A Paris Affair by Tatiana De Rosnay Read Free Book Online Page A

rubbers!”
    “What about them?”
    “I don’t have any!”
    “So?”
    “I can’t sleep with Pierre without a rubber, can I?”
    “You think your husband wore a rubber, with the Swede?”
    “The Swedes use rubbers more than any other nationality in the world. The Scandinavians are totally pro-condom!”
    “Well, just go buy some at the pharmacy.”
    Marguerite bit her lip. “That’s such a nuisance!”
    “Why?”
    “I’m embarrassed to buy them.”
    “I’ll buy some for you, if you like.”
    “You won’t believe this, but I have no idea how to use them. I’ve never put a condom on a man in my life.”
    “Your Pierre will know how. The man usually does it, anyway. It’s like putting on a sock. Just don’t get it the wrong way round. It’s not difficult.”
    “This messes up my whole plan. How am I supposed to seduce him if I have to put that thing on him?”
    “He’ll do it himself.”
    “Yes, but who’s supposed to bring up the subject—him or me? How does it happen these days? It’s the first time I’ve been in this kind of situation. And what am I supposed to say, exactly? ‘Would you mind wearing a thingamajig … you know, a whatsit—’ Ugh! It’ll turn him off in an instant.”
    “I wouldn’t say anything. I’d just put it on him myself.”
    “And what if I get it on the wrong way? What if I end up wearing it like a glove and he loses his erection? Oh, what a nightmare!”
    “There are different sizes and models, too—”
    “No!”
    “Oh yes. There’s king-size, super king-size, and extra-super king size.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “It means men can’t bear the idea of walking into a store and asking for a pack of ‘medium’-sized condoms. Then there’s lubricated, unlubricated, different flavors—vanilla, pear, banana, strawberry—and different colors. You can get them with patterns or without, with studs or ribs—shall I go on?”
    “Where did you learn all this, Marie?”
    “I gave up using the pill at one point. Would you like me to come with you, to buy some? I could help you choose.”
    Marguerite sighed. “Oh … no, thank you, darling. I think I’ll just go home and beat the crap out of my husband. It’s less complicated.”
    She removed the large gem from the ring finger of her left hand and put it on her right. Now the thick signet ring and the engagement ring were touching. She made a fist and looked at it appraisingly.
    “Look—I have brass knuckles now! So that diamond will finally serve some purpose.”
    “What purpose?”
    “If I aim right, I should be able to knock out his dental implant.”

 
    T HE S TRAND OF H AIR
    It’s still better to be married than dead.
    —M OLIÈRE (1622–1673), Les Fourberies de Scapin
    Dear Jean-Baptiste,
    Yes, I destroyed everything. There’s nothing left. The glassware is in pieces. The porcelain dishes are jigsaw puzzles. The paintings are slashed. The couches disemboweled. The books torn to shreds. Your computer exploded. The TV and the DVD player beyond repair. Your iPad is in the toilet bowl. Your suits have no arms or legs. Your shoes have been soaked in bleach.
    I created this mess in quite a methodical way. I wanted to attack everything that represented the eight years we spent together. It hurt me to look at our photograph albums. All those images of vanished happiness, short-lived contentment, all those smiling faces, those family scenes, our honeymoon, our first Christmas together, those birthdays and vacations … I couldn’t bear to look at them anymore. So I burned them, one by one, along with all your letters.
    The CDs and DVDs were more difficult. They’re surprisingly hard to break. But I managed in the end, with the aid of a large pair of scissors. I particularly enjoyed destroying La Wally and the song that was sung at our wedding: “Ebben? Ne andr ò lontana.” I don’t think I ever want to hear that again.
    How did I find out? I bet that’s what’s bugging you, isn’t it? I