Page 4
“Especially to King! Isn’t that a bit narcissistic?”
“And most importantly, how did he end up becoming such a bigshot? I’m not dissing him, but your ex was pretty volatile—and now he’s the CEO of some huge company!?”
“Wait, do you think this was planned? That he went out of his way to find you?”
“I…”
“If he did, that’s incredibly romantic,” Niels comments.
“If he did, that’s kind of desperate,” Clémentine corrects him, rolling her eyes.
“Let’s not get carried away,” I say. “I don’t have any answers. All I know is that he bolted without a word after seeing me.”
“So, he hasn’t changed at all,” Clem murmurs. “He’s still just as unpredictable.”
“Maybe, but whether it was a coincidence or not, you’ve found your first great love again,” Niels sighs wistfully. “And given the state you’re in, he still has the same effect on you, Alma.”
Blah, blah, blah.
Clémentine D’Aragon, thirty years old, married, with two kids, is my oldest friend. When she was younger, she was such a live wire—a free spirit, a force of nature—that I sometimes had trouble keeping up with her. Today, instead of pursuing a career in journalism, she has chosen to dedicate her time to her three-year-old twin girls, Madeleine and Séraphine, who weren’t exactly planned. It’s a decision she sometimes questions, especially when her little darlings seem determined to drive her crazy.
She loves the fabulous duplex in the Opéra district that she inherited from her filthy rich family, her chili-red Mini Cooper, organic vegetables, Pinot Noir, Jane Austen, all of Coldplay’s albums, and fleece-lined clogs—which are a stylistic contradiction but, at the same time, an irresistibly comfortable trend. She hates “supermoms” who are super happy, super efficient, and super stylish, naturally slim people, beer, her in-laws—who are constantly telling her what to do and reject the very idea of the invisible mental load involved in running a household—horror films, camping, and cooked tomato skin, as well as any kids’ activity or early years workshop that lands her in a gym smelling of socks. She cannot stand being called a bobo—a bourgeois bohemian—while secretly admitting she’s the very definition of one.
Niels Duval, a good-looking, twenty-eight-year-old blond with a narrow waist and an original sense of style, came into my life later on. He worked with me for three years in a small company producing independent films. We hit it off right away. He always gives excellent relationship advice, despite his own disastrous love life and terrible taste in men, which ranges from the curious straight guy all the way to the man in a twenty-year-long relationship who is bored and secretly looking for a third playmate to join him and his partner. It’s a similar story with his career: he’s been trying to make a name for himself as an actor for about ten years but hasn’t managed to break through—he’s too tall, too handsome, too blond, too effeminate, always “too” something. He bounces reluctantly from one odd job to another, though always more or less related to the film industry, even if it means cleaning movie theaters or putting up posters in the metro. But this eternal optimist does have two commercials under his belt and an appearance in a TV series, which are his greatest sources of pride. The biggest role of his life so far: “Victim Number Three,” a corpse in a crime drama. He loves the Oscar he will win one day; the crime writer Olivier Norek (even though he has never read a single one of his books); Rihanna; classical music, despite not knowing a single composer; bearded men; the TV show Star Academy, even though he’s slightly ashamed of watching the live shows on repeat; colorful cocktails; sweatshirts with outrageous motifs; and Nude, the hairless cat whom he considers his son, despite regularly complaining that the animal basically cost him a kidney. He hates J.K. Rowling, all the gay best friends in TV shows, fast food, animal cruelty, guys who don’t want to move in with him after two dates, narrow-mindedness, Miss France speeches, and the color mustard yellow.
Their common ground: they are absolute gems as friends, but also world-class drama queens.
“So, has Vadim changed?” Clem asks. “Please tell me he now looks hideous and dresses like a slob!”
I shake my head. “The charisma that guy has… All my coworkers were devouring him with their eyes.”
“Oh my God, I have to meet him! Alma, what are you waiting for?!” Niels blurts out, his eyes widening.
“For him to look me in the eye, for starters! And in any case, I’m finding being single very fulfilling, I’ll have you know.”
“Liar…”
“That’s my girl! Vadim Arcadi was already hard work back then, but this Vadim King… I’ve got a bad feeling about him.”
“Oh, stop it, Clem. She’s still in love with him, it’s glaringly obvious! If Alma listened to you, she’d be a nun by now. Or married to an accountant with a strong interest in genealogy…” Niels, dressed in a Pedro Pascal sweatshirt, wiggles his eyebrows infuriatingly at her and shrugs his shoulders.
“At least I’ve got a man waiting for me at home!”
He responds to Clémentine’s jab by flashing her an outraged look.
I jump in before they tear each other apart. “You two really should go to couples therapy.”
And I should think about getting new best friends.
Never in a million years.
3
Alma
I study my reflection in the tiny bathroom mirror and sigh. My complexion is pale, my shoulder-length bob is decidedly limp, my lips are puffy with fatigue, and the dark circles beneath my eyes are tinged with the same green as my irises. I really need to stop staying up until two in the morning. Examining myself in the mirror is not part of my morning routine—far from it. I know I should be kinder to myself, and most of the time I manage just fine. But the thought of running into Vadim at some point during the day makes me more anxious than it should.
I don’t have any particular expectations… just a sudden surge of pride. He thought I was beautiful back then. He wasn’t the type to shower me with compliments, but he meant every word he said to me. Often, he didn’t even need to speak; I just loved seeing myself reflected in his eyes. I would even go as far as saying that, back then, his opinion was the only one that mattered.
