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

can imagine it so easily: this letter trembling in your hands, your struggle to stay upright amid the disorder of this disaster zone, this cemetery, this chaos that used to be our apartment, and still what bothers you most is that you can’t work out how I discovered the truth.
    While you’re racking your brains, I would like to tell you a thing or two.
    I remember our first meeting vividly. We were twenty-five years old. You were tall, handsome, charming. You smiled at me. It was a crowded party. We talked—all night long. And we saw each other again. And we got married. And then there was Ang é lique. You wanted a girl. You dreamed of having a daughter. When she was born, you cried. I remember your tears and your big hands protecting her tiny, fragile body. You told me it was the greatest day of your life. Then there was Octave. You weren’t so interested in him. He senses that, you know. He’s aware of it. He’s only four, but he’s extraordinarily sensitive. Not that you ever noticed. He realized that you hurt me, even though I was careful not to say anything to the children. He told me he doesn’t want you to make me sad anymore. I think he’s right. The children are with me. They know nothing.
    I came back here, one last time, and I destroyed everything. I bet you didn’t think I’d be capable, did you? Your darling wife, so gentle, so kind, so well brought up. The patient mother. The exemplary spouse. No doubt you’ll tell the insurance company your apartment was trashed by a gang of vandals. It happens all the time.
    I wanted to hurt you by destroying the objects you loved. It felt good. You probably think it was beneath me. But it made me feel better. I look at this mayhem and I breathe more easily. The violence rose within me like an erupting volcano. I let it explode. Now I am calm. The storm is over. I know I never want to live with you again. It was this summer that I realized you were cheating on me. I was in Brittany with the children. You were working in Paris. When I came home after the vacation, I found a long strand of black hair in the bathtub. No one in our family has black hair, apart from you. And yours is short. This strand of hair was at least a foot long. It lay on the white enamel like a dark party streamer. I looked at it, then rinsed the bathtub. I didn’t say a word.
    A few weeks later, I found another one stuck to your sweater. Long and black. Again, I kept silent. You know me. I’m not the kind of girl to make a scene. I stay in my corner. I watch. I observe. I don’t think I’ve ever yelled at you, have I? For years, I held it all in. What you’re looking at now is the result. Sometimes it’s dangerous to not yield to anger. Look where it got us.
    Then, one day, I left home for a few days on a work trip. Your mother looked after the children. When I came back, I found a long strand of black hair under your pillow. So I did what women do when they are suspicious. I followed you. This required a certain amount of organization. No one becomes a private detective overnight.
    I saw you with her. A tall girl with long, dark hair, quite pretty, nice smile, slim but curvy body. You went into a caf é near your office. It was late afternoon. You looked at her with so much love, so much passion, that I wanted to throw up. You drank in her words; you caressed her hands, her shoulders, her thighs under the table. The two of you shared a sensual kiss. I noticed you weren’t wearing your wedding ring. It was at that moment that I decided to leave you.
    That evening, when you came home, the wedding ring was on your finger again. Its presence confirmed my plans. Yes, I was going to leave you. Not right away. But soon.
    I don’t want to hear your explanations. I suppose all betrayed wives must listen to their husbands’ excuses, but I choose not to submit myself to yours. As far as I’m concerned, you have no excuse. Coming home in the evening, you transformed yourself from cheating