By Jennifer Busch

Later, my daughter will call me whore.

My husband—worse.

~

Now, though, I’m sipping champagne on the steps of Sacré-Cœur, the sun on my back and all Paris at my feet. It’s just me and Alexandre. His treat, for my sensational result on the Beauvoir case. And when the boss insists…

He’s brilliant, Alexandre. Life’s been a merry-go-round of tweenie tantrums and hissed recriminations, but when I’ve turned up to work raw, gray, useful as a battered old rag doll, Alexandre’s quietly postponed our meetings and slipped a café crème on my desk. And the second we heard about Beauvoir, he pulled me, laughing, from our tiny firm on Rue de Trois Frères all the way up Montmartre hill to celebrate.

And celebrate we do, soon supplementing our first bottle with a second, chilled, from the local alimentation générale. A park keeper spots us. Admonishes us in that gorgeous, French-official way. Not for drinking in public, no: for not hiding our booze well enough. 

Setting our faces to serious, we nod silently, stow our Taittinger Brut under a sunhat, and crack up every time we sneak ourselves a fresh pour.

Afternoon stretches lazily towards evening. For the first time in a very long time, my racing thoughts slow. My body sinks into indolence, and something softens, deep inside. Then there, there she is. The old me. I thought I’d lost her, long ago, that she’d never made it out from under the mountains of dirty nappies and carrot-encrusted baby grows, hadn’t even set foot onto the subsequent terrain of screaming matches and slammed doors.

But no, she’s been there all along, trapped under the clanking chains of motherhood—and as those chains slacken she slips free and bubbles to the surface, one eyebrow cocked and a witty comeback on her lips.

Alexandre and I have always danced around a little spark, and he responds to this new-old me with a cheeky half-smile. I match it. His gaze darts away, then back, and a delicious jolt shivers through me. He focuses on the middle distance, the question left unspoken.

I flirt with the idea of him as my lover, a sprinkling of fun on a dull day. It’s been so long since I had that kind of fun…whenever I go near Jacques, he shrugs me away. Oh, to be touched. Wanted. The yearning is so strong I can almost feel the tips of Alexandre’s fingers tracing a path down my side, working their way under my shirt, my skirt, his soft kisses exploring my lips, my neck, my breasts…

I blush, turn quickly away. Landmarks catch my eye, and other images crowd my mind—Centre Pompidou: my husband’s bristle warm against my cheek, hand protective on my rounding belly; the Panthéon: love explosive at my daughter’s wide-eyed wonder; Park Buttes-Chaumont: family picnics and giggles and silliness…

Alexandre touches my shoulder. I swivel round, surprised laughter catching in the intensity of his gaze. He leans in, places a tentative hand on my waist, presses into me.

I’m lost in his kiss.

Lost…Everything I could lose jumps into sharp relief, shattering my bliss. I draw back, heart hammering blackly in my constricted chest, mind clutching that picturesque of what-could-maybe-be-again.

Time splinters: Jacques and Sophie and I saunter along a beach at sunset, squeal into a blustery wind, the reds and golds of autumn leaves swirling around us, Jacques squeezes my hand at Sophie’s graduation, her wedding…

And then, then Alexandre’s fingertips graze my cheek. We lock eyes, and a new sensation rushes through me, sweet, and painful, and urgent…

I lean in.