Charlotte Forever

Charlotte is of course, Gainsbourg

In a recent interview Charlotte spoke about her late father, who died when she was just eighteen. Apparently his house in Paris, on Rue de Verneuil, has been left untouched since his death, a virtual shrine to the great man.

She was asked whether she intended to live there herself. I couldn’t do that, she said, it’s too heavy emotionally. She also said that it was the only place that she could be alone with her memories of him. A sentiment I’d echo, since I feel the same about my parents’ house.

Later in the interview Charlotte said that it was only since having her own children that she felt able to move on. Now that she’d had half her life without her father, maybe she’d be able to leave that first half behind.

This got me thinking, a lot. First of all, I know where Rue de Verneuil is, on the left bank, not far from Boulevard Saint Germain. In the precise area frequented by Sandrine during the Seventies. It’s hard to believe that they didn’t meet at one of those fashion parties. Serge and Sandrine, that is. Charlotte would have been a small child at that time.

“At the beginning it was like my legs were cut off, and that feeling lasted for a long time. It’s been 18 years and it’s still very difficult”. In my case, 16 years since the fateful accident that ended my life. Or so I thought, at the time. But I did wonder whether perhaps Charlotte was right. Maybe I need a family of my own, to replace the one I lost?

Naturally, I don’t mention any of this to Etienne. He might take it the wrong way, and I’m still not sure about him as a potential father. Instead I stare at the photo of Natacha Ramsay outside the Gainsbourg house. I have to admit that it turns me on, just a little, and I feel guilty about this.

I find the purple diary blog quite sexy, in fact. There is something quite decadent about the photos, something seedy. Especially the ones of Natacha and other women. I start to wonder if she is bisexual. Why does that make me feel this way? I wish I knew. In a way it's like the squalid Kings Cross hotel where I had casual sex with a married man last December. Sordid but exciting. Forbidden.

I look across at Etienne. Of course, it's all his fault. That, and the accident. And reading Ballard's book about sex and car crashes.Etienne also loves decadence. We're the perfect partners for each other, in truth. But as parents? The jury is still out on that one.