Lunch was in Venice.
Anouk had chosen Gjelina, a fashionable foodie spot on Abbot Kinney, where the walls were dark, the chatter was loud, and the plates were small. We sat toward the back of the main room, tucked into the last table along the banquette. A location she selected for its privacy.
“I love this space because it feels like you could have an affair here in the middle of the day and no one would notice.” She smiles at me, sly. We’ve been seated for ten minutes, and our drinks have yet to arrive.
“Not that I would do that,” she continues, “but if I did… this would be the place.”
I laugh at that. I’m not certain if she’s just being funny or it’s an actual test. But I decide to split the difference.
“If you did…”
“If I did,” she repeats, holding my gaze for what feels like a beat too long.
She is wearing a white knit top that reveals her flesh-colored camisole beneath. A straight black skirt with a leather waistband and a center slit that rides distractingly high. Both by Louis Vuitton. I look boyish in comparison in a charcoal Saint Laurent blazer, striped silk button-down, and gray wool pants. The choice to pair the above withsneakers was an attempt to appear nonchalant, but in that moment I feel anything but. I am hyperaware of her mouth, her hands, the flesh on the inside of her knee each time she crosses and uncrosses her legs.
“So,” she says, contemplating the menu. “Everything here is amazing. I’m going to order a bunch of stuff and you are going to love it all. I promise. Just trust me. Okay? Good.” She raises her gaze, and this time I am sure. Whatever this is, she is leading, and I am along for the ride.
Our waitress appears then with our drinks: rosé for me, something called a Seasonal Shrub for her. I watch her nod agreeingly as Anouk rattles off a list of sundry menu items. Smoked-trout salad, wood-roasted cauliflower, grilled broccolini, mushroom toast, braised pork meatballs.
“Are we expecting someone else? The Lakers, perhaps?”
“Just the starting lineup. Not the entire team.” She laughs, tossing her head, running her fingers through her hair. It’s wavy today, free. The French would call itcoquette. How she can be impossibly chic and at the same time exude casual insouciance fascinates me. And I can’t decide if I want to be her or consume her in some illicit way.
“I hope you brought your appetite,” she says.
“I always bring my appetite.”
“Good. Too many women restrict themselves. Life is short. Find joy in the places you can. Men, if they want it all, they take it. Women are consistently checking in, holding back, denying themselves of the things that make them happy. Especially in this country.
“So…” She shakes her napkin out onto her lap. “Élodie Cloutier.”
It’s like a kick to the shin, no warning.
“Did you think I’d forgotten?”
“I’d hoped,” I say, reaching for my wine. I can feel my face flushing, my ears hot. For all Élodie’s press in France, her name is basically unknown here, and yet I illogically worry that those at the next table might recognize all the players in my personal tragedy. That they might look up from their anchovy, dandelion, and mozzarella pizza, curiosity piqued.
Anouk gives me a second to recover, but she does not relent. “What happened with you two?”
“She slept with my husband.”
I don’t know what makes me tell her.
I don’t know what it is to say those words out loud. In a public place. And to anyone other than my therapist. Maybe it’s because she doesn’t know François. Maybe because she hasn’t been privy to the intricacies of our marriage. But for some reason, it feels safe.
For a moment, she says nothing. Then she reaches beneath the table, finds my hand, and squeezes. The gesture brings tears to my eyes.
“I’m so sorry,” she says softly. “I had no idea. I thought you were going to say she was crazy, or difficult to work with, or completely self-centered like so many other actresses.Je ne le savais pas du tout.”
For a while neither of us speaks and I do my best to collect myself, my face turned toward the near wall. A server appears, refills our water, and just as quickly slips away.
“You’re going to be okay,” she says to me. It’s not a question. “Awful things happen, and we heal.
“Is it still going on?”
“No. I don’t think so. It was a while ago. He assures me it’s over. But…”
“But you don’t know that you’ll ever be able to fully trust him again,” she says, completing my thought.
