Read Online The List of My Desires by Grégoire Delacourt - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Grégoire Delacourt
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He’s a sweet pupil who never loses his temper, except with himself. I encourage him. You’ll make your dreams come true some day, dear Jo, I tell him, and then he takes my hand, carries it to his lips and says: It will be thanks to you, Jo, all thanks to you, and that makes me blush.
My God, if you knew. If you knew, what would become of you?
The twins have asked me to make waxed laces into little bracelets for them to sell in their salon. Every time someone has a manicure we manage to sell some little thing, says Françoise. So after that piece in L’Observateur , bracelets from your place will sell like hot cakes, adds Danièle. I make twenty. They’re all sold by that evening. With the kind of luck you have, say the twins, you really ought to play the lottery. I laugh with them. But I’m afraid.
I’ve invited them to our house for dinner today.
Jo is charming and funny and helpful all evening. The twins have brought two bottles of Veuve Clicquot. The bubbles in the wine, bursting on our palates, loosen our tongues. We are all mildly tipsy. And when you’re tipsy your hopes and fears always rise to the surface.
We’re nearly forty, says Danièle, if we don’t meet a nice guy this year we’re all washed up. Two nice guys, Françoise specifies. We laugh. But it’s not funny. Maybe we’re fated to stick together, like Siamese twins. Have you tried online dating? asks Jo. You bet. All we met were the weirdos. As soon as they find out we’re twins, they just want a threesome. The thought of twins gets the guys excited, they suddenly think they’ve got two pricks. How about trying separately? suggests Jo. We’d rather die, they cry in chorus, before falling into each other’s arms.
Glasses are topped up and emptied.
One day we’ll have a big win, and we’ll tell all those poor guys to piss off. We’ll treat ourselves to gigolos, use them just once like Kleenex, then off they go! Into the bin! Next! They roar with laughter. Jo is looking at me; he smiles. His eyes are shining. Under the table my foot has just found his.
I’m going to miss Jo.
He’s off tomorrow for a week at the HQ of the Nestlé Group at Vevey in Switzerland, to finish his foreman’s training and become a unit manager at Häagen-Dazs.
When he gets back we’re going for a weekend at Cap Gris-Nez to celebrate. We’ve promised ourselves oysters and a big platter of fruits de mer . He’s reserved a big room at Waringzelle Farm, only five hundred metres from the sea, where we can watch thousands of birds taking off for warmer countries. I’m proud of him. He’ll be earning three thousand euros a month, and from then on he’ll be part of the bonus system and have an insurance deal with a better company.
My Jo is getting closer to his dreams. We’re getting closer to the truth.
How about you, Jocelyn? Danièle suddenly asks my husband, her voice slightly slurred because of the wine. Haven’t you ever fantasised about having two women at once? Laughter. I pretend to take offence for the principle of the thing. Jo puts down his glass. With Jo, he replies, I have everything I need. She’s sometimes so greedy that it’s as if she is two women at once. More roars of laughter. I tap him smartly on the arm. Don’t you listen to him! He’d say anything.
But the conversation is out of control, and reminds me of the discussions we have in summer, under the shade of the pine trees at the Sourire campsite, with JJ and Marielle Roussel and Michèle Henrion, when the heat and the pastis combined make us lose our heads and talk frankly about our regrets, our fears and what we lack. I must have the best collection of dil-does in the world, said Michèle Henrion with a sad smile last summer. At least they don’t leave you after fucking you. And they don’t go limp, added Jo, drunk as
He’s a sweet pupil who never loses his temper, except with himself. I encourage him. You’ll make your dreams come true some day, dear Jo, I tell him, and then he takes my hand, carries it to his lips and says: It will be thanks to you, Jo, all thanks to you, and that makes me blush.
My God, if you knew. If you knew, what would become of you?
The twins have asked me to make waxed laces into little bracelets for them to sell in their salon. Every time someone has a manicure we manage to sell some little thing, says Françoise. So after that piece in L’Observateur , bracelets from your place will sell like hot cakes, adds Danièle. I make twenty. They’re all sold by that evening. With the kind of luck you have, say the twins, you really ought to play the lottery. I laugh with them. But I’m afraid.
I’ve invited them to our house for dinner today.
Jo is charming and funny and helpful all evening. The twins have brought two bottles of Veuve Clicquot. The bubbles in the wine, bursting on our palates, loosen our tongues. We are all mildly tipsy. And when you’re tipsy your hopes and fears always rise to the surface.
We’re nearly forty, says Danièle, if we don’t meet a nice guy this year we’re all washed up. Two nice guys, Françoise specifies. We laugh. But it’s not funny. Maybe we’re fated to stick together, like Siamese twins. Have you tried online dating? asks Jo. You bet. All we met were the weirdos. As soon as they find out we’re twins, they just want a threesome. The thought of twins gets the guys excited, they suddenly think they’ve got two pricks. How about trying separately? suggests Jo. We’d rather die, they cry in chorus, before falling into each other’s arms.
Glasses are topped up and emptied.
One day we’ll have a big win, and we’ll tell all those poor guys to piss off. We’ll treat ourselves to gigolos, use them just once like Kleenex, then off they go! Into the bin! Next! They roar with laughter. Jo is looking at me; he smiles. His eyes are shining. Under the table my foot has just found his.
I’m going to miss Jo.
He’s off tomorrow for a week at the HQ of the Nestlé Group at Vevey in Switzerland, to finish his foreman’s training and become a unit manager at Häagen-Dazs.
When he gets back we’re going for a weekend at Cap Gris-Nez to celebrate. We’ve promised ourselves oysters and a big platter of fruits de mer . He’s reserved a big room at Waringzelle Farm, only five hundred metres from the sea, where we can watch thousands of birds taking off for warmer countries. I’m proud of him. He’ll be earning three thousand euros a month, and from then on he’ll be part of the bonus system and have an insurance deal with a better company.
My Jo is getting closer to his dreams. We’re getting closer to the truth.
How about you, Jocelyn? Danièle suddenly asks my husband, her voice slightly slurred because of the wine. Haven’t you ever fantasised about having two women at once? Laughter. I pretend to take offence for the principle of the thing. Jo puts down his glass. With Jo, he replies, I have everything I need. She’s sometimes so greedy that it’s as if she is two women at once. More roars of laughter. I tap him smartly on the arm. Don’t you listen to him! He’d say anything.
But the conversation is out of control, and reminds me of the discussions we have in summer, under the shade of the pine trees at the Sourire campsite, with JJ and Marielle Roussel and Michèle Henrion, when the heat and the pastis combined make us lose our heads and talk frankly about our regrets, our fears and what we lack. I must have the best collection of dil-does in the world, said Michèle Henrion with a sad smile last summer. At least they don’t leave you after fucking you. And they don’t go limp, added Jo, drunk as
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