Roland had been seated at the back of the restaurant, close to the toilets.
‘How lovely,’ remarked Juliette, who immediately asked to move to another table.
The waiter, a young Asian man with a curious manner, waved his hand at the packed dining room by way of response before scarpering, leaving their menus on the table in front of them. Roland suggested ordering a glass of champagne, a notion immediately shot down by Juliette. She felt ridiculous in her red silk blouse. Walking into the restaurant, she had glanced around at what the other women were wearing; it didn’t take long to realise scarlet was out of fashion. Everyone was in pink. When the waiter showed them to their outlying table, Juliette told herself it was no wonder they were putting her in the corner. ‘I look like a peasant in my Sunday best,’ she thought. A glass of champagne would have been the icing on the cake. They might as well be living in the provinces. Juliette belonged to a family of boho Belleville artisans. Roland was from Brittany. He had grown up in the town of Lorient, a fact she could not resist reminding him of.
‘This is just like one of those Relais & Châteaux places in your village.’
‘It’s not in the bag yet,’ thought Roland, choosing to remain silent. Playing the smooth cop, he waved authoritatively at the waiter, who hurried over.
‘I’ll have a whisky. What do you want?’ he asked, staring hard at his wife.
‘The same,’ she told the waiter.
‘One–nil,’ thought the lieutenant. He felt relaxed. He was comfortable in his sailor kit. It hadn’t crossed his mind to even glimpse at what anyone else was wearing. Like all headstrong people, Roland saw everything he started right through to the end. This pig-headedness could sometimes evolve into self-delusion, and from there to catastrophe. Tonight he was heading for disaster. As far as Juliette was concerned, the night was hanging in the balance. She was waiting, though for what, she wasn’t sure. A stroke of magic, probably; a miracle, in other words. ‘Is he going to get a handle on this?’ she asked herself as she peered over her menu at her husband, who was making a show of studying his. ‘I’ll hand it to him, he came back well on the whisky. But now what?’
By the time the waiter delivered the coffees, Juliette was beginning to enjoy herself. She and Roland had both ordered the chef’s special, the Oriental-style pigeon. They had drunk an excellent Pommard which had started to go to their heads. Several times during the night, between the starter and main course and again between the pigeon and dessert, Roland had stroked his wife’s hand. As they moved on to the final dish, an orange soufflé accompanied by a glass of syrupy dessert wine, the ice was finally broken. From the whisky right up until the theatrical arrival of the soufflé, the talk had been strained and excessively polite. Each of them knew that the occasion demanded a certain level of conversation, a turn of phrase in line with the glamorous setting: ideas and feelings in the Relais & Châteaux mould. Yet it also struck both of them that they had no more to say to one another here than they did eating together at home.
It was the celebratory feel and amusing appearance of that marvel, the soufflé, a kind of hot-air balloon of patisserie flying against the laws of gravity, that finally made them relax and enjoy each other’s company. It was also the signal that dinner was almost over. They took it as the cue to finally open up to one another. Roland said he was sorry for what he had done the previous Friday, when he had grabbed Juliette’s arm in a manner she had found threatening, though he hadn’t meant it that way.
‘I was knackered. It was the end of a long day. I just needed a hug.’
Juliette conceded she had overreacted to what was after all just one false move. Then they had gone further back into their shared history, admitting other mistakes they had each made, things they had forgotten, and reliving the high points too. They had always been there for each other. The children had come along. Their two darlings. A stroke of luck? ‘Love,’ said Juliette. Shit, yes, the children. The babysitter was booked until midnight. Juliette checked her watch. They had just under half an hour to get back to the twentieth arrondissement. She thought she ought to warn the girl, ‘We might be a little late.’ Meanwhile Roland settled the bill, glancing at his mobile phone. His deputy had sent him a message.
‘Busy night. Messy situation, but we’re handling it. Would rather be in a restaurant. Samy.’
Intrigued, Roland was about to call him when the waiter arrived to tell them their taxi had just pulled up outside.
*
The sex toy lay dormant inside its hard, transparent plastic case. Under the bed, it waited to be turned on and sent into sweaty battle. It seemed to have a life of its own, like a kind of mythical creature. Roland hadn’t known where else to hide the thing, which embarrassed and fascinated him in equal measure.
Meanwhile Juliette was busy thanking the babysitter and offering her an hour’s extra pay for the additional ten minutes’ work their late return had caused her. As he listened to his wife, full of admiration for her good nature, Roland wondered how best to present her with his find. Was it something that needed to be talked about first, or should he just grab it on the spur of the moment? He couldn’t help smiling. The toy, a simple vibrator, had turned him on in the shop, but now he wasn’t so sure. He probably should have put it back on the shelf with all the other oddities, but Roland had decided to go through with it. ‘What’s the worst that can happen? I’ll get a slap or she’ll laugh in my face. Otherwise, I’ll never know. My own wife is a mystery to me. What does she like? This filthy thing’s making me hard. Why doesn’t she do that to me?’
‘I’ll go and check on the children,’ he told Juliette, slipping out of the room.
The sex toy hadn’t moved an inch. It was sitting quietly under the bed, exactly where Roland had left it several hours earlier. ‘I’m an idiot,’ he told himself, carefully taking it into his hands. He could hear snippets of the conversation going on at the other end of the corridor. The two women were still talking. Roland took the toy out of its packaging and looked at it closely. It was cold and hard, not very pretty, merely suggestive. The appliance was battery-operated. Luckily the woman on the till had pointed this out to Roland. The thing didn’t just vibrate of its own accord. ‘Can’t go expecting miracles,’ he was thinking as he listened to her. How had she come to this career? She handled the gadgets on offer in her shop with the professional air of a saleswoman at Galeries Lafayette. It wasn’t very hard to figure out. Roland inserted the four batteries into the back of the vibrator and tested it. Vrrr… Vrrr… It worked just fine; it purred. Soon it would pounce. An image flashed through Roland’s mind as he let his hand stroke up and down the toy. ‘It’s powered by the thunder of God,’ he said to himself, a sizeable erection straining the fabric of his trousers. At the sound of the front door opening, he put the vibrator back under the bed, ready for use. As he walked back into the living room, he was imagining making Juliette come with the sex toy. Tonight, he was determined to bring her to the peak of pleasure.
She was on edge. She had barely closed the door on the babysitter when Roland was all over her, kissing her full on the mouth before she had time to draw breath.
‘What about the children?’ she said, freeing herself from his grasp.
‘They’re fast asleep.’
Roland was already wrapping his arms back around Juliette, unbuttoning her blouse, grasping at her breasts so he could finally press his skin against hers. It was all a bit much for Juliette. She needed another drink before she could let herself go. They hadn’t had sex for a month, maybe longer. She pushed Roland away gently but firmly.
‘Not so fast,’ she said, affecting outrage to keep him on his toes.
She
