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Authors: Cecile David-Weill
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because I’m going hunting for a present for her
birthday
, which—as you know—is only a few days away.”
Mollified by this logical explanation for Frédéric’s desire for my company, my mother let us go.
“Just give me time to call my son,” I told him.
“Fine, come get me in my room when you’re done—I know it might take some time …”
And he was right. I missed my son so much when he was with his father that I could bear the separation only by breaking it up with phone dates, replacing “See you next month” with “Till tomorrow” or “Talk to you later.” And he missed me. He was only seven, and he needed me. But his moods varied, and that day, busy getting ready for some fishing with his father, he barely saidhello. I felt hurt, but relieved as well, because that meant he was happy.
“So, what’s the form?” said Frédéric after we’d settled in with our coffee on the terrace of the Hôtel du Cap.
He always came on like a punter checking bloodlines when asking about the pedigree of one of my lovers or a guest at L’Agapanthe.
“Jean-Michel Destret? But haven’t you seen his picture? It’s in all the newspapers.”
“You mean the one who looks like the class nerd with his hair parted on the side?”
“Exactly.”
“Hoo boy! Are we in for some fun. Who’s he for, you or Marie?”
“Whoever gets the first hit—we’re going to play it by ear.”
“Like flipping a coin?”
“That’s great, laugh at me! You know what I mean … and by the way, this is the first time you haven’t told me that a guy isn’t good enough for me.”
“I’m on my best behavior, just for you! I’m keeping my beady eye on the sugar daddy prize.”
“Hey, real sugar daddies are old, so if you don’t mind, I’d rather call this a blind date.”
“Blind date? I’m good with that! See how nice I’m being?”
I have always confided in Frédéric about my love life and always been able to count on him whenever I wanted to go AWOL or hit the hottest underground club of the moment.
“I think that’s a stupid idea,” he usually told me, “but I’ll totally support you in whatever stupid idea goes through your head.”
And he meant it, like the year when I had a crush on French movie star Daniel Auteuil. I went on and on about him to Frédéric (who knew him a little), asking what he was like and if there was a chance that he might like me. I always got the same answer.
“You’re pissing me off with your Daniel Auteuil!”
Until my birthday. I was blowing out my candles when he handed me the phone with a mischievous look. “Call for you.”
“Who is it?”
“Some guy named Auteuil, I think,” he told me, casual as you please, when he’d been pestering the actor relentlessly to please call me up and invite me out for coffee.
Friday, 12:30 p.m
.
My mother had a strange look on her face when we got back from Juan-les-Pins shortly after noon.
“Flokie, what’s wrong?” said Frédéric.
“It’s Roberto. He fell. I’m afraid he’s broken his hip. Roland and Pauline just left with him in the ambulance.”
“Oh, shit, the poor man! Is there anything you want me to do?” I asked her.
“Yes. If you could find me a new head butler, that would be a big help, because with our guests already here and now your friends arriving …”
“I’ll take care of it,” I promised quickly, refusing to respond to her insinuation, although I figured that at this rate, my guests—a definite thorn in her side—would soon be held responsible for tripping up Roberto.
“And what about Roberto? Would you like—”
“I’ll handle that,” she answered brusquely.
On that point, I had complete confidence in her. She was fantastic in difficult situations. I knew that she would reassure Roberto, pay all his expenses, and have him cared for by the best specialists, even if it meant moving him to another hospital.
I considered my options. Our staff had already been
birthday
, which—as you know—is only a few days away.”
Mollified by this logical explanation for Frédéric’s desire for my company, my mother let us go.
“Just give me time to call my son,” I told him.
“Fine, come get me in my room when you’re done—I know it might take some time …”
And he was right. I missed my son so much when he was with his father that I could bear the separation only by breaking it up with phone dates, replacing “See you next month” with “Till tomorrow” or “Talk to you later.” And he missed me. He was only seven, and he needed me. But his moods varied, and that day, busy getting ready for some fishing with his father, he barely saidhello. I felt hurt, but relieved as well, because that meant he was happy.
“So, what’s the form?” said Frédéric after we’d settled in with our coffee on the terrace of the Hôtel du Cap.
He always came on like a punter checking bloodlines when asking about the pedigree of one of my lovers or a guest at L’Agapanthe.
“Jean-Michel Destret? But haven’t you seen his picture? It’s in all the newspapers.”
“You mean the one who looks like the class nerd with his hair parted on the side?”
“Exactly.”
“Hoo boy! Are we in for some fun. Who’s he for, you or Marie?”
“Whoever gets the first hit—we’re going to play it by ear.”
“Like flipping a coin?”
“That’s great, laugh at me! You know what I mean … and by the way, this is the first time you haven’t told me that a guy isn’t good enough for me.”
“I’m on my best behavior, just for you! I’m keeping my beady eye on the sugar daddy prize.”
“Hey, real sugar daddies are old, so if you don’t mind, I’d rather call this a blind date.”
“Blind date? I’m good with that! See how nice I’m being?”
I have always confided in Frédéric about my love life and always been able to count on him whenever I wanted to go AWOL or hit the hottest underground club of the moment.
“I think that’s a stupid idea,” he usually told me, “but I’ll totally support you in whatever stupid idea goes through your head.”
And he meant it, like the year when I had a crush on French movie star Daniel Auteuil. I went on and on about him to Frédéric (who knew him a little), asking what he was like and if there was a chance that he might like me. I always got the same answer.
“You’re pissing me off with your Daniel Auteuil!”
Until my birthday. I was blowing out my candles when he handed me the phone with a mischievous look. “Call for you.”
“Who is it?”
“Some guy named Auteuil, I think,” he told me, casual as you please, when he’d been pestering the actor relentlessly to please call me up and invite me out for coffee.
Friday, 12:30 p.m
.
My mother had a strange look on her face when we got back from Juan-les-Pins shortly after noon.
“Flokie, what’s wrong?” said Frédéric.
“It’s Roberto. He fell. I’m afraid he’s broken his hip. Roland and Pauline just left with him in the ambulance.”
“Oh, shit, the poor man! Is there anything you want me to do?” I asked her.
“Yes. If you could find me a new head butler, that would be a big help, because with our guests already here and now your friends arriving …”
“I’ll take care of it,” I promised quickly, refusing to respond to her insinuation, although I figured that at this rate, my guests—a definite thorn in her side—would soon be held responsible for tripping up Roberto.
“And what about Roberto? Would you like—”
“I’ll handle that,” she answered brusquely.
On that point, I had complete confidence in her. She was fantastic in difficult situations. I knew that she would reassure Roberto, pay all his expenses, and have him cared for by the best specialists, even if it meant moving him to another hospital.
I considered my options. Our staff had already been
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