She frowned. "You are not quoting 'The Princess Bride" at me are you? Never mind. I shall tell you a little then. I had been in Paris for a month and was starting to be less, well, less highly strung. Beginning to enjoy it. It was September, so still warm, but with slightly fewer tourists. I had thrown myself into redecorating. And I mean that properly, me up a ladder with a paintbrush, doing it all myself. Of course I had to clean all the plaster cornices and ceiling roses first, taking off layers of old paint to bring it back to the original moulding. It was therapeutic. But then I began to look for furniture, and decorative items. I wanted to match the 19th century interior, so I spent a lot of time in Les Halles, and at brocantes and vide greniers. And at one of those I met a man with a twinkling eye."
She stopped, and smiled shyly, and said "He reminded me of you. Tall, skinny, a wide grin. And he had a nice voice. French of course. He was selling a pair of walnut bedside tables. He said he had several other pieces I might like. He was clearing out his grandmother's house. So we went to her place, and I bought another two or three things, and he offered to deliver them. He came over to my place the next day, in a van belonging to his friend. The two carried the heavier pieces up to my flat, and then the friend drove off; leaving us with the two bedside tables. They were small, and easy to carry, so we each took one, and placed them on each side of my bed. He joked then about being on the wrong side of the bed. I asked him what he meant, and he said "Oh I usually sleep on the right hand side."
I laughed and told him that would not be a problem, as I didn't mind which side I slept on. So he walked around, and looked down at me and said "Oh good. I had been worrying about it." And then he kissed me. Luckily the condoms I had bought in London were still in date.
We spent three days of fairly insane physical exertion. I had not had sex with a man for about four years. I had, it must be admitted, a couple of interludes with other women, in LA and London, but those hardly counted. So when the dam burst it was quite a flood. Fortunately I had some food in the fridge, and he had sufficient stamina to be able to go out in the morning and buy breakfast, and then to do the same for a late lunch, although we did go out to dinner properly each evening. Until the third day, when reality came to bear. His wife returned from Quimper where she had been settling Grandmother into a rest home. She was very pleased he had managed to sell so much at the Vide Grenier, and they spent two days packing up the rest of the house before they went off following a large van to Britanny. We don't exchange post cards.
So I was suddenly on my own again, but had a revived interest in orgasms. Well, a renewed interest in human company I suppose, as well. I had a dalliance or two, flirting, perhaps a kiss or three, but not letting it go any further. I am afraid I was a bit of a cock-tease for a while. I wanted to, but something stopped me. It wasn't the men, they were all very nice, very gentlemanly, very attentive, in the way that Parisian men can be. Some had wives, but that wasn't what put me off making the final move. I just didn't seem to fancy any of them quite enough. Until one evening..."
She laughed then, and said, "You know, I have never told anyone about this. It was just before my 42nd birthday, a few days off it, and I was at a café on the Place St Michel, overlooking the square, near where all the bookshops are. I had just bought some books, and was sitting with a café allongee, on the second page of my brand new novel, when a young man walking past, turned, and knocked the coffee cup over with his backpack. He had turned to look at the busker in the square who had just started playing. The cup went sideways, straight into the bag of books I had left on the ground beside my leg, but some of the coffee splashed me, and I jumped up, slightly scalded.
He was so apologetic, so charming, so terribly pretty. It was hard to be angry with him. And after a short discussion, in his terribly accented French, he insisted that he take the bag of soaked books and go over the square to the bookshop where I had bought them to get replacements.
I tried to tell him not to, but he had already lifted the bag, and skipped away, narrowly missing a scooter and a taxi as he dodged across the road. I thought that perhaps he would just continue running, that I would never see him or the ruined novels again, but I gave him a chance, and half an hour later he was back. He had got new copies of everything, and he shyly offered me another book. One he thought I might like. "It changed my life" he said.
I looked at him then, only half my age, and wondered how much his life had needed to change. Surely he could not have had such a terrible life before? So I asked him to tell me more about it, and I ordered him a coffee, and another for me, and we talked literature and travel until it was getting dark, and then we had dinner, and naturally I could not let him go off to stay in some grotty backpacker hostel, so..."
Penny blushed. Which was quite charming to see. "I could tell you a much longer version of this story. But the short version is that Martin stayed for a week, before I put him on the train to Berlin. He came back about three months later, and stayed another week, before I sent him home to Canada. I was sorry to see him go, even though I was also quite exhausted. He had, I think, restored some more of my faith in humanity. Or at least my faith in the goodness of some men. And had reminded me of what I had been missing. Affection, and innocence. So I of course instantly started a relationship with an entirely unsuitable man, who was neither innocent nor terribly affectionate.
Morgan was from New Zealand. On reflection he was narcissistic. Arrogant, selfish, self centred, and felt he was entitled to everything. You might say greedy, but it wasn't even that he had overwhelming desires: it was just that he didn't have limits to what he thought he deserved. Of course I didn't recognise that at first. Perhaps I should have. Narcissism and psychopathy are very similar in many ways, and I had met enough psychopaths. But Morgan was charming. He was attentive, he was generous, he was a master of seduction. Too good at it, if I had thought about it at the time. But I was not thinking straight. Martin had made me wistful. In the months when he had been away I had a lot of time to think, and read, and wonder about my life. I missed my children terribly. I had tried not to think of them too often in the last ten years, but alone in Paris in the flat where my son was probably conceived, I could hardly not brood about them. I put out feelers, to Franzi and a couple of others, to try to get news. Zi was able to give me a little information, but his business with Angelo was now very limited. The others, people I had thought were friends in Italy, did not reply."
I could hear the hurt in her voice. I reached out and touched her hand, automatically, and she looked up at me, as if surprised, and smiled. "So," she said, rallying and bringing her shoulders back after giving my hand a soft squeeze, "I played hard to get, but not too hard to get to. Morgan was persistent. I let him persist. I could pay my own way, and often did, just to frustrate his attempts to be a gentleman. I even organised things that I paid for, just to show him I was independent. And I would not let him do more than the bise, a kiss on the cheek when meeting and parting, and sometimes a kiss on the hand when he was flirting with me. A real cock-tease. I thought he would get bored. He just became more determined. Which was flattering.
Of course I should not have been flattered. He just wasn't used to people saying no, and so he determined to get me to say yes. He had to do it, to preserve his ego. It had gone far beyond any attraction to me, or really anything to do with me at all. It was, as with everything, all about him.
But he was so good at it. A lifetime of practice, pretending to want to help, to lift others up, to let others fulfil their potential. He could have made a good lifestyle guru, no doubt seducing all his prettier clients. But he was actually a venture capital speculator. Vulture capital would be a better term. Fortunately I resisted his offers of financial help, and didn't get wound into any of his schemes. So after about nine months of dating and flirting, one afternoon he arrived and he had some papers with him. A pre-nuptial agreement. He told me that he had realised that I was not just independently wealthy, but that I obviously wanted to stay that way, and he thought that I was putting off any intimacy and any development of our relationship because of that. So if we signed these papers then I could rest assured that he wasn't after my money, and maybe we could concentrate on other aspects of our lives."
"Bold move," I said. "Did it work?"
Penny laughed; "Well, it was a little shocking. But he was so serious, and so serious that he wanted more to our friendship. So I had my lawyers read it, and made a few adjustments and then his read those, and we signed. And then went out to lunch. Money had never been a big topic with us, but after a few days I recognised that he had stopped talking about business altogether and never asked me about mine. If he had a business thing to do he just said he had an appointment, no details.
So it changed things. And I was foolish enough to think it meant something. But I still wouldn't sleep with him, although he sometimes made opportunities for me to invite him. He had stopped inviting me, but I knew he wanted me to make the move. Maybe deep down I knew he was not right. But he did everything he could to be right, and six months later he sat down with me after a lovely evening at the Opera and a supper at at nearby restaurant, and he said "I am sorry if I have been distracted this evening, but I have been thinking. Life isn't an opera. You only get one go. It doesn't have to be tragic. I love you, deeply. I have told you that. And I know you don't love me like that. But I think you love me a bit. And I had thought that was enough, but it isn't. I want more. Not just physical, not just to be with you in bed, but to be with you in life. But if that isn't going to happen, if you are never going to want me, then, then this isn't good for either of us. I want to marry you. And everything that goes with that, obviously, but if you think that won't ever happen, you should tell me now. Don't keep me on a string. You aren't cruel, so know you wouldn't do that, it is me that has looped the string round you. So if you are even fond of me, cut me loose or drag me in. Marry me, or tell me it's over. It has to be one or the other."
