“Hold on,” he says, crossing the room before calling out, “We are leaving in twelve minutes,les enfants. Make the beds, brush the teeth.”
His eyes shift from brown to blue as he makes his way through the dining area and living room with its wide expanse of glass. Eventually, he lands in our bedroom. Our bed, it appears, is still unmade.
“Did he tell you his plan?”
“To sleep at his friend’s house…”
“Yes. Did he tell you which friend?”
“Eric something?”
“Eryx. Barlow.” He pauses, as if for dramatic effect. “The son of Derrick Barlow and Cressida James.”
“Shut up.”
Cressida James and Derrick Barlow are Hollywood royalty. Sheis an actress, with two Oscars and numerous Golden Globes to her name. He is a former world number-one tennis player with a dozen Grand Slam titles. Both are blond, beautiful, English. Their union and its combined Q-rating had landed them in the upper echelons of A-list celebs. So much so that they were often referred to by a single-name moniker: Derrida. And when they announced their divorce eighteen months prior it made the cover of every tabloid magazine on six continents. IncludingParis Match:DERRIDA DÉCONSTRUIT.
I can only imagine what the French tabloids would say if they got wind of Fran and Élodie’s affair.Quelle scandale! Pity the clueless foreign wife.
“Alors…”Fran smiles then. “I thought you might want to do that call.”
“Crap. This is where it starts, doesn’t it? Becoming Hollywood. We’re getting sucked in.”
“We are already there. In the bubble.” He pauses, angling his head. “Where are you?”
“Grande Épicerie. Picking up goodies for everyone.”
“Ah, super! Don’t forget thesaucisson sec.”
I smile, plucking a package of dried sausage from my basket and holding it up to the camera. “Already done.”
“You are the perfect wife.”
His words halt me. There are so many ways in which I can respond. And yet it’s probably best that I choose none of the above.
“I didn’t… I mean… I’m sorry,” François says, contrite.
I nod, and resume making my way through the aisles toward the butter.
“So,” he continues, “we got the hospital bill from the accident.Putain de merde.”
“Isn’t our insurance covering it?”
“I thought so, but apparently yours and the kids’ don’t start for ninety days.”
I freeze then. In addition to the ambulance and the ER, there’d been two follow-up appointments, a CAT scan, an MRI. “How much is it?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“How much, Fran?”
“Twenty-seven thousand.”
“Jesus Christ. How is that even possible?”
He shrugs. “America.”
In Paris, with theCarte Vitaleand ourmutuelle, it would have cost us no more than a couple of hundred. If that. “That’s insane. We have to pay all that?”
