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