“Really? Then you must know my friends, the Dentremonts.”
“Of course,” Ève replied without hesitation, out of a desire to shine, even though Philippe Dentremont—her Roudoudou—had forbidden her from admitting to any connection with him whatsoever.
“Oh, that dear Philippe Dentremont,” Rose cooed. “Such a flirt, isn’t he?”
Embarrassed, Ève simply blinked in agreement.
“I wouldn’t like to be in his wife Odile’s shoes. She has a lot to forgive him.”
“Oh?” Ève said, swallowing.
“Philippe can’t resist a pretty woman. He immediately makes a beeline for her. Don’t tell me he didn’t come on to you?”
“Yes, of course . . . but . . . but I wasn’t free, so it stopped there.”
“Good for you . . . In his defense, he doesn’t choose replicas of his wife. I heard his latest one, Fatima, is a stunning Arab woman. Tunisian . . . When I think that I know and Odile doesn’t, I feel embarrassed. You see what I mean?”
Ève almost cried out, “Fatima? Who’s Fatima?” but restrained herself, careful not to lose her composure. Shuddering, she walked Rose to the door, exchanged a few pleasantries, and cut their goodbyes short with the excuse that she had to go back into the house and check that all the windows were shut.
Standing outside on the sunny sidewalk, Rose smiled radiantly, promised that her friend would take a look at the house very soon, and walked away.
Ève went down into the kitchen, closed the blinds, and, once shut in, screamed, “The bastard!”
What Rose had just told her was something she already suspected, perhaps even knew, but had avoided thinking about. Of course, she had noticed that Philippe didn’t come to see her every day; of course, she had noticed that he avoided certain shops, and that there were restaurants where he was reluctant to be seen with her; of course, he had mysteriously disappeared on several occasions, on the pretext of work commitments. A part of her brain had sensed that these peculiarities were down to the existence of another woman, but her consciousness had refrained from articulating it because she didn’t want to be unhappy. And now Rose Bidermann had rubbed her nose in the reality, and it stank.
What should she do?
Meanwhile, strolling beneath the blossoming plane trees, Rose had called her friend Odile Dentremont. “Mission accomplished, my dear: she knows she has a rival.”
Odile Dentremont thanked her and took advantage of the opportunity to satisfy her curiosity about her husband’s mistress.
“Yes,” Rose replied, “very provocative, very much a rich man’s ‘chick.’ She dresses the way all men of that age fantasize about. Poor thing . . . A bit vulgar, yes. Decent, though, I think. She won’t be able to live with what she’s just heard, and I’m sure she’ll get her own back. Yes, out of pride rather than love. After all, you’re right, darling: every so often we need to do a bit of housekeeping. His two mistresses, Ève and Fatima, are going to kick Philippe out and he’ll come back to you”—Rose nearly said, “with his tail between his legs,” but stopped herself at the last moment—“all sheepish and contrite.”
To herself, Rose added, “And then he’ll start all over again,” but Odile said the words instead.
Rose listened, then agreed. “Of course, the only one who waits for him, welcomes him, loves him unconditionally is his wife. You’re right, Odile. I’m delighted to have been a part of your stratagem. No need to thank me: it’s such fun when a married woman reveals to a mistress that she’s being cheated on.”
On Saturday morning, Ève decided to go to Knokke-le-Zoute. This name, so odd to foreign ears, actually belongs to the most elegant seaside resort in Belgium, in the far north of the country.
The North Sea is a tired sea, and Knokke-le-Zoute is the place where it comes to rest. The water there discourages all activity. The waves refuse bathers, but timidly lap at the beach—a vast puddle that forces the aspiring swimmer to cover hundreds of yards in order to immerse himself only as far as his shoulders; even here, the water doesn’t encourage him, it antagonizes him, its temperature chilling his frolics and the salty wavelets slapping him. For those who prefer walking, the open sea keeps its distance, as insignificant in its presence as it is mean with its colors, its waters merging first with the beige sand, then the gray sky, and finally the bleached blue of the horizon. The North Sea is lazy, and if you didn’t see the oil tankers and liners quietly drifting across it, you would think it was indifferent and of no use to humans.
Appearing on the landing stage, Ève caused an immediate sensation. Although Swiss by birth, she had soon grasped how a Belgian seaside resort worked. You don’t go into its wild, extensive, infinite part, you parade in the narrow space you pay for, which provides deck chairs, useless parasols, and drinks waiters, and is a kind of spruce little square, all white and blue, facing the shore, where loudspeakers emit pleasant music.
Men and women watched as this stunning pinup arrived, and a waiter chivalrously rushed to find her a place worthy of her beauty. Wearing large round glasses that concealed her eyes, Ève pretended to hesitate, then, looking as if she was obeying the waiter, who was behaving like a knight errant, pointed to the patch where she wanted to lie down. He arranged a chair, laid out towels, raked the sand, placed two small tables so that she could spread out her things, and promised to bring her the fruit cocktail she wanted.
That was how Ève came to be right behind the Dentremont family, which had come to stay in its seaside villa.
Naturally, Philippe Dentremont was the first to notice her—he had probably been watching her since she appeared at the top of the steps, and praying to heaven that she would come no nearer. Nervous and agitated, he pretended to grab some sun lotion in order to throw her a grimace: What’s gotten into you? Are you out of your mind? Ève responded by removing her T-shirt and revealing her magnificent breasts, which were covered merely by a light square of material kept in place with a string.
Quentin, the family’s eldest son, was as quick to notice Ève’s arrival as his father, but, unlike the head of the family, his face lit up in a smile. He made no attempt to conceal his joy at seeing her here.
As for the two youngest children, they paid no attention to her, one too busy reading, the other building a sand castle.
Meanwhile, Odile Dentremont lay asleep in the sun, oiled like a sardine.
It was now that Ève pulled a secret weapon from her bag, the weapon that would enable her to obtain everything she wanted: a dog.
An exquisite female Shiba Inu hopped onto the deck chair, a kind of distinguished-looking fox, slim and graceful, her dark eyes delicately highlighted in white, with a coat that was like finery in its mixture of fawn with hints of cream.
Philippe realized that an instrument of war had arrived. He frowned and thrust his chin forward, furious that he could do nothing to stop it.
Ève put a very feminine collar, inlaid with artificial stones, around the neck of the Japanese princess, and set off with her to the water’s edge.
The men on the beach only had eyes for her.
Savoring her success, Ève felt pleased that she had persuaded her friend Priscilla to lend her her Shiba Inu in return for looking after her cat and her apartment for the weekend. There is no bait more effective if you want men to start a conversation. It’s an accessory that can save you hours.
For the next half hour, so-called swimmers and alleged walkers approached the nymph with the dog. Each time, Ève responded politely but without leading them to believe that they could come on to her. After two or three minutes, she would make it quite clear to them that they would get nothing more from her than this brief chat.
His wife having woken up, it was no longer possible for Philippe Dentremont to go to Ève and order her to leave. Watching helplessly as men buzzed around her, he felt a mixture of jealousy, pride, and anger, unable to fathom why his mi
stress was inflicting this farce on him.
Ève returned to her spot, her delightful puppet at the end of a leash, and settled on the deck chair in order to abandon herself to the sun’s rays. Naturally, her tan was already perfect, as appetizing as gingerbread, stronger, deeper, and more even than anyone else’s. Ève was farsighted enough not to go to the beach in order to get a tan but to show off her tan, which had been cosseted over the winter with sun beds, beta-carotene, and tinted lotion. She took out a thick novel—at least five hundred pages, which suggested a regular reader (any less than that and she would have seemed a mere occasional reader)—held it at arm’s length above her face, and immersed herself in it.
If she had been on her own, she would have followed the story, since she loved reading, but in public, the bestseller was simply a means to watch what was going on around her.
In front of her, Quentin had stood up and was exposing his newly developed body to the untamed air. Even though he pretended to look right and left but never behind him, Ève knew perfectly well that he was showing himself off to her, that he was thinking only of her. Varying the poses that showed him to his best advantage, he would occasionally stroke his well-formed shoulders, of which he was very proud.
Just to annoy Philippe, who hadn’t noticed his son’s game, Ève laid down her book and now quite openly gazed at the boy.
Quentin took that as a victory. Eager to show off his strength, he urged his brothers to come and play badminton with him, suggesting they play two against one. A mere thirty feet from her, he was able to give Ève a demonstration of his agility, his reflexes, and his speed.
Philippe hadn’t yet grasped what his eldest son was doing, but was horrified to discover that Ève was showing an interest in him. If his wife hadn’t been there, he would have made a scene.
Ève felt she had to take things a step farther. She stood up and motioned to the Shiba Inu to accompany her. They both waddled over to the Dentremont children. There, they stopped and watched the game.
Galvanized, Quentin attempted a few glorious returns then, trying to catch an uncatchable ball, risked a dangerous backflip.
Ève cheered.
He stared at her, his face scarlet. “Would you like to play?”
“I’d love to. Only, who’ll look after my little darling?”
Glad of the opportunity to take a break, the two younger brothers offered their services.
“Then take her to the water, I think she might need to have a little pee.”
“Of course, Madame.”
The two boys set off enthusiastically toward the sea. A match began between Ève and Quentin. This time, he adopted a different ploy: he was trying to lose—not that this was obvious, since Ève, eager to keep her moves harmonious, kept missing her shots.
It didn’t matter. Their exchange of mutual complicity proved more intense than their game. Quentin kept making eyes at Ève and she mischievously returned his glances. They liked each other, and made no secret of the fact.
“Phew! I’m going to stop. It’s exhausting.”
“Are you here for the weekend?”
“Yes, and you?”
He frowned. “I’m here with my parents.”
“Your mother’s very beautiful.”
“Really?”
Although Quentin didn’t quite grasp the reason for this comment, she relaxed him by showing that there could be no hostility between his mother and the woman he desired.
“You’re a hundred times more beautiful than my mother.”
“Now, now!”
“I swear.”
“You forget I’m not a hundred times younger than your mother.”
“I like real women—not little girls.” He made this declaration with a male self-confidence that surprised them both—him because he had never expected to say it, and her because she felt he meant it.
Casting a glance in the direction of the deck chairs, she saw Philippe walking around in circles, at the end of his tether, while Odile was quietly enjoying watching her son act like a man.
Figuring she had done enough, she decided to go back to her deck chair. “I’m going to rest.”
“Yes, of course.”
“You know, you remind me of a little yellow letter.”
“A little yellow letter?”
“Yes. A little yellow letter that you didn’t sign.” And with this, she gave him such an irresistible smile that he smiled too, which seemed to Ève to confirm her theory.
She went back to her deck chair. At that moment, Philippe walked to the bar, signaling to her to follow him, an invitation she wickedly ignored.
To stir up even more ill feeling within the Dentremont family, she took the anonymous note out of her bag, added her address in Knokke-le-Zoute, and waited for the two younger Dentremonts to bring back her dog. As she thanked them, she gave them the piece of paper and asked them to give it to their brother, which they did without trying to conceal it. Quentin had barely gotten hold of the message when his father appeared.
“Give me that!”
Outraged by his tone of voice, Quentin rose to his full height and looked him coldly up and down. “It’s none of your business!”
“Do as you’re told. I’m your father!”
“Not for long!” Quentin growled.
Taken aback, Philippe hesitated, surprised and dumbfounded to discover that his son had become someone new, that the boy had turned into a man right there before his eyes.
Quentin was standing up to him, aware of what was happening, intoxicated by this power rising within him, the power to desire a woman, the power to go against his father’s wishes.
They stood there for a few seconds, motionless, two males sizing each other up, the elder realizing that he was growing old, the younger that he would soon become the dominant one. At that moment, they were no longer father and son, but rivals.
“What’s the matter?” Odile said in a somewhat sleepy voice. “Is there a problem?”
Quentin turned to her. “No, Mom,” he gallantly reassured her. “Everything’s OK. No problem.”
Once again, he had taken over his father’s role, while the latter, stunned by the change in situation, exasperated by Ève’s presence, wary of arousing his wife’s suspicions, shrugged and—temporarily—accepted defeat.
From a distance, Ève had missed nothing of this exchange.
He’s ready, she thought, looking at Philippe. He’ll have the nerve to show up at my place, and I’ll make sure I get him to explain himself.
She gathered her things. This time, it was she who signaled to Philippe to join her at the bar. As he walked there, she said goodbye to the three Dentremont boys and took her leave of Odile with a smile.
Philippe was deep into a Bloody Mary by the time she stopped beside him. “Flirting in the kindergarten now?” he growled
“Your son’s very handsome. And so young!”
“I forbid you to play that game.”
“Forbid me? What right do you have to forbid me?”
“My right as your lover.”
“And Fatima’s. And lots of other women’s.”
At the mention of Fatima, Philippe recoiled. Panic flashed in his eyes. “Look, Ève, I can’t talk to you this weekend. We have a very busy schedule. I can’t get away from my family.”
“But we have to talk.”
“Ève . . . ”
“Maybe I could befriend your wife. Remember how easy it was with your sons.”
“Ève, don’t use this method!”
“Who’s talking to me now? Fatima’s lover?”
Put in his place, he lowered his eyes. Here was a self-centered man who always got what he wanted thanks to his money and his frivolous attitude, now revealed as nothing but a coward.
As Ève turned on her heels, she said, “You know
Villa Coquillage? My friend Clélia has lent it to me. I’ll be waiting.”
Relieved, Ève went home and pampered herself in the bathroom for two hours, with a sequence of facial scrub, mask, and massage.
At eight in the evening, she sat down in front of the TV with a dinner tray.
Until ten-thirty, she watched with great interest a show featuring aspiring young singers auditioning blindly before a panel of stars. Identifying with each one of them, she cried a lot, with joy as well as disappointment.
Finally, at eleven, drained from all this empathy, she thought again about her own case and started to worry. She was on the verge of feeling offended.
The doorbell rang.
“At last!”
The sound had restored her self-confidence. What was she going to get out of this heart-to-heart with Philippe? Would he leave Fatima? Would he give her more money? Maybe both . . .
When she opened the door, a shadowy figure slipped inside. “Please close the door, I don’t want anybody to see me.”
Standing there before her, looking charming, dressed all in white and holding a bunch of tulips, was Quentin.
“I ran away to see you.”
14
Between the two women, orgasm was no longer an end in itself. Shutting themselves in the pastel-colored room with its discreet curtains, and spending hours in each other’s arms, naked, relaxed, protected, far from their husbands, children, and social obligations, provided an unexpected, secret, wonderful break.
Whereas in the beginning, desire had been a justification for their embraces, it had now become the quintessence of it all: they didn’t need to make love, they needed love—giving it as well as receiving it. It was clear that sensuality had been simply a pretext, which one day had led Xavière to steal a kiss from Séverine and given Séverine permission to draw Xavière into her boudoir. Now, after many caresses, many kisses, many thrills of pleasure, they had become so close that they would sometimes go to bed together in the middle of the day and talk, lightly touch, and share deep silences, without feeling compelled to reach a climax.