A Paris Affair. Adelaide Cole
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they both said joylessly in unison, clinking their glasses out of routine. To better days, they both thought to themselves.
Valérie took a big drink with one hand and continued toweling her damp hair with the other. She sighed deeply. “So, how was work?” she asked, instantly regretting having done so.
Philippe rolled his eyes upward and shook his head. “Politics, politics,” he said wearily. She didn’t ask for details, and he didn’t offer them. As with so many married couples, this was a rerun of many similar conversations. They fell silent and sipped their wine.
The two had met while at university in Paris. She had grown up in the south, in Provence. He came from Bretagne, in the north. She was petite and olive-skinned, with a mass of dark, curly hair; he was blond, fair-skinned, tall and thin. She was emotional, effusive and Mediterranean, while he was cool and intellectual. Opposites attracted, and they had enjoyed the city together as a young, courting couple. They’d crossed the country together to meet and visit their respective families in the north and south. Their love was solidified in the shared fun of travel, and in the discoveries that new adventures brought. Valérie sometimes thought, lately, that their marriage felt so difficult now because those common joys had vanished with this new phase of their life.
After they married, Valérie worked as a city librarian, and Philippe secured a job in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. He was smart and rose in the ranks, and within a year had won a junior posting in Copenhagen’s French consulate. That began their international life, and two more foreign posts, in Los Angeles and Hong Kong, followed over the next several years. They enjoyed an exciting time abroad, where Valérie had little more to worry about than how they dressed and the appearance of their home. Their postings were politically calm spots, and their lives were easy. But new milestones brought new difficulties.
They started their family during their final post abroad, in the Canadian port city of Vancouver. They had both wanted children, but Valérie had difficult pregnancies and deliveries, and child rearing was a steep learning curve. She had always been emotionally and physically sensitive, and the twenty-four-hour days and mini-crises of minding babies and small children took a toll on her. Philippe was a caring husband and father, but he couldn’t take the time away from work that Valérie’s constitution seemed to require. He worked hard in his position, and at home felt put upon.
Philippe and Valérie had experienced a joyful bond as a childless couple, but found it difficult to make the transition to their new life with children. Their love and caring did not wane, but some of their happiness together did. Valérie often felt isolated, and those feelings only multiplied when Mathieu began showing odd behaviour as a toddler.
At the same time, Philippe was offered a desk position back in Paris. It was not a job he particularly wanted, and it paid less than the international posts did; but it was strategically important in the schema of his career. It was a stepping-stone position, so it was impossible to refuse. They left their life in green and airy Vancouver, and settled back into crowded Paris and its cramped apartment existence…this time with two young children, one of whom was showing developmental problems.
In this new life, Valérie shouldered the burden of the children’s care. While their international positions had afforded a nanny and housekeeper, this Paris assignment didn’t come with those luxuries. She was on her own. Philippe wasn’t any help on the domestic scene, since his days were spent in a Machiavellian cauldron of colleagues jockeying for position. The couple missed the days of their foreign postings. CONSUL license-plated SUVs conferred special status, and cocktail parties were filled with easy, empty diplomatic conversation and the champagne that advertised France’s good life to the world.
Valérie missed those parties and dinners. And she missed the stylish distinction of being a Frenchwoman abroad. Being French attracted an automatic cachet she had enjoyed. “Oh, Valérie,” she would hear from a new friend in a foreign country, “I couldn’t pull off that look with that scarf. Only a Frenchwoman can do that. You always look so elegant.” And felt so lighthearted.
But the breezy confidence that foreigners gave her turned into yet another casualty of their move back to Paris. Now she was now just another forty-something wife and mom among a million stunning French girls. She tried to maintain her standards, but the demands of two children didn’t leave her with the same motivation or time that she’d had before, when a nanny helped with child care and a housekeeper with the mundane tasks that were now hers alone.
The children’s needs, plus her husband’s new job, also took a toll on their romantic life. They were never alone together in the tiny apartment, and sex became perfunctory, if they weren’t already too tired to bother. Their love and commitment was intact, but sexual heat had dissipated, at least in these days of grocery shopping, child rearing and career challenges.
“I’ll get the kids dinner,” Valérie said, pushing herself up from the table. She took her glass with her.
“I’ll help. I’ll make a salad,” Philippe said, getting up as well.
She boiled pasta for the children and recounted what had been accomplished that day along the lengthy progression of Mathieu’s diagnosis and treatment. Life abroad had been deceptively easy, and they had taken it for granted. If they’d been less self-deluded in their former post, they would have noticed signs that their son wasn’t developing normally, but the easy international scene had seduced them into thinking that their entire life was a carefree ride. Had they noticed, they would have sought help earlier and avoided the degree of difficulty they now faced.
The discovery that Mathieu sat somewhere on the ever-widening autism continuum brought with it despondency as they fought to regain their equilibrium as a couple, as parents and as a family. Valérie and Philippe both struggled to relegate Manon to last-in-line for care and attention as they tried not to grieve over the loss of a dream of having two perfect children. Life weighed heavily back here in Paris.
“One piece of good news,” Philippe said as he drained the bottle into his wife’s glass. “My parents called and said they’d like to have the kids for a few days. My vacation is already on the schedule at work, so I thought I’d take them up on the train on Wednesday and beat the rush out of the city.”
They both knew that Valérie disliked his parents and wouldn’t want to go, so he didn’t even ask. “You can have a break from the kids and all the appointments and running around. You can stay in your pajamas all day and relax.”
Valérie smiled at him, took his hand and squeezed it gently between hers, saying, “You’re my angel.” He leaned over and kissed her forehead.
Philippe was careful with Valérie ever since she had suffered a minor emotional breakdown in the midst of the move back to Paris and the shock of their troubles with Mathieu. Philippe made sure she took her anti-anxiety medication, and tried to ease some of her daily load.
“Papa! Mathieu ripped the head off Chloé!” Manon stomped into the kitchen and displayed the evidence in both hands.
“I didn’t! I didn’t! I didn’t! I didn’t…!” Mathieu yelled repeatedly from the other room. Valérie dropped her head. She so desperately needed respite from the chaos of…of just everything. She missed the big houses of international life. Here, space was a rare commodity, and although they had a roomy apartment by Paris standards, it was claustrophobic for a stressed family.
Philippe glanced at his wife, and when he saw her strained expression, jumped up and ushered Manon out in order to calm the waters.
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