‘Aimée, may I have a word?’
‘While I’m peeing?’
‘We tend to close the door in this country.’
‘Doors, minds, legs,’ she says, with a flamboyant gesture.
‘When you’re ready, do come down.’
Eight minutes later, Aimée flounces into the kitchen and drags a stool across the floor, as I suppose lifting is also a terrible British time-waster. I am stroking Purdy, who is purring loudly.
Having consulted the finest minds on the topic (Cosmopolitan), it seems likely that Stephen’s sexual deterioration is due to adebilitating cocktail of stress, depression, bereavement and financial concerns. I have, therefore, created a plan to reanimate our love, spark his testosterone production, and re-engage him with our primary projects, namely, Hampstead and a third child. For this, I need Aimée’s help. She stares at me with barely disguised boredom.
‘What now? Is the jam jar lid not on tightly enough?’
‘The jar is not correctly closed, but it’s something else.’
‘What? The fridge door is slightly ajar?’
‘Sometimes in all types of employment, you need to go the extra mile.’
‘No,’ says Aimée, with the same defiant expression Nelly uses.
‘But you don’t know what I mean,’ I say.
‘I don’t do extra miles. No miles more. You want me to clean. Non! I have said already.’
‘It’s not cleaning. It’s Stephen. He’s going through a difficult patch.’
‘He seems happy.’
‘Yes, but that rather proves my point, doesn’t it? If he’s reached Gallic levels of happiness, we’re at crisis point.’
‘This is not misery!’ she says, gesturing to her visage. ‘This is intelligence. Life is tragic because we think. That is why we are second only to Finland in suicide.’
‘Something to be proud of, I’m sure, but we’re getting off the point. Stephen used to be more enthusiastic, attentive – loving, even. But since his father died, he’s just gone limp.’
‘Limp? What is limp?’
‘The opposite of stiff,’ I say. ‘He’s lost his desire. He stares into the distance. He shares increasingly liberal views. He doesn’t look after business.’
‘Maybe he’s unhappy with his marriage.’
‘Yes, but more importantly,I’munhappy with our marriage. He’s like a car battery that’s gone flat, and I was wondering if you might help recharge him?’
‘I’m not a battery charger.’
‘You’re a beautiful young woman, and he’s suffering a premature middle-age crisis. I wonder if you would show interest inhim – flirt, catch his eye, say nice things about his eyes or muscles. Maybe even dress provocatively. You’re French, I’m sure you’ll find such things come naturally.’
‘You want me to seduce your husband?’ she says, with a serious expression that seems to suggest that this is not an unusual request.
‘No. Just pretend you find him attractive, you know.’
‘But I don’t. He’s not. He’s a suit. He’s a bore. He’s got too much nasal hair.’
‘That’s why I used the wordpretend.’
‘Why would I do this?’
