demimondaines, artists in floppy hats, and self-made men tanned to within an inch of their lives, whose sole redeeming feature was their ability to animate the conversation.
“Could our parents possibly have money problems?” I asked Frédéric.
After looking thoughtful for a moment, he replied, out of the blue, “Tell me about your love life.”
“Excuse me?”
“No, I mean it, I’m interested,” he said in an insinuating tone I found irresistible.
“Well, it’s a catastrophe.”
“Oh, come now. When was your divorce?”
“Three years ago.”
“And then nothing, nobody?”
“No. Or, not exactly. You really want to know? I scare men away. It’s unbelievable. There isn’t one who’ll dare pin me down on a sofa or hop into bed with me for the night. Before they even kiss me they’re already wondering if they’d be willing to leave their wives or marry me. That she’s-the-daughter-of thing, albeit a social plus, is toxic. I am too chic, too independent, and probably too smart, because I’ll spare you what happens when I confess that I’m a shrink. In fact, I’ve come to the conclusion that the world is awash in men who aren’t meant for me. Actually, not meant for us, because ditto for Marie.”
“No!”
“Well, sort of. She does have more lovers than I do, seeing as she’s got more choices, what with all those security and secret service guys she works with.”
“Who?”
“You know, the ones with earpieces who are in charge of security whenever world leaders have those summits—she hangs around with them all day. They haven’t a clue who she is and wouldn’t give a damn if they did, because they’re tough guys, right? But as for finding a lover with whom she might actually like to live, Marie’s in the same spot I am: nowhere. And for the same reasons. Even though she does her absolute best not to scare them away. Listen, on the phone she’ll tell them that she’s in Limoges for a radiologists’ convention when in fact she’s in Davos or Rio—with the president!”
“This is ridiculous. You’re both young, beautiful, rich …”
Serge brought the order to the table.
“… Ah! My escalope viennoise. Do you know it’s the best in Paris? Look at these little condiments they give you on the side, what a lovely presentation!”
“Lovely,” I repeated, gently sarcastic.
“Sorry, you were saying?”
“I was telling you that the closer men get to us socially, the farther away from us they stay. What can I tell you! That’s just the way it is. What about you? Still crazy about François?”
“Right, go on, make fun of me …” He blushed, as he did whenever I mentioned his heartthrobs. The current candidate was an understudy whose career he was trying to launch.
Despite having been married three times and having lived with at least as many boyfriends, including a well-known transsexual, Frédéric was the least liberated of men: reserved, old-fashioned, and he simply hated talking about sex. I changed the subject.
“And what about Gay? How is she?”
Gay is Frédéric’s great friend. It was she who introduced Frédéric to my parents and smuggled him into the family like a fox spirited into a henhouse. Indeed, who would ever have imagined that one day this night bird, this court jester, the intimate of lowlifes and drag queens, would even meet my parents, let alone get them to like him! Gay and Frédéric each have an apartment in the same building and are inseparable. Calling her several times a day and taking her everywhere, he brings fantasy and gaiety to her life, while she pampers him like a mother, trying to protect him from himself with a few moral lectures she trots out for form’s sake, and which he promptly forgets, rushing off to the casino at Enghien or the racetracks at Longchamps. In short, this charming and discreet couple keep their personal worries and ailments to themselves, sharing with each other only the best of their moods and lives. And they have a ball party hopping through the hottest spots, where they slip in among the young and beautiful to watch the show, on which they comment conspiratorially to their hearts’ content.
Gay was fine, said Frédéric, but he seemed more interested in the dessert cart, which he was examining with great care, requesting a description of every cake before finally announcing, “No, I don’t really have much of a sweet tooth. But perhaps you could bring us a small plate of petits fours?”
“So, Frédéric, what’s your big idea?” I asked impatiently.
“My idea?”
“Yes, your idea about L’Agapanthe going on the market and