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