Nora spent the rest of the weekend in a daze, consumed by the memory of her kiss with Sylvain, vacillating between euphoria and apprehension as she contemplated the future. How on earth was she going to deal with such an absurd situation? And how would she ever be able to look Tiphaine in the eye again? Or Sylvain, come to think of it. He was the first man apart from Gérard she had kissed in eighteen years.
Even if she survived a confrontation with Tiphaine, or Sylvain, or even Tiphaine and Sylvain together, she couldn’t imagine getting into any kind of conflict with Milo. How would she be able to face the strange, withdrawn teenager, who had better things to do than deal with a major conflict between his parents?
How could she have done such a thing! She shuddered, as much with disgust as with elation.
She didn’t see Sylvain on Sunday. She didn’t seek him out, either. She certainly didn’t want to talk to him. Like a little girl dreaming of her Prince Charming, she would have liked simply to catch a glimpse of him.
During the day, doubt intruded on her wistful contemplations. What if he was actually the local womanizer? A guy who collected women like other men collect stamps? A Casanova with a super-sophisticated radar for detecting a woman whose sad past made her vulnerable and fragile? She found herself contemplating Sylvain from a different angle, and then reflecting on Tiphaine’s excessive generosity, how thoughtful and kind she was. Was it possible that Tiphaine was in the know? What if the whole thing was a setup to gratify the fantasies of a couple of perverts?
Even when the memory of their kiss came flooding back, she berated herself as an idiot with a foolish desperation to believe in a love affair that, for all she knew, was never going to happen.
It was he who got in touch with her on Monday morning, around ten. He rang her cell phone. When she saw the unknown number come up on the screen, she knew it had to be him. With her heart in her mouth, she grabbed the phone, glancing instinctively at her face in the mirror, rearranging a lock of hair, and using her finger to rub away a smudge of mascara; she answered only once she had decided she looked presentable. When she heard Sylvain’s voice she thought her heart would burst.
He asked politely how she was. She tried to make her response sound neutral, allowing him to set the tone of the conversation. Her mind filled with muddled thoughts, and she decided it was a bad sign that he’d called. It’s true that people usually call because it’s a more personal way of communicating than by email or text message, thus giving the exchange more significance, but—particularly when the person lives right next door—calling could also be a way of avoiding having to spend too long talking to someone. In other words, it could be significant, but not very. Nora was suddenly aware that there were not only Prince Charmings and bastards in the world, there were also penitents who asked you to forget everything that had happened:It’s my fault, I loved it but I can’t do it, it’s not you, it’s me, I could kick myself, it’s not my style at all, do you understand?
“I was just calling to say,” said Sylvain, “that I haven’t stopped thinking about what happened on Saturday. I didn’t want to bother you over the weekend when you were with the children. But I’d like to see you again. Alone. Soon.”
Nora’s apprehensive expression relaxed, then her face lit up.
“Me too,” she murmured, as if she were whispering in his ear.
“I...We could have lunch today, if you have nothing else planned.”
“Sure!” Nora answered, a little too promptly.
They settled on a time and a place, then exchanged a few banalities, as if to give the illusion they were doing nothing wrong. They ended the conversation with mumbled words that were both affectionate and awkward.
By tacit agreement, they had chosen a public spot, which gave their first illicit rendezvous a veneer of acceptability. It offered, apart from anything else, an efficient shield against the desire they felt for each other. Torn between the euphoria of their budding passion and its dizzying consequences, they wanted to keep their feet on the ground, even as their eyes betrayed what their words were trying, in vain, to cover up. They didn’t allude to the past, the future, Tiphaine, or the children. In fact, they didn’t talk about anything much, both carefully avoiding mention of anything sensitive. Nora wasn’t sure she could cope with intimacy, even though events had thrown her headlong into it. She wanted to hold on to the mystery of discovery, prolong the intoxication of fantasy, give the dream a whiff of possibility. They looked hungrily into each other’s eyes, drinking up each other’s words, reveling in the other one’s presence. They barely touched their food. When they said goodbye, briefly stealing a little extra forbidden time, their kiss seemed to go on forever, like a promise.
After this first rendezvous, all at once their daily lives changed. The unavoidable proximity of forbidden fruit altered the most insignificant aspects of their activities. Whenever Nora left the house, whether into the street or into the yard, her heart began to beat fit to burst, just like a teenager’s. Before she left she would check her appearance multiple times in the mirror. She never went out without makeup, even if it was only around the corner to pick up a baguette. She stopped paying attention to anything else, focusing entirely on her neighbors’ front door, or checking to see if Sylvain’s car was parked in the street. If the front door wasn’t open and she couldn’t see the car, she would look out for cars coming down the street, hoping to bump into him. It was entirely possible, probably inevitable.
Whenever she went out into the yard, she always made an effort to look her best, walking with a light, graceful step and pulling in her stomach.
The codes and rules of their relationship were established from the start, almost naturally. It was always Sylvain who contacted her, never the other way around. A few sweet nothings by text throughout the day, which she always responded to straightaway, heart fluttering, a blissed-out smile on her face. And whenever he could slip away to see her, he called.
That week, the children were with their father, which meant Nora had plenty of time to herself and so, in a burst of reckless enthusiasm, she overstretched her bank account and went first to the aesthetician, then the hairdresser, and finally for a manicure. Mathilde was let in on the secret, and played her role to perfection: she briefly brought up the morals of the affair, vaguely warned Nora of the inevitable disappointment, and then spent rather longer demanding all the details and expressing excited delight for her friend.
On Wednesday Nora came home after an exhausting morning with twenty-five overexcited jack-in-the-boxes at kindergarten. She made herself a sandwich and ate it as she flicked through a magazine, then hesitated between whether to take a nap or a bath. A bath, she decided. She went up to the bathroom, put in the plug, turned on the hot tap, took off her clothes...only for the chime of the doorbell to interrupt her as she was about to climb in. With a sigh she pulled on her robe, went downstairs, and, half hiding behind it, answered the door.
Sylvain didn’t wait for her to invite him in. She watched, too taken aback to speak, as he stepped inside, briskly pushed the door closed, and drew her to him. She didn’t resist as he took her face between his hands and embraced her with ardor. She felt herself dissolve in the warmth of the kiss, yielding to pure pleasure, as powerful, irresistible desire overwhelmed her, responding to the caresses of his hands traversing her body, feeling beneath the fabric of her robe to find her soft curves, lingering whenever her sighs grew deeper and more intense. He picked her up and she clung to him as he carried her to the living room and laid her on the sofa where, languid, she offered herself to him.
They spent the entire afternoon making love, irresistibly attracted to each other, skin against skin, arms and legs entwined in a vortex of sensation, unable to imagine ever drawing apart. And when the clock chimed the end of this stolen interlude and summoned them back to their ordinary lives, it was a genuine wrench for them to part.
As soon as she was alone, Nora collapsed against the wall in the entryway, exhausted, dissipated, replete, between ecstasy and despair. She battled to calm the emotions raging within her—she missed him already—and her heightened desire. How was she going to survive until they saw each other again? Knowing he was so near, barely a few meters away, and yet unreachable, was a torture that only memories of their lovemaking could assuage.
But by the end of the following day, the little cloud she’d been floating on blew apart in a flash, heralding a thunderclap.
Someone at the door.
Nora was sitting at the dining table surfing the internet on her laptop. Her heart leaped when she heard the doorbell, for she wasn’t expecting anyone. It was him! Who else could it be?
Excited, she stood up from the table and hurried into the entryway. She stopped in front of the mirror, unclipped her hair, and shook it out. The doorbell sounded again. Nora opened the door with a smile, to find Tiphaine standing on the step.
Chapter 29
“Nora. I hope I’m not disturbing you,” said Tiphaine.
Nora’s throat felt dry. She swallowed, then gave a flustered smile by way of welcome.
