spoken to her since, and she promises to call me up when she’s in town. Maybe we’ll even have sex again. Sandrine is like that, here one minute, gone the next. Nobody can pin her down, I know that now.

In a way I should have met her before Amy, then maybe things would have been different.

Photo of Sandrine by Lucien Lacombe

Mexicans lost in Mexico

I’m in between swims right now. Turning my attention to the doorstop. Mexicans lost in Mexico. Great title, and for once the writing lives up to the hype. The beauty of the prose is outstanding. Who could fail to be turned on by this tale of poets and poetry?

Maria Font is my new heroine. I only discovered her a few weeks ago but I’m developing what you might call an infatuation.

Maria lives with her sister Angelica in an outbuilding of a two-storey house on Calle Colima, in Mexico City, with her brother Jorgita and their parents. Her father is an architect. Angelica is the poet who won the prestigious Laura Damian literary prize at the tender age of only sixteen. Maria is her elder sister. Her poems have appeared in a literary magazine entitled Lee Harvey Oswald, and also in an anthology of Mexican poetry. The house is often full of poets and Maria is a kind of muse to them.

Maria is tall and dark with straight black hair, a straight nose and thin lips. She listens to Billie Holiday and Astrud Gilberto, and paints whilst reading poetry. Maria has slept with several poets – Luscious Skin, Moctezuma Rodriguez, even young Garcia Madero. She is also a friend of a hooker named Lupe.

Why do I feel such empathy? Well, I used to know a girl just like Maria. It was several years ago, when I lived in Batignolles, a district of Paris. I used to be that girl. I was Maria Font, in all but name.

That’s all I know for now. If I find out any more I’ll let you know.

Room with a view

Forster set his Room with a View in Florence. My view is from the balcony of our room here, and possibly more enchanting than EMF. I can see the calm waters of the lake, the mountains in the backdrop, the little towns on the opposite side of the water, the batello as it nears the jetty down below.

It’s early in the morning and I’m dragging on the first cigarette of the day. From below the smells of baking come drifting up from the kitchen as breakfast is prepared. The bells on the village church have just pealed out six thirty. Behind me Tamara lies asleep in our huge king sized bed. It would probably sleep three people, that bed. Her blonde hair spread across the pillow, her face as cool and calm in sleep as it is when awake.

I’m thinking about my nightmare last night. I won’t bore you with the details, but it was enough to make me cry out, and I woke sobbing uncontrollably. I felt Tamara take me in her arms and comfort me, her soft kisses on my hair, her arms enfolding me. I lay with my head on her shoulder for a long time, unable to move. Not wanting to move. Eventually I fell asleep, but when I awake we are separated, and Tamara lies quietly asleep on her back.

I watch her sleeping for a while. I want to kiss her lips, wake her with my tongue, roll it down her soft white bosom and lick her belly. I pull the covers back and carefully slide in next to her, my hands caressing her waist.

She sleeps on. I let my fingertips play on the elastic of her underwear. If only I could slip a finger into her sweet flower. But I daren't.So I came out here onto the balcony.

It’s been idyllic so far, and I feel sad to leave this beautiful place. I remember my stay here that spring, with Helene. Now Tamara has come into my life. Tomorrow we must leave, but Dr Gerhard has invited us to visit him, across the border in Switzerland.

Maybe there, at last, Tamara and I will become closer.

The History of Nothing

I'd never seen this before I visited the Tate last week. It's in the section entitled States of Flux, situated in small darkened room. This short film consists of a series of images created by Paolozzi in the early 60’s, accompanied by an eerie soundtrack. Although the name Eduardo Paolozzi sounds foreign he was actually born in Scotland. I recall reading about Paolozzi in J G Ballard’s marvelous memoir Miracles of Life. Ballard was a friend of his for thirty years, and they both remained at the cutting edge of their fields during that time.

I find the entire States of Flux exhibition fascinating – Duchamp’s Bride Stripped Bare- Robert Frank’s snapshots of America – the Soviet poster collection Red Star Over Russia – Andy Warhol’s cow wallpaper – and the Fluxus display of newspapers.

That night Alistair and I discuss the provocative nature of some of the images we’d seen at the Tate – Paul McCarthy’s lurid films – Ana Mendieta pouring blood over herself – Marlene Dumas’ obsession with the female body – we agree that most of this is gratuitous and no longer shocking. The talk then turns to erotica and I let slip that I’m friendly with an English erotic artist.

Alistair doesn’t seem that surprised, though he hasn’t heard the name of David Russell. But then he isn’t into that kind of art, preferring the abstract expressionists. He is however impressed by my knowledge of art and suggests that I should join his organization, maybe even as partner. Since Alistair is involved in both wine and art it is tempting and I'm flattered by his offer.

I don't think it's a good idea, I say, to mix business with pleasure.
He laughs - Isn't that precisely what we've been doing this past year?
On an ad hoc basis. But I couldn't commit myself any further at this stage.
You really are a work of art, he says, his hand cradling my waist. We roll onto the bed.
You drive me crazy, he hisses in my ear. I can't resist you any longer.
I struggle as he pushes my skirt up, loosening my blouse, his ardour mounting. He kisses my neck, my bosom, my stomach. I feel almost powerless to resist.
My mobile rings, and Alistair curses. I reach out and answer it.
It's Patrick, the guy I met on the train.

Bonjour Sandrine, he says. We met yesterday, on the TGV.
Hi Patrick, I say. I can already see a jealous look on Alistair’s face.
Listen, I don’t have much time. Are you free Saturday afternoon?
Maybe. What did you have in mind?
Would you meet me for lunch at the Opera House. Is that okay?
Alistair looks quite uncomfortable. This is delicious.
Okay, I’ll meet you at say one o clock. Saturday.
I hang up.
Who’s this Patrick, says Alistair.
Just a guy, I say, another business contact.
I thought you and I were having dinner on Saturday night?
It’s not a problem. There are such things as taxis.
Is he in the wine trade?
Not as such, I say. More the publishing business. He might be able to help with my poetry.
How fucking interesting, he says. He actually said fucking. And he never swears usually.
I want to slap his face, right there. Instead I just wipe my mouth and throw my tissue at him.
You don’t own me, Alistair. Nobody owns me, okay?
Really? How about Etienne wines.
I get up and sling my bag over my shoulder.
I’m leaving now.
Go ahead. Just don’t forget our unfinished business.
I want to tip the wine bottle over his head, but think better of it. Instead I turn on my heels and leave.

Dinner with Tamara

So we have dinner, Tamara and I.

Her restaurant is in the main thoroughfare that stretches alongside the River Sorgue. Here there are many restaurants cafes and bars – perhaps too many for them all to succeed? When I arrive it’s early evening and the place is deserted. Tables are laid in anticipation, menus are chalked up, but as yet no customers. I venture into the adjacent building and find Tamara seated at the bar reading the latest Midi Libre.

We sit outside consulting the wine list. I tell her of my experience in the wine trade, and she is quite impressed.
I could do with somebody who knows their wine, she says, suggesting I order the drinks. I choose a bottle of rose from Bandol. I also recommend Etienne’s vineyard, which she has heard of, but not done business with.

Soon the wine has loosened our tongues. She’s giving me a potted history. The story so far.
Like me, Tamara never graduated from university, but dropped out from classics studies to spend time drifting around the Med with her boyfriend. They married at twenty, too early says Tamara, and it soon turned sour.

The husband stayed in England, but Tamara returned to the Midi, looking for a job in catering. It was, she says, the turning point. She discovered she loved cooking, and worked her way up from the bottom.Now she’s in her late thirties, and her second marriage seems to be less than secure. But it’s difficult to leave, she explains, because of Sebastian, her son.

Normally, I’m a bit reticent, with people I’ve just met. Yet for some reason, I’m inclined to be totally honest with her.

I tell her about Sandrine, and Krantz, and what happened to them. How Etienne took over my life, after the accident. About my love affair with Helene. I even tell her about Batignolles – Anouk, Erotic Amy, Lucien, things I’d buried deep. How Gerhard helped me during my mental breakdown, and subsequent recovery.

I even tell her about David, the English painter I met on the internet, a few years back. She seems genuinely interested, and uncannily, she has a page on the same website. I suggest she writes to him.

Tamara covers the bill and we walk across to her car. She leans back in her seat.
I glance at the steering wheel, wondering how far over the limit she is. The needle is hitting speeds of over one hundred along the road towards Apt.
You’re so pretty Sandrine. How come you never married?
Haven’t you guessed yet, I say.
She just sighs. Come on, let’s get you home. Where is it?
Next right, just follow the signs for Menerbes. Keep going past the village and I'll tell you when to stop.
Soon we’re hurtling along the tree lined roads and the wind is playing havoc with my hair.
Tamara glances at me and smiles.
I’m so glad we met, she says.
Tears are streaking my face as the car takes a bend too fast. She laughs.
Whoops, good job there’s no traffic.
For the first time in years, I feel great. I’d be quite happy if it ended right here, right now, on this stretch of road, with the wind in my hair and Tamara next to me.
That night, I dream of Sandrine, and her wonderful smile. I realise, that’s what Tamara’s smile reminds me of. It all comes back to that, in the end. Sandrine.
I wake up and wonder if it was all a dream. A terrible, beautiful dream.

The Brooding Silence

The afternoon sun beats down. The surface of the pool is undisturbed, for the moment. There are two of us on the terrace, myself and Etienne. Etienne et moi.

We’re alone because Francine, Etienne’s wife of almost two years, has moved out to live with her family in Marseille. One argument too many, is how Etienne explained it. He doesn’t seem concerned that she may not return. Not now I’m here to keep him company, at least. His muse is back, and he seems relaxed.

Apart from the background hum of the cicadas, it's eerily quiet here. The silence is almost menacing. I know what Camus meant when he referred to the Luberon as “an enormous block of silence” The mountain seems to be waiting – for what I don’t know. But it sits there like a slumbering giant.

There is also a silence between Etienne and I, tension in the air. We are suddenly uncomfortable with each other. There are looks exchanged that say more than mere words. Behind his sunglasses I feel his eyes boring into me, observing my body as I prepare to dive into the still waters of the piscine. After my swim, I sense his eyes lingering on my wet swimsuit, on the nipples almost piercing the stretched lycra.

Inside the house, we pass each other in the narrow spaces, almost touching. We take meals together, we sit in the lounge together, we are civil. I read magazines whilst Etienne is absorbed in the cycling on TV. He rejoices as a French rider, Voeckler, wins the stage to Perpignan.
You sure he’s French, I ask, with a name like Voeckler?
From Alsace, apparently, Etienne informs me. May I also point out that your name is hardly French, Mademoiselle Krantz, he adds.
I have to admit, he’s got a point.
It’s Jewish, I reply. The Jews are from everywhere, we don’t have a country.
That must be confusing.
Liberating actually, I tell him.

Then I describe to him in vivid detail my dream, from last night.
I’m in a dress shop in Paris, on the Avenue de Liberation, I tell him. I don’t even know if there is such a street.
I wouldn’t know he says, you’re the Parisian.
Anyway, I’m with Sandrine, and she’s modelling clothes, asking for my opinion, the way she used to. She looks wonderful in a short scarlet summer dress.
Somebody is tapping on the window of the shop behind me. I turn round and its you, smiling at me. Did we ever meet, I ask, while mama was alive?
Etienne rubs his stubble. Maybe once. But it wouldn’t have been in Paris. Maybe in Bordeaux, he suggests.
So we leave the shop, and we’re crossing the street, the three of us. Suddenly this car comes hurtling round the corner, heading straight for Sandrine. And as it comes nearer, I glimpse the driver’s face. It’s definitely Krantz.
Etienne shrugs. And then what?
I don’t know. I woke up right there. His face frozen in my mind.
Did you tell Gerhard?
Of course, I send him all my dreams.
What did he think?
He hasn’t replied yet.
It was only last night, Sandrine. I’m sure he’s not seen the message yet.
He reaches out and takes my hand subtly. I withdraw it quickly.

The funny thing is, I’d started to rationalise it in my brain. I was getting over it.
I was thinking about this the other day. What if she hadn’t died?
Well, my life would’ve been completely different. Almost certainly I wouldn’t have gone to Montaigne – which is where I met Helene. I doubt if Etienne would’ve been such a big influence on my life. Probably I’d have gone to University in Paris, like Sandrine. I might now be a safe suburban bourgeois housewife in some dull provincial town.
I might never have met anyone in my subsequent life – and I started thinking, maybe there was a reason for her death. There is a silver lining. Helene alone was almost worth it.

Later that evening, after drinking a bottle of wine from Etienne’s own vineyard, we’re in the tiny kitchen together. He’s staring at me as he finishes his glass. Then he snakes an arm round my wait and pulls me toward him. I try to resist but he’s too strong. He holds me tight, so close I can feel his erection against my stomach. He whispers my secret name, my birth name. He hasn’t called me that for ages.

Don’t worry, he’s saying. I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.
I look up at him. I know he means well, but he’s part of the problem.
I need to move on, Etienne, I say. This is part of the past, don’t you see?
He nods. Please, he says, just tonight, for old times?
He strokes my hair, then kisses the nape of my neck. I’m fighting it, but another part of me wants him. Once he has lowered the straps on my dress it’ll be too late, as his tongue rolls down my cleavage. I remember how it used to be, when Etienne and I were lovers, back in Bordeaux. Before Helene came along and made things complicated.

The next morning it’s still quiet. I’m watching the sunrise over the Luberon. It’s the same every day but I don’t get tired of it. Am I tired of Etienne? I’m not sure any more. In the end we'd slept together, but without going all the way. I just lay in his arms for hours, curled up. Now he lies asleep, less powerful, more innocent than I’d seen him for years. His breathing the only sound in the echoing void of the Luberon dawn.

The English Rose

Tamara – never Tammy, she hates the shortened version – is Gil's wife. I’d spoken to her briefly on the phone to arrange our meeting. She told me she’d sacked the immobilier, whom she said was incompetent. She's English, but her French is pretty good, now she’s lived over here for a number of years.

When we meet that evening at their house, it feels strange - I'm wearing her dress, for a start. But she’s very gracious and charming. Taller than I’d imagined, with a mane of glossy golden hair, deep brown eyes, and a slender physique. She speaks in the polished tones of a newsreader, and her voice makes me tingle. [The photo is taken from her web page]

Gil has already given me a tour of the house, but Tamara insists on showing me her pride and joy, the garden. As we walk I learn something of her life here. She's lived in the Midi for many years, and worked her way up from the bottom in the catering trade. When she met Gil, he already ran a successful business [selling cars]. Then she became pregnant with Sebastian, and they married and bought the little restaurant she now runs on the banks of the Sorgue.

I ask why they’re selling the house, and she looks sad for the first time.
Business is not so good, she says, maybe we need somewhere smaller?
It’s almost dark now, we’re sitting in the garden but its still quite warm.
How about you Sandrine, she asks. I don’t know anything about you, are you married, what do you do for a living?
Some other time, I say. I'd better get back. Etienne will wonder where I am.
That’s your husband?
No, he's my cousin. It's a long story.
She stands and pulls me up by both hands.
It’s been so nice meeting you, she says. We must have dinner, at my place.
I smile. That would be nice, I say.
She kisses me on both cheeks.
Keep the dress she says, it looks better on you anyway.
As I get in the car my heart is pounding. Tamara has made a deep impression on me. As she waves goodbye I feel excited at the thought of seeing her again. Maybe this is the start of a beautiful friendship?

House Hunting

It’s been a long day house hunting. I’m late for my final appointment, a detached maison in the Pays Sorgues. When I arrive there’s no sign of life. No response to my knock on the heavy oak front door. Nobody in the garden when I walk round the side of the property.

At the bottom of the garden, past the olive trees and the beautiful piscine, is a small cottage. It looks uninhabited, but when I try the door, to my surprise it opens. Inside, there are two main rooms. One is a kitchen dinner, the other a small bedroom, with an en suite bathroom. It’s all been beautifully decorated.

I’m standing before the large patio doors, looking out onto the veranda, when I’m startled by a voice, close to me, from behind.
Hands up. Don’t turn round, you’re under arrest, it threatens. A young voice, a boy’s voice, I reckon.
I turn round anyway, hands raised. I’m confronted by a menacing dwarf in combat fatigues, armed with a gun. The gun is loaded with water, and its owner is a boy of about 11 or 12.
I told you not turn round, he barks. You’re not supposed to be here.
He comes closer, affecting a snarl.
I’ve only come to look round your house, I tell him. Are your parents home?
I’m going to get my dad, he shouts.
Then the little beast fires a volley of water at me. From such close range, he could hardly miss. So I’m standing there, in this gite, my dress is saturated, and this man walks in. He’s very tall, tanned, balding, wearing shorts and sandals. He looks faintly amused by the situation, whereas I am not.
I’m sorry, he says, but Sebastian, my son, is trained to protect his property. He thought you were an intruder.
He’s very well trained, I say.
I didn’t know you were coming, mademoiselle….
Krantz. Sandrine Krantz. I arranged the appointment with your wife. I’m a little late though.
He nods.
I see, well, she’s at the restaurant right now.
He’s standing too close for my liking, staring at me.
You ought to get out of those wet clothes, he says.
It’s okay, I say, I don’t live far. It doesn’t matter.
Don’t be silly, I’m sure Tamara would love to meet you.
I hesitate for a moment. It would only take a flicker of weakness, and I sense he’s interested in me. His eyes are boring into mine, and his hands rest on his hips.
I’m sure my wife wouldn’t mind you borrowing one of her dresses? She’s about the same size. I imagine.
He’s looking me up and down. I feel uncomfortable.
You know I could have you arrested, he laughs. He leans forward, placing his hand on the wall above my shoulder. I can smell his breath. Faint traces of alcohol, and cigarettes.
I’m shivering now, it’s cool and my dress is sticking to my body. I try to stay calm, but he’s making me nervous.
I’m still waiting, he hisses, for you to take that dress off.
I look over his shoulder, to where a small figure stands still armed with his gun.
Papa, he shouts, are you going to torture her?
He looks angry, and his erection subsides quickly. Now it’s my turn to smile.
The man turns round laughing. It’s okay, son, he says, it’s just a misunderstanding. This lady is here to view our house.
He throws me a look.
You can use the shower, and there are some clothes in the wardrobe. Help yourself. Come up to the house when you’re ready.
Merci, I manage to stutter.

The Golden Triangle

I’m back at last. I’ve returned to the triangle d’or – the so-called golden triangle: Gordes, Menerbes, Bonnieux. It feels good to be here again. Etienne v. pleased to see me, naturally. Taking a well-earned rest from that business in London and Paris. I told him what Julien said about his small time operation – Etienne just snorted. We can’t all be conglomerates, was all he said.

Life is on hold for the moment. I’m in a dreamlike state. All that travelling has unsettled me. I decide I need a foothold – somewhere to call home. Etienne has some places lined up for me, and even lends me his wheels – well, his wife’s vehicle actually – for the purpose.

It feels like I’ve been drifting for the last couple of years. Trying to find myself, also trying to bury the past. Paris was a mistake, too many memories, too many ghosts. Down here I can relax, unwind, maybe even get some poetry going?

I've seen quite a few properties this week, a tour of the Luberon - from Apt in the east all the way to Avignon. One place in particular stood out, though not for aesthetic reasons. That'll be the subject of my next blog.

Harry Potter and the Dreaming Spires

I needed to escape the madness of Paris. Julien, Lucien, Etienne, all of them. Fortunately a knight - Sir Alistair, in fact, for it was he – arrived to save this damsel in distress.

Alistair has this great idea that I should join him in Oxford for the weekend. He’s often promised to give me a whistle stop tour of the city. Now’s his chance – under cover of a business meeting – to do so.

Alistair is an authoritative guide, taking me through the highlights – the Bodleian Library, the Radcliffe Camera, Blackwells bookshop, then down towards the river for a visit to his old college, Christ Church. The cathedral is very impressive, the detail of the stained glass windows amazing. Unfortunately the dining hall, where they made the Harry Potter films, is closed while the students take lunch. The sun is shining on the meadow and we sit outside the pub for a quick glass of beer. Alistair glances at his watch, says he has another appointment this afternoon, but has booked us a table for tonight, at Browns.

I spend the afternoon at my hotel, have a swim and a sauna, and feel refreshed when the taxi arrives just before eight. I’m wearing a tight fitting turquoise dress, nicely distressed hair, heavy make up, expensive perfume from Paris, and the six-inch heels. I feel ready for anything.

The restaurant we’re going to, Browns, is apparently renowned for it’s atmosphere. I can see why, it’s very popular. The place is crowded, mainly young people, the tables close together. Alistair and I are ushered to our table and I start to feel good. Four girls on the table next to us are drinking and laughing. Everywhere the sound of chatter fills the air. Waiters buzz past with plates of great smelling food.

Alistair orders a bottle of champagne. The waiter takes our orders, I opt for a crab and avocado salad to start. I tell him about my being head hunted in Paris, and my uncertainty surrounding that.
Oddly enough, he was about to suggest something similar himself, so he says.
You want me to work for you?
Maybe, but there’s something else. Caroline has demanded a divorce.
I tell him I’m sorry, if I’ve caused him any problems.
He smiles. No, it was going to happen anyway, he says. Actually, you’re the best thing that’s happened to me for years.
He squeezes my thigh, leans closer. I’m feeling high.
But won’t a divorce be costly, I say.
He shrugs. Money isn’t everything, you know. Besides, she deserves a decent settlement. But I won’t be destitute.
That’s good, I’d hate to see you cleaned out.
The thing is Sandrine, he takes my hand in his, I don’t want you to work for me. I’d offer you an equal partnership.
Are we talking business here, or something else?
It could be anything you want, he says.
That’s very generous.
He looks me right in the eye.
I’m in love with you, he says. I can’t stop thinking about you.
I need to think about it though, I say.
I get up and walk slowly to the toilet, taking care not to fall off my heels. The vertigo is making my head swoon. I think he just asked me to marry him. Lady Ella. Sounds good.

In the taxi we hold hands and Alistair has his arm around me. I don’t want the night to end, he whispers, stay at my place. I nod absently, the drink has taken hold.

Alistair’s hotel is sumptuous, far grander than mine. The four poster bed has silk sheets and another bottle of champagne awaits us. He lifts me onto the bed and pushes my dress up, and soon I feel his tongue between my legs, tickling me. Trouble is, I've had too much too drink, and I just don't feel good.
After a minute or two I roll onto my side.
Alistair tells me to wait while he goes for a piss. His erection is quite huge.
I lie back and think of England, Harry Potter, and the dreaming Oxford spires. I’d be crazy to turn him down, wouldn’t I?
But there's this nagging doubt - would it still be the same, if I weren't his mistress, his femme fatale?
I tell him that I'm sorry, I'm just too tired. Tomorrow morning, I promise. He looks disappointed, but concedes defeat.

I wake up first, naturally. The windows are open and a warm breeze flutters the curtains. It's only half light, and the only sound is the rain falling steadily outside. I pull off the covers and shiver, then cross to the balcony, to light my first cigarette of the day. I'm thinking about Alistair, and whether it'd work, me being his partner. The problem is, I don't find men that attractive - I'll never love a man the way I love Helene, for instance.

I dress quickly and sneak out via the fire escape, taking care to carry my heels for fear of the noise they might make. Half an hour later I'm sitting on a train bound for London. I'm thinking about Alistair, and how he'll react to my note - the one that says thanks for a great night, but it's better this way.

I imagine him screaming and swearing, and I struggle to suppress a giggle. The guy in a suit opposite looks up from his paper, glances at my legs.I pout at him and pull my knees up.
Alistair is right, I'm a naughty girl, and I deserve to be spanked.

The wine merchant

Later that afternoon, I turn up for my appointment at the wine merchants. I’ve decided to play it safe. Not too much cleavage, not too much leg. Just a nice classic suit.

The address is in a fashionable area of the Marais district. The décor suggests money, and class. I’m impressed, but try not to show it.

The dealer’s name is Julien. He’s about forty, tanned, with a crop of fair curly hair. His eyes are steely blue. He wears an expensive pale Armani suit, with a deep blue open necked shirt. He smiles politely and shakes my hand warmly.

Mademoiselle Krantz. Enchante.
Sandrine, please.
Your surname, It’s not very French, but you sound local?
I was born in Paris, but my late father was from New York.
An interesting background. But right now, we don’t have much time. Let’s talk business.

We sit at a sofa in front of a low glass table. There are two glasses of wine. Julien pours from a bottle of pink wine on the table. I can’t see the label but I’m guessing it’s one of Etiennes.

And how may I be of assistance, Sandrine.
I tell him that I represent ET, that he’s a cousin of mine, so it’s a family business. We’re trying to expand our business, so we’ve sent him a sample of our wines. We chat about the wine trade in general, how the economic climate is affecting it, the usual small talk. He’s friendly, but businesslike.

He sniffs the glass.
And your vineyards, they’re in the south?
In Vaucluse, I say. Close to Avignon.
It’s very pink, he says. Of course, Rose wines are not so frowned upon these days.
How big is the estate?
Several thousand hectares, monsieur.
I must admit I didn’t know of your cousin’s name. But this wine, is okay. And you are so enthusiastic. And charming.

He stands up. Sadly that’s all I’ve time for. Another appointment in five minutes.
I get up, and we shake hands.
Are you going to buy some of our wine? I ask.
Perhaps. Look, can we make a deal, Sandrine. If I agree to buy some of your family’s wines, will you have dinner with me tonight?
I’m feeling like absolute shite. I think my period’s coming on. But there’s something about him.
That would be my pleasure, I say, smiling.
Au contraire, mademoiselle, I think the pleasure will be all mine.


By the time evening comes around I feel slightly better. At least I clinched the deal, so Etienne will be satisfied. My rendezvous with Julien at the restaurant, is planned for 9pm, so I make sure I’m fifteen minutes late. That seems about right, don’t you agree?

Tonight I’ve been more adventurous. Bright scarlet dress, plenty of cleavage, hemline above the knee. Strongest perfume I could find. Julien is impressed.
Ravishing, is his verdict.
You could sell wine to the arabs, he jokes.

We are escorted to a candlelit table, great view of the city. He orders an extravagant bottle of champagne. The menu is sumptuous, beyond mere mortals.

You know, this feels special, tonight. It feels like the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
You’ve been watching too many films, I say.
He looks bewildered, then the penny drops. He laughs.
I see what you mean, Casablanca. Very romantic also. Of all the joints in all the world, she had to crawl into mine.

His smile is friendly, but there’s something dangerous, something sinister there. I feel a tingle of excitement.
We clink glasses, drink to success. And Etienne wines. He laughs, but his laugh seems cruel, reckless.

When the hors d’ovres have been finished, Julien wipes his mouth and takes a sip from his champagne. He looks me in the eye, until I can’t bear it any longer. I pick up my own glass and sniff the alcohol.

Tell me, Sandrine, where do you see yourself in say five years from now?
I don’t really think about the future, Julien.
But you should, a beautiful and intelligent young lady like you. Could go a long way. You could be very rich.
I’m already rich, monsieur. Well, comfortable. By the standards of ordinary people. I had an inheritance, you see.
So why are you selling wine for your cousin?
I know, it seems ridiculous. But when my parents died…. Let’s just say I owe Etienne a lot.
Sounds like he has some hold over you. That’s not healthy.
I’ve been trying to think of a way round that. But my conscience won’t let me.
Sandrine, you must be more selfish. I sense that you enjoy the good things in life. Good food, good wine, good company. And you have good taste. Frankly, you’re wasted in this line of work.

I’m feeling very hot. I excuse myself to go to the lavatory. I’m feeling nauseous.
When I return, Julien goes on the attack again.
So, tell me, who’s looking after your investments. Sandrine?
I blush.
Etienne, of course. I have property in Paris, and in Bordeaux. Some of it’s rented out. I don’t really need anywhere to live, I’m always on the road. I’m probably worth millions of euros, I don’t really know.
He laughs again, but his laughter seems to mock me.
Beautiful, intelligent, and rich. You have it all.

Tears are running down my face. I dab at them with my serviette. I’m sorry monsieur.
What is it Sandrine? If I’ve offended you, I’m so sorry.
No, it’s not your fault. Everything you say is true. I’ve been a fool. It’s a long story, a sad story. I’m not sure you want to hear it.
He takes my hand.
Sandrine, I want to help you. And I’d love to hear your story.
Maybe now is not the time though. I’m feeling a little jaded. It’s been a long day.

He takes my hand in his, preventing me from getting up.
I’ve got a business proposition that just might interest you.
I seriously doubt it.
Look, how much is Etienne paying you?
I take a sip from my glass. I can hardly tell him the truth, that Etienne doesn’t pay me anything. He’d just laugh at me.
That’s between Etienne and me, I say.
Come on, what’s the going rate for a wine trader?
Here goes.
If you must know, Etienne and I have an arrangement. He lets me stay rent free in his London flat in lieu of payment.
That sounds quite generous. Except that you’re not in London all the time.
But he foots the bill. All my expenses are paid.
Normal procedure, I’m sure. Entertaining clients, that sort of thing.
The flat is in central London. The rent would be about ten thousand. A week.
I get the picture. What if I said id match that.

My eyebrows might have raised at this point.
You want to pay me ten grand a week? To do what?
I lean my head on my palm and stare at him, amused.
I’ll think of something, he says. My business needs people like you – young, intelligent, and dare I say it, sexy.
There’s only one snag. Even if I agreed to work for you, Etienne would never let me go, I’m too valuable to him. He trusts me implicitly. You can’t buy that sort of loyalty. Family loyalty. It’s in our blood.
Very admirable, Sandrine. but don’t you want to better yourself. The world could be your oyster. Etienne is a small operator. My company sells wine all over the world.

I’m playing with my fork. I can’t deny that his offer is tempting.
You don’t know me, I say. Behind this façade, I’m not who you think I am.
Okay. Don’t make a decision right now. Just promise me you’ll think about it.
It’s a big decision, I say. I might need some time. I need to consult Etienne.
You don’t, he says. Don’t consult anyone.

I sit with my head in my hands, my brain is bursting. Julien is calling the waiter over. He tells him to put the meal on the company tab, and we’re leaving. He escorts me to a taxi, and asks me where I’m staying.
A friends, apartment. It’s in the 17th. Rue truffaut.
He smiles. How very charming. But you deserve better, Sandrine. The top tables, the most elegant clothes, the finest perfume. Although, you smell gorgeous tonight. He stretches an arm round my shoulders. I’m too drunk to shake him off. He whispers in my ear.
I want you, he says, and I always get what I want.
I look up at him, his eyes seem to bore into me. His lips are ready to close in on mine.
What if I told you I was gay, I say.
He laughs. His laughter fills the taxi. His hands run through my hair, fondle my bosom. I feel tired, but intoxicated. He stops.
I don’t think so, he says.

The taxi grinds to a halt. Rue Truffaut, monsieur. Julien looks annoyed, like he wishes the journey would take a little longer.
I’d ask you in for coffee, I say, but my friend will be waiting for me.
Goodnight Sandrine, don’t forget my offer.
I wave goodbye as the cab door closes. It’s raining again, and I suddenly realise I have no coat. For the second time that day, I get soaked as I hobble in six inch heels down Rue Truffaut towards Lucien’s.

Chez Lucien

Woke up early again. Another strange dream. As usual have to write it all down before I forget it. Later on I’ll send a report to Gerhard – my shrink.

The dream? This time I’m being pursued through a city at night. Sirens everywhere, police dogs. I’ m dressed totally in black, and with my long dark hair I blend into the darkness. The chase is relentless, and I’m getting out of breath. Just as the dogs gain on me I scream out. This jars me out of sleep.

The digital numbers on the alarm clock read 0400. I won’t get back to sleep now, but it doesn’t matter. Sleep doesn’t interest me. I put on a robe and get out of bed. Soon it’ll be dawn. I pick up my cigarettes and head for the balcony. In the kitchen I stop to put some coffee on. Strong, black coffee.

Soon I’m outside, leaning over the balcony, smoking a gauloise. Not that there’s much to see from here, just the street. Rue Truffaut. Lucien is still asleep, in the other bedroom. Although we’ve become occasional lovers, we don’t sleep together. My dreams would disturb him. Our love making is more spontaneous, wilder.

Lucien’s apartment is on the 2nd floor of a fin de siecle Art Deco building. The second floor is where the wealthiest residents lived, so Lucien tells me. This floor has the highest ceilings, the largest rooms. Two arched French windows open onto the balcony, opening wide to let the sun in and closing tight to block out the light at night. With windows facing in all four directions, the apartment is often bathed in light.

Back in the kitchen I glance through the window. From here you can see the top of the Eiffel Tower peeping above the rooftops and chimneys of Paris. I take the coffee into the living room.

Light floods the spacious living area, casting a warm glow on the original parquet floors. The entire apartment has been delicately furnished, the walls hung with 19th century prints. Lucien has impeccable taste.

I pick up a newspaper that’s been left lying around. It’s a few days old. I glance at the headlines. Berlusconi has put his foot in it again…..some farmers are protesting at Sarkozy’s plan to run a railway through Cezanne country…..both PSG and Marseille failed to win in Europe.

On the stereo lies the sleeve of the LP Lucien played to me last night. Chet Baker Sings. We sat listening to the cool jazz for an hour, whilst eating a romantic dinner. Then we made love on the sofa, fully clothed, like it was the end of the world. I didn’t want to spoil the moment, so I abandoned my plan to tell Lucien. That I might be leaving.

Today I feel refreshed. When I’ve finished the second coffee and fed up with old news, I throw on a pair of shorts and a faded t shirt, tie my hair in a ponytail. Then I’m outside, pounding the pavement. This morning I turn left into Rue des Dames, then head for Place Clichy, en route for the Cimetiere de Montmartre. I rest here for a few minutes, sheltering from the drizzle which has become heavier. On the run home my hair becomes plastered to my face, and my nipples are visible through the wet fabric of my clinging t shirt. I get some smiles, some looks, even some whistles.

Back at the apartment, all is quiet. I walk into the kitchen and Lucien surprises me, pinning me against the wall. He runs his hands over my bosom, then down into my pants. I pull my shirt over my head and he licks my wet skin. His erection is impatient, his desire urgent. We do it there, in the doorway, the rain now teeming outside the window.

I shower and dry my hair. I’m sitting checking the messages on my phone when Lucien wanders in again. There’s one from Etienne, looks like he’s having marital problems again. Frankie is a feisty girl. Another one from Jules, the guy I met at the fashion week party. He thinks I’m cool and we should get together. I recall he knew Sandrine, so I might say yes.

I’m relaxing, looking forward to an uneventful stress-free day, when I get this call. It’s from the secretary of an important wine merchant in the Marais. The managing director has a free appointment this afternoon, if it's convenient. Did I sigh? No, of course not, I accepted, otherwise Etienne would never forgive me.

So here I am, looking like death warmed up. I’ve just run ten kilometres, had sex twice in the last seven hours, only four hours sleep, and I’m still hungover. This had better be worth it.

Girl from the banlieue

Is this Real Life? Or is this just fantasy? What's the difference anyway?

I need time, and space. So I'm taking a rain check on the rat race at present.Here in the banlieues, holed out with a friend. It's me in the photo, taken by Lucien.

You want her name, I guess? You always want detail, don't you? Kind of nosy like that.

Okay, the name is Ella - like the singer Ella Fitzgerald. Whoever Gerald is - Lucien thinks it's funny anyhow.

A photographic model, in fact. I got to know Lucien through posing, and now we've become quite close. She's very beautiful, don't you think?But then, he's a great artist, could make anyone look good.

Ella is from Paris, though you wouldn't guess that from her name. She used to live out in the banlieue with just her cat for company. Lately however she's been staying with Lucien here in the city. Maybe it'll pan out, who knows. For now, she really turns him on. I get the feeling it's mutual.

Lucien has a great apartment. Did I tell you about it? No, I didn't think so, not in detail.
It's on the second floor - known as l'etage nobile - of this art deco building in the old village of Batignolles. Lucien has great taste, as befits a photographic artist.

Soon though, it'll be time to move on. I'd like to stay, really, I would, but there's too many bad vibes here. Too much history. Paris itself is a curse, and the memories crowd in on me when I walk the boulevards. I can't go near St Germain. Sandrine in my head, telling me what to do, driving me crazy. I need to get somewhere she doesn't know about.

Is David right about me? Looking at that photo, maybe I'm a fantasy. An object of desire, perhaps that's all I am, just like Sandrine before me. It hurts though, that he doesn't believe in me.I'm going crazy again, I can feel it. If I didn't have other people - ones who believe in me, I'd cave in.

Here's to you Lucien, Helene, Etienne, Gerhard,and the rest. You know who you are. Je t'aime.

Haute Couture

There’s a man watching me. Men are always watching me, but this is different. He’s staring, intently. A tall man, in his late fifties I’d say. Distinguished, possibly aristocratic. Sophisticated. Why’s he looking at me?

I’m in Paris. It’s fashion week, and Helene has sneaked us into an after show party. I’m not sure who’s paying – possibly Balmain? Whatever, Helene and I are surrounded by fashionistas. Every other word is darling, cherie, love. Sickening, really. The champagne’s good though.

Helene is looking good in her little black dress. I’m dressed to kill in a scarlet outfit bought that very morning on the Boulevard Malesherbes. The tide of faces parts like the red sea. The man in the grey suit is coming. I nudge Helene but she’s too busy chatting up a dark skinned man in claret. Now he’s here, towering over me.

I know the face, he says, just can’t put a name to it.
I don’t believe we’ve been introduced, monsieur, I say.
It’s uncanny, he says, but you remind me of someone. Someone I used to know. A long time ago, he says. When I was young.
He looks wistful. I’m wondering when someone is going to refill my glass.
I’m not in the business, I say, I’m a gatecrasher.
He laughs. Aren’t we all. But you look like a model, he says.
Very flattering, but I’m not taken in.
My mother was in the trade, I tell him. She worked for Balmain too. In the 70’s .
He nods. Ah, those were the days. Balmain was the king of fashion, he says. He costumed Bardot, you know. Classic designs.
What about now, I ask.
It’s different. Christophe is talented, no doubt. But it’s not my taste. Too brash, too modern.
He taps the waiter and pours me another glass. We drink to Balmain.

He tells me about the YSL auction week, what a marvellous collection of art. I tell him that a friend of mine is an artist, and has met Dali, de Chirico, among others. He seems impressed.
Do you live in Paris, he asks casually.
I tell him no, I’m from the banlieue and I’ve lived in Batignolles. Which is where I’m currently staying.
He raises an eyebrow. I imagined you more on the left bank. St Germain, St Michel, somewhere like that.
I tell him I prefer Batigniolles. More down to earth.
He smiles. Your mother, what was her name, cherie.
I tell him, and his eyes light up in recognition.
Sandrine, he says. Of course. You’re very alike. Very beautiful.
You knew my mother?
Not intimately, of course. But yes, we moved in the same circles.
I’m excited, but try desperately to hide it.
I always wondered what became of her, he says.
I stare at him, sadly.
She’s not here anymore, I say.
My eyes are watering, and out of focus. The room seems hot. Maybe I’ve drunk too much champagne. I excuse myself.

Retour a Batignolles

They say you shouldn’t ever go back. Revisit the scene of the crime. That sort of thing. They’re right, of course. But I can’t help myself.

Finding myself back in Paris for the first time in many years, I just have to take the metro out to Batignolles. It’s only a few metro stops Gare du Nord to Clichy. It’s been nearly ten years, but I’m hoping it hasn’t changed too much.

Walking down the Rue des Dames I pass the Bistro des dames – one of my old haunts. Eerily, my English friend David tells me he’s stayed at the adjoining Hotel Eldorado – our paths may even have crossed? Life is full of such intricacies and strange coincidences. My life is, anyway.

The road veers to the right and just around the bend is the narrow Rue Truffaut, where I lived for almost two years. I pass my old apartment block and carry on towards the Square des Batignolles. Lucien used to have his studio here, in the Place Fillion.

Soon I’m standing before the door of his apartment. Only now it’s probably someone else’s apartment. I can hear music coming from inside, heavy drum and bass. I ring the bell and wait a few minutes. I'm about to ring it again when the door is opened. A young teenage girl, sullen, cigarette dangling from her mouth, is glaring at me. I tell her I’m looking for Lucien , the photographer.
You need an appointment, she says.
I’m a friend, I tell her, I don’t need an appointment.
He doesn’t work here right now, she says.
He used to live up in Montmartre, I say, maybe I’ll go there.
The girl is shaking her mane of dark hair. The house is empty, up for sale, she tells me. Try the immobilier.

I retrace my steps to the Agence des Batignolles, on Rue des dames. In the same block as the Eldorado, in fact. I could’ve saved myself some legwork if only I’d known. The guy behind the front desk is about forty, with stubble and an open necked shirt.
You have a property for sale, I say. I tell him the address.
He checks on his computer screen, then looks up. Yes, it’s empty, he says. I can show you around today, if you want.
That’s not necessary, I say, I’m already familiar with the property. But I’m more interested in the vendor, monsieur leblanc? D’you have his current address?
The guy is shaking his head. No, only a mobile phone number. But mademoiselle, you must realise that we have a duty of confidentiality. Whatever your business is with this gentleman, under no circumstances could we give you this information.
Under no circumstances? I give him my best pout. I cross my legs seductively.
He sighs. I suppose I could arrange for you to meet him at the house, he says.

So later that afternoon, at 4pm to be precise, I arrive at Lucien’s former home, in Montmartre. The occupant is dishevelled, unshaven, scruffy. The same old Lucien, except there’s something missing. It’s the smile, of course.
Then he recognises me, and gives me a big hug.
I can’t live here anymore, he explains, since Amy and I separated.
I’m sorry, I say, I didn’t know. That certainly explains the absence of his normal bonhomie.
yes, he says, she’s moved back to England, with our daughter.
He shrugs. But you look marvellous he says, are you back in Paris?
Only for the fashion week, I explain.
Of course, where are you staying?
Maybe with my friend, Helene, you remember. He nods, scratches his head.
So what are you doing now? I went to your old studio.
Oh, I moved out of there too. I’m renting an apartment in Rue Truffaut. Didn’t you live there for a while?
That’s right. On the top floor. All those stairs.
We laugh together, awkwardly, as old friends do when reintroduced.
I’d love you to see my place, he says. I’ve got the whole floor. My studio is also there.
I don’t know, I say. I’m here with my friend Helene, I repeat.
D’accord, he says. Maybe tomorrow?
As usual with Lucien, I can’t resist.

Erotic Amy

The Musee d’Erotisme is on Boulevard Clichy, roughly half way between my old apartment in Batignolles and Lucien's house in Montmartre. I first came here almost ten years ago, fired with enthusiasm by his wife, Amy.

After dinner that first evening, when all the guests had left and Lucien was snoring loudly on the sofa, we sat together in the darkness. Amy said she’d got some gear from Morocco that we should try, to end the evening on a high. Amy raised her eyebrows but I didn’t protest. Soon I could feel myself floating across the room towards her. I remember Amy asking if I wanted to see her photos – she’d been a glamour model, she said, that was how she’d met Lucien.

The photos were quite explicit, one could say erotic. They were mostly taken by Lucien, she told me. That’s why I now refer to her as Erotic Amy. That, and the denouement to our evening, when she became an Erotic Amie. With Lucien dozing less than ten feet away, Amy casually asked if he was screwing me. When I denied it she just tossed her mane of hair and smiled.
I didn’t think so. In fact, something tells me you’re not that bothered by him.
What are you suggesting?
You rather enjoyed my photos, I could tell.
She was staring at me, and her hair shimmered in the dim light coming through the open window.
Well, what do we do now?
At the first touch of her hand on my hair, I felt a tingle of excitement. She was so beautiful, and very gentle. My mind flashed back to my only previous sexual encounter with a female.
You’re very beautiful, she whispered.
Then Amy’s tongue was pushing deep into my mouth, and her hands stroking my thigh. I responded, despite myself. She’d opened a door that had been closed too long. Suddenly I was outside myself, watching as I gave in to long suppressed desires. Her lips were on my own, and our arms entangled as we rolled over.

Later we sat watching the dawn enfold over the city, a gorgeous sight from the hill of Montmartre. Amy passed me a gauloise and exhaled.
You weren’t joking last night, were you she said. You really killed your family.
I coughed on the nicotine, choked on her words.
In a manner of speaking, I said. I mean, if it wasn’t for me, they’d still be around.
You want to tell me about it?
I nodded. Not now, but maybe sometime. When I can trust you.
She laughed.
We just made love, Sandrine. You’ve given me your body. Now I want your soul.
Her eyes flashed. I’d seen that look before somewhere. Why do I always attract crazy people?
But I was intoxicated. I fell under her spell, for a while anyway.

L’homme plus heureux de Paris

A few months after arriving in Batignolles I’m introduced to Lucien. That was also how I got to meet Amy.

Lucien – a freelance photographer, who rents a totally cluttered apartment overlooking the Square de Batignolles itself. This was only his studio, he lives up on the hill at Montmartre. We’re introduced by Victor, the artist downstairs, on one of the occasions when, as was often so, we’re drinking Russian coffee in a café on the Rue des Dames.

Lucien - tall, lean, thick black curly hair, stubble, large brown eyes, check shirts, frayed jeans, dirty trainers, perpetually smoking. A genius behind the lens though.

He’s always on the lookout for models, so he says. Maybe it’s true, but he never seems to be that interested in me, not sexually I mean. He used to say, the camera likes you, but really, it was just him. He liked me, a lot, and the feeling was mutual. Maybe it’d have progressed further, but there always was this reluctance on his part. I knew he was married , but I didn’t reckon that made any difference.

It’s only when I meet his wife, that I discover why he’s always so infuriatingly happy. Lucky Lucien, I’d call him.

One afternoon I meet him in the Square, and he invites me to dinner at his house in Montmartre. It’s here that I meet her – Amy, this stunning English girl, with a mane of glossy golden hair, blue eyes, T shirt stretched tight across her ample bosom. Shy but friendly, a great hostess, with superb taste in décor. Their house is beautifully understated, plain white walls and modern art prints, lots of house plants, plenty of light. I loved it.

Besides myself, there are three other dinner guests - friends of Lucien, I guess.
Emilie, aspiring young actress, tall, slender, elegant, fair skinned, raven haired, assured but no doubt hard work; Jacques, centre left political journalist, dark, suave, crumpled, intense; and Raoul, self important film producer, opinionated, tousled blond hair, penetrating gaze, goatee beard, open necked shirt, tendency to touch people [especially girls], sleazy.

The meal itself is outstanding, almost cordon bleu standard. Amy has produced a very expensive Chateau Lafitte in our honour, from their cellar. She’s been saving it for a special occasion, she says, a wicked smile on her lips.

These are sophisticated upwardly mobile people, and much of the talk is of property, careers, money. I’m soon feeling rather intimidated by them. Raoul seems to notice this for he pauses mid sentence and addresses me.
What about you, mademoiselle, are you in the money?
I glare at him. Of course, I say, I have a flat in the 6th, near the Jardin Luxembourg.
Really, he says, though I can tell he doesn’t believe me.
I also have a flat in Bordeaux, and a crumbling house in the Dordogne.
Raoul swills his wine.
Al this and you’re only what – nineteen?
Twenty, monsieur.
Quite a portfolio, you must be worth a million euros? What’s your secret?
That’s easy, I said, I killed all my relatives.
There is a stunned silence, then Raoul bursts into laughter.
Sandrine, he says, you really are such a tease.

The funny thing is, they all think I’m joking. It’s only Amy who’s staring at me, coolly sipping her wine.

Culture vulture

Some random discoveries this week......

The Guardian ran an appreciative article last weekend about the late Chilean writer Roberto Bolano, author of such novels as The Savage Detectives, and 2666. My friend in Sweden, the mysterious DS, has recommended the poetry of another South American author, one Julio Cortazar. Me, I’m still hooked on Fernando Pessoa.

JM Le Clezio, the French Nobel prize winner, has a new novel published, entitled Wandering Star. Although I prefer his early experimental works – La Guerre or Les Geants. Many of these have recently seen the light of day over here, due no doubt to his belated recognition.

David tells me that he once knew the photographer Angela Gorgas. She has an exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery - previously unseen photos from the late 1970’s, of people like Martin Amis [whom she was once engaged to, I believe].

Mention of the NPG reminds me of the iconic photo taken by Patrick Lichfield, of the beautiful starlet Talitha Pol, in Morocco. The Dutch beauty was once associated with the late YSL, whose art collection goes on auction next month at Christie’s in Paris. The estimated value is £300 million!

From The Observer comes another interesting article – this time about the provocative film maker Virginie Despentes, who has just published a book entitled King Kong Theory. Might be an interesting read is her films are anything to go by – she directed the controversial Baise Moi, among others.

Anouk, Mon Ami

Looking back now, I suppose it was inevitable. But it seemed at the time to be the dawning of a new era. The new millennium had just begun, and an aura of optimism prevailed. During that long hazy summer, everything started to change.

The first sign was when Etienne suddenly announced his departure, to set up an arts centre in the south, back where he comes from. All this on the back of the money he acquired from the sale of that painting -–the nude watercolour of yours truly. The cheek of the man! It felt strange without him, but somehow liberating too. Here I was, twenty years old, free and single.

I didn’t return to Montaigne in the fall, never finished my lit course. I figured that even if I passed my exams I’d never use them. And the other thing was that Helene had also left town, for an assignment in England. So I felt quite isolated.

Which is how I came to find myself back in Paris. I arrived on Bastille Day, the flags were out, the people on the streets, it was vibrant, exciting. Instinctively I knew I’d made the right decision. I managed to find a small apartment in the 17th arrondissement, in the quartier de Batignolles, not far from the Gare St Lazare.

At least here there were no reminders of Sandrine. She had always been more of a Left Bank, St Germain type – but I preferred the backstreets, always have. What I discovered here was a traditional, working class district, with a diverse ethnic population. It was also an area full of young artists looking for inexpensive ateliers. Well, it had once used to be the haunt of painters such as Manet.

Upstairs lived a retired teacher, Madame Gratin, who smiled a lot and played chess. Downstairs a grumpy man named Victor [I think he was Russian] who liked to stand too close to me on the stairs. It turned out he was a famous street artist, I ended up posing for him and we slowly built something of a rapport.

It was here also, that I met Anouk. Small, kind, crazy, adorable, vulnerable, sad little Anouk. I wonder what she’s doing now? I wonder if she’s even still alive?

Anouk lived in one of the other apartments in my block, upstairs, in the roof. The views from her place were enchanting, across the rooftops of Paris. Romantic even, if you like that kind of thing.

Anouk was a new departure for me. For one thing, she wasn’t at all intellectual. She didn’t read poetry, or visit exhibitions, or anything like that. We did share the same taste in cinema though – both loved Betty Blue, and Diva, Subway, Nikita. We thought the opening scene in Betty Blue, where Jean Hughes screws Beatrice Dalle slowly, was so erotic.

Anouk never held down a regular job. During the day she’d hang around the streets up in Pigalle on the look out for clients. This was for money she needed to fund a desperate addiction to junk – at that time Paris was rife for all sorts of substances. Some good, some bad. Anouk always reckoned she wasn’t addicted, but it was hard to see what she did as anything other.

Anouk was smaller than me, with short curly natural blonde hair. A slim figure, she always complained that I had the breasts she wanted. She usually wore dark make up, dark clothes, lots of jewellery. We’d spend hours at the markets at Clignancourt picking up all manner of strange gear.

I tried to persuade her to give up the junk, to give up the sex. She said she was addicted to the sex as well, it made her feel human. I also asked her if she’d ever thought about women as sexual objects. She smiled.
I wondered when you’d get around to that, she said.
I asked her if she found me attractive, for instance. She laughed. You’re very pretty, Sandrine, she said. If I was a man, I’d screw you all night.
We both giggled at this, laughing till we almost cried. Then I jerked her head towards mine and pulled her closer. She didn’t seem to mind, but then, she’d been drinking quite a lot. I put down my cigarette and began stroking her thigh, moving my fingers higher and higher, between her legs. Anouk just lay back on the bed, like she didn’t care. It didn’t arouse her, anyway.

Eventually the landlady got fed up with the disturbances her male friends caused, and the indiscreet way she carried on. She was kicked out, on the street. Literally. I’m almost ashamed to say that I never saw her again. I don’t know what became of little Anouk.

New England

Its New Year’s Eve and the disco is in full swing. The host and hostess have taken their traditional first dance. The English rose is dancing with a young man in a suit. Caroline hands me another glass of wine.
I hope you’re enjoying yourself, she says.
Yes. Tell me, who’s the guy dancing with your daughter?
Oh him, she gives a look of disapproval. That’s Hugo.
Hey boyfriend?
Caroline chuckles. In his dreams, maybe.
I’m guessing you don’t approve?
He wouldn’t be my choice, but it’s up to her, cherie.
She could do much better. She’s such a stunning girl.
I know. But she hasn’t yet learned the power of that beauty. She’s quite naïve in many ways.
She reminds me of someone I used to know. Like an innocent child.
She’s pissed, my dear. Caroline laughs, sipping more wine from her glass, chuckling at Hugo’s attempts at dancing.
Alistair tells me you’re in the wine trade.
Yes, I’m supposed to be here on business.
But as Alistair always says, why not mix business with pleasure?
Exactly what he said to me, earlier tonight.
Caroline is giving me a stare. I try to reassure her.
Don’t worry, I’m not after your husband.
I should think not, she laughs. A gorgeous girl like you. What a waste that would be.
We seem to understand each other perfectly. If I go near Alistair, she’ll have me mounted like those animals that stare at you from the walls.
Come on, she says, taking me by the arm, let’s introduce you to young Hugo.

Which is how I come to be sitting in the lounge with Hugo, about ten minutes later. The room was spinning before I got up to dance, but now it’s starting to vibrate as well. We’re sitting on one of the large red leather sofas. He orders another bottle of wine. He insists on buying all the drinks and refuses to let me pay.
I’ve just done a fabulous deal in the city, he says. Anyway, blokes buy the drinks, you chicks just hang around looking gorgeous.
I laugh, although I think he’s a bit cocky. Miranda is undeniably beautiful, with the sort of figure that you don’t often find in France. She definitely puts me in the shade. JD sends her to the bar to get more alcohol.
He leans closer. I’m not going to waste time, he says. I want you tonight.
I’m startled, but try to remain calm.
I appreciate the honesty, I say.
Always my best policy, says Hugo.
Since we’re being honest, I say, You’re really not my type.
Fair enough, he says, but I don’t take no for an answer. Especially not from a sexy French mademoiselle. Please?
I laugh. What about Miranda? Isn’t she enough for you?
She’s a fucking pain in the arse, to be honest. He drains his glass.
I’d be prepared to pay you, he says.
My eyes must have widened at this point. This was a new angle, but let’s play the game, I think to myself.
How much? I ask.
How about a grand? Just for tonight.
One thousand pounds, is that the going rate?
Take it or leave it.
It’s very generous, I reply, but there are some things money can’t buy.
I start to stand up to leave.
Okay, okay, he says, name your price.
I watch over his shoulder as Miranda approaches with the drinks.
Tell you what, I say, quickly, throw in Miranda and it’s a deal.
Hugo jerks his head as Miranda hands him another glass. He’s thinking about it.
Deal, he says.
I shrug my shoulders and stand up.
Its room thirteen, I whisper. Just before midnight.

I’m in room thirteen. Unlucky for some, but not for me. I don’t do superstitions. I’m standing by the window, in darkness, waiting for my guests. Dressed only in a silk night gown, my body almost quivering in anticipation.

Just before midnight, a knock on the door.
It’s open, I whisper.
Surprisingly, it’s not Hugo, but Alistair who enters.
Hello Cherie, he says, snaking a hand around my waist.
Expecting somebody else, were we? He says. His breath smells of stale alcohol.
I had a deal, I say, with Hugo. Two for the price of one.
He laughs loudly.
Hugo couldn’t make it, he says. Too smashed.
He starts to unravel the sash on my gown.
But we had a deal, I say, struggling to escape his grip. He pushes me up against the wall, his face close to mine.
Hugo is just a boy, he says. What you need is a man.
Despite it all, I feel excited. He’s quite strong, pulling me onto the bed. His erection is enormous. There’s something about the aristocracy isn’t there?
I struggle to break away but he pushes my legs apart.
Don’t bother shouting, he says, in thirty seconds the fireworks will drown any noise you make. Indeed, fireworks start going off as his hands slide into my knickers. I feel desire encroaching.
Happy New Year, Cherie, he says preparing to enter me.
It's dark, but the fireworks light up the window behind Alistair's head. I catch a glimpse of blonde hair.Hugo.
There you are, Alistair. Caroline's been going frantic, old man. Shall I take over here?
Alistair flings an arm backwards, bringing his elbow with full force into Hugo's face. Knocks him right onto his back, blood everywhere.
Tell my wife I'm busy, you bloody faggot, he shouts.

All is quiet. It’s new year’s day in the New Forest. The only sound is the throbbing inside my head. If only I could stay in bed, but I’m invited for morning coffee with Caroline. It feels more like I’ve been summoned though.

Coffee is served in her private quarters. Very spacious, with great views through the French windows looking out over the New Forest. Caroline is gazing out at the scene, and as I enter she turns to greet me.
Bonjour mademoiselle.
She’s very gracious, Caroline. Or to give her the full title, Lady Caroline Elspeth Lavinia Rochester Harkness [I may have got it wrong]. She’s about forty five but looks younger, with immaculately coiffured honey blonde hair, slender neck, fabulous jewellery. She epitomises a certain kind of English charm.
Thank you, I say, accepting a cup of coffee and seating myself at one of the two large sofas.
They tell me you’re in the wine trade, she begins, rather casually. Her blue eyes seem to penetrate mine.
Yes, my cousin owns a vineyard in Provence. I’m in England on business.
A raised eyebrow. Are you enjoying your stay?
Very much, madame. Your hospitality has been wonderful.
Caroline pauses for breath.
And yet you have taken advantage of that hospitality in a most spiteful way.
I beg your pardon?
Her eyes flash at mine now, in anger. But her tone is still light, almost mocking.
You do know that Alistair would never leave me , don’t you. You see, all this, the house, the estate, our business, its all in joint names. It’d cost him a fortune.
I can’t seem to look her in the eye, I’m fidgeting with my cup now.
Mademoiselle, what is your name?
I’m called Sandrine.
Very pretty, tres jolie, like you.
It was my late mother’s name.
Sandrine, you’re not the first, and you wont be the last. My husband has always bene like this.
She sighs, and takes a sip of her coffee.
Don’t you ever think of , you know, paying him back?
Cherie, there’s no-one quite like Alistair. Tell me, you must have had many sexual partners. How would you rank him?
A typical Englishman. In too much of a hurry.
Caroline chuckles. That sounds about right.
She finishes her coffee, sets the cup down, gets up from the sofa. I gather the audience is over, and also stand.
Sandrine, you may think you’re some kind of femme fatale, but I have some advice for you. I want you to leave England.
Madame, I think you misunderstand Alistair. He just wants the best of both worlds.
He wants to have his cake and eat it, you mean.
No, I mean he wants us both, in the same bed.
Caroline slaps me hard across the face.
I guess I had that coming, I say. Just think about what I said.
Caroline is staring at me, but her reserve has crumpled, and a tear rolls slowly down her cheek, spoiling the carefully prepared mask.