Thirty-one-year-old! There I was, celebrating my birthday with my family. I was in Paris with my parents and my five sisters. I also realised that almost a year has passed since I divorced; I could not believe it!
After I had religiously blown out my 31 candles, my sisters and I decided to go clubbing. Deciding where to go descended into a fight that lasted more than an hour, so I decided to be both the Big Sister and the Birthday Girl to cut short the row and go to Le Cab in Palais Royal (sadly closed now.)
Well, Le Cab was a nicely designed spot with a trendy lounge area and a small dance floor à la parisienne. A nice mix of hipsters, fashionista, and foreigners were parading and dancing. After easily consuming four bottles of Champ, my sisters and I were all rocking the dance floor.
A few minutes later, a dark and handsome, six-foot-three French man approached me. Meet François, realtor, 34, French, living in Neuilly Sur Seine, a rather chic suburb that was an upscale of Paris. François was totally my type: tall (almost too tall for that matter), green eyes, curly hair and a cyclist man stature. Yummy!
Even though I was not in dating mode, I spent a bit of time chatting with him. My sisters were all smiling and giggling behind him. I cut the chat short, we exchanged numbers and we decided to meet the next evening for a drink.
Date No.1
Wow, I had never been that late in my life. It should have been in the Guinness World Record book. At 8pm, I was still driving in circles trying to find a space to park in the 20th arrondissement of Paris. Why did I drive there? My date had been planned for 6pm. Of course, François was aware of my distress; I had been on the phone with him since I had realised the numerous works in process between Fontainebleau, a suburb in the south of Paris where my parents lived, and the 20th arrondissement of Paris. Plus, I had to drive very carefully as it seemed that my brain was still in England, left side of the road? Right side of the road? I couldn’t’ tell sometimes…
Until I took a roundabout upside-down before the astonished eyes of other drivers who stopped driving and started honking at my driving. Thank God, I didn’t kill anyone.
At 8:13pm, I finally arrived at Mama Shelter, and I didn’t regret being super dressed-up. The customers of the bar were all chic, beautiful, and eccentric. I loved it. I realised that I had missed these bars à la française that London lacked dramatically.
Although, François and I had anticipated just a drink, we decided to dine there. The evening was fun; I learned more about François. His family was from Bordeaux, in fact, his parents still lived there. He had two sisters who were both married with kids. While François had great relationships with his two sisters, it seemed that he was a failure for his parents. I didn’t want to dig into this as I thought there was no space for that sort of talk on a first date, but I couldn’t help but wonder why would you say such a thing on your first date. Surely, saying that your parents thought you were a failure was not attractive.
Later in the night, I noticed François could not stop looking nastily at a person on my right.
“Are you ok?” I asked.
“No, I am not really. This guy keeps on looking at you and it is starting to annoy me,” he commented.
“You should be proud…” I began to say as a joke to avoid any drama, but François broke in. “I think it is just disrespectful,” he answered with a voice full of loathing.
“It’s okay, it’s not like he was chatting me up in front of you,” I insisted, turning my head toward this guy.
And suddenly I heard a big: “Valeriiiiiiiiiiiiieeeeee! I thought it was you!”
“Oh my god Alex! How are you?” I said with relief. Thank God, we would avoid a fight; I knew Alex.
Alex was my university lover. We “dated” for a few months until he was forced by his family to marry his ex-girlfriend who was seven months pregnant. Alex was the nephew of one of the most influential French ministers. We were still very close friends until my husband got too jealous of him. Upon my graduation, we parted ways, despite the fact that we were still in love. I introduced him to François, we had a quick catch-up, exchanged numbers, and I was back into my date.
What a coincidence! I had completely buried this man somewhere in my heart. François questioned our former relationship. I didn’t want to say much and just stated that we dated a while ago. François mentioned that he didn’t like that sort of guy showing off his €10,000 watch. I could not care less of his comment but cut his matter short by continuing our conversation on the differences between French and English cultures.
François and I still managed to have a fabulous evening. I realised how much I missed the French culture and lifestyle, the bars, the jokes, their facial expressions, the passion, the way they talked and simply the way they seduced you.
There was no confusion on the date. I knew François liked me. And when he kissed me at the end of the night – oh my! It was a real French kiss: deep, passionate and sweet.
François asked if I wanted to sleep at his place pretexting that I was too drunk to drive. He was right; I was drunk. I gently declined and I decided to sleep at my flat in the 4tharrondissement that was just 15 minutes away. I checked online to make sure I didn’t have any guests booked via the agency. Thank God, it wasn’t the case; I wasn’t ready to drive back to Fontainebleau drunk.
When I got into my building, I realised that I hadn’t been there for ages. In fact, it’s been more than a year and that last time was with my ex-husband. The thought of it made me want to puke. When I got into my apartment, it was even worse, the memory of us choosing the furniture and all the compromises I had made in the decoration made me sick. I spent part of the night, sick, in my bathroom. When I felt better, I went back to my parent’s where my sisters were waiting and begging for gossip.
We all questioned how this relationship could work with me being in the London and him in Paris. I had no intention of living back to Paris; my career was at its peak in London and I had new friends I adored. Most of my old friends from uni were all having international and careers.
François was a great guy; handsome in his way, intelligent, and ambitious with a lot of banter and great conversation. My night had been great and I liked him. He looked honest and profoundly passionate. He seemed to be open to the idea of a long-distance relationship. Well, they had never worked out for me, but we were talking about Paris where I often go to see my family. Would it be possible?
Date No.2
We were at Gare du Nord, two hours before my return to London. We were having a coffee and a crêpe Suzette flambée at Terminus Nord. After an hour of laughs, conversation and having shared our love and personal experiences, I could not help but ask François what he expected from this “relationship“. Why was he interested in me living more than 200 miles from his home?
"I like you a lot," he told me. “I knew we would get on as soon as I saw you arriving at Le Cab. And I also feel that we will live a great relationship. I do not want the distance to be a hindrance and I'm ready to try to make this work and I do not work on Fridays so I could come visit you on weekends. And you know what? You could be my guide in London next weekend; I have never been there. Do not worry, I will book a hotel; I do not want to invade your private space."
I liked his answer and I accepted his self-invitation. I even asked him to sleep at mine upon his last night in London, assuming everything went well. Was that a mistake? I was going to find out soon.
A Frenchman in London
Friday noon, François arrived early in London and checked in at the Capital Hotel close to mine. He joined me in Holborn and we went for a quick lunch at Prêt à Manger.
For those who don’t know, Prêt à Manger is a British (not French as the name may suggest) fast food chain, which provides fresh sandwiches and salads.
So, François had been there for just a few hours but he already loved the London vibe. He immediately fell in love with the Big Smoke. We discussed everything and nothing: his journey, the Paris he had started to hate more and more, and that he would surely consider living in a foreign country. I was smiling because that was the feeling I wanted him to have. I wanted to introduce him to London at its best: sunny, cheerful, tolerant, stable and inspiring. So far, François was smitten.
In the evening, we decided to have a stroll in the centre: Green Park for its amazing impressive architecture, Hyde Park for a romantic walk, Piccadilly for its internationally known big advertisement screens, Covent Garden for the amazing cute café and restaurants, and Soho for its night scene. We stopped to talk to tourists and some Londoners. François discovered a living, vibrant, and welcoming London. He told me, "I feel that all dreams are possible here. I’ve exchanged more business cards in one night than in a year in Paris." François and I had a great evening; we had drinks at the W and ate at Asia de Cuba, which had become one of my favourite restaurants.
At midnight François felt tired from his trip, so we decided to call it a night. In the taxi, we were kissing passionately. Wow! French kisses! How had I even been able to date without them? He kissed me without restraint, his tongue deliciously tasting mine. I was excited, but I decided to be wise and let him go back to his hotel. Sex could wait; it was way too early.
Saturday
I joined François at his hotel for a hearty breakfast. He told me he wanted to live in London and was trying to find a job. I found his decision a bit too quick but I was happy for him, was offering to help him find a place to live (as I didn’t want him to stick at mine), and write a CV in English. François intended to work as a waiter during the first few months and take English classes. Then he would find a job in communication, the industry he had always wanted to work in.
Later that morning, François and I went to the British Museum where we shared our passion for culture. It was nice to speak with someone as impassioned as me about history and art.
In the afternoon, we went to the other side of London: the South Bank for its the amazing view of London from Waterloo Bridge.
We decided to have lunch at the South Bank Centre, which is famous for its multi-venue arts centre stopping at London Eye, London Bridge and Big Ben.
For dinner, we opted for the OXO tower, which is one of the most iconic towers of London and the home of a couple of designers’ studios that were open to the public. I picked to go there for (again) the amazing and romantic views of the river and city.
At OXO, we dined outdoor which was the perfect place to watch the London skyline transition from day to night. Right next to us, was sitting a lovely French couple that joined our conversation about life in London. They had lived in London for nearly ten years and conveyed their brilliant careers and how they were planning their future in France. In fact, they were spending their last week in London because the husband had accepted a position as a Chief Executive Officer for an international company in Paris. I loved their story and admired their careers and lifestyles.
However, François was awfully quiet. I did not understand why, but when the couple left, he began his diatribe. "Assholes!” he started. I was astonished. He continued, “Bluff and smoke! Just fucking spoiled children who grew up in 8th arrondissement with a silver spoon, went to a prestigious business schools that cost ass's skin yet teach the same things as all other schools and now he's babbling about becoming a CEO in France. Of course, he will! France is a fucking elitist country; they only employ people from expensive business schools. Easy! That's why I hate France now. So disappointing! I can’t wait to fuck off!"
I listened to his rant for ten minutes. I did not like this François. Plus, I had come from the same school, so I really felt targeted. I did not want to get into a debate that would ruin the night.
The dinner over, François and I decided to go dancing. I think it was a good thing to forget what I had just heard and not to listen him to anymore.
We went to the Box: commercial, fun, and affordable with a diverse selection of music. Perfect for tourists! François loved it; we danced all night and I liked that “François”: joyous, sexy, and friendly. I couldn’t wait to taste the carnal pleasure of his body.
In the early hours of the morning, we sang in the crowded streets of Piccadilly, desperately looking for a taxi. After 30 minutes of waiting, we managed to get an Addison Lee, and before the driver’s irritated eyes we deliciously kissed. This time his cold hands had gone under my top; my nipples responded immediately. I was boiling. I wanted him that night and not another.
There was only one stop that night and we made love. And I wanted more, more and more. I loved his penis; I was addicted. I loved the thrill François brought at every penetration. It was intense, passionate and sensual. Each of his movements made me shudder; I had multiple mini orgasms. François was playing sensually with my body. I was electric.
Upon awakening, François had bought fruits for our late breakfast. He had delayed his checkout and told me that he would remain until Tuesday night. I asked him, "And your job?"
“Do not worry, I'm a self-employed realtor; I do whatever I want. Plus, I had no appointments scheduled," he reassured. But I reminded him that I was working and not self-employed.
He retorted that he would go shopping for his family and wait quietly at mine, cooking dinner for both of us. I smiled. Done deal!
Sunday
In the afternoon, we stayed in my area and went to the Kensington Gardens and the Saatchi Museum in Chelsea hosting a private exhibition. That night we dined, local again, at Gaucho, and I hastened him home, pretexting that I had an early morning. But in fact, I wanted him; I thought of that night of love and his penis all day. That was all I had in mind. I am not even sure I listened to anything he said on that day. And that's what happened; we made love almost all night and the only reason we stopped was that my conscience reminded me of the hard day ahead of me at the office.
Monday
At work, I could hardly concentrate. I kept thinking of François and his penis again. I was eager to get home to see him.
In fact, this gave me the courage to lie to my boss that I was not feeling well and it was better that I go. He believed me easily, as this busy weekend hadn’t made me look any prettier. I needed some beauty sleep.
On my way, François told me that he was waiting at the Paxtons Head, a local pub of mine. I thought we were staying at mine? Grrr… I was a bit annoyed, but I thought that wine-altered sex would not be too bad tonight. François was seating in the back of the pub. I kissed him, feeling euphoric to see him, but I could not wait to be in my apartment, in his arms, riding his penis again. But this joy was short-lived.
“I did not know you were loaded,” he howled.
“I beg your pardon?” I asked him calmly, surprised by his behaviour. What was he on about?
“Yes, you are! I saw that you have properties in Paris! Not one, not two, but three! How is that possible? You’re just turned 31! And two of them are located in the centre of Paris, while most young people are struggling to get just one!” he stated, his voice full of jealousy.
“How do you know that? And it’s none of your business anyway!” I responded.
“I went through your papers and…” he tried to explain.
I interrupted him, anger enveloping all of my body. "You had a look at my stuff? My papers? How could you? I trusted you when I left you at mine and gave you my keys!” I yelled back.
“Yes, and so what? I'm your man!” he retorted.
“You’re not my man; I hardly know you. Are you crazy or something? How do you allow yourself as a guest to dig into my business? You’re not my husband! Nor my boyfriend! Give me my keys back immediately!” I argued.
But again, François interrupted me, “You also went to one of these prestigious schools? Of course, you were successful in Paris! You have no merit for your career. You are like those buffoons we met! You're one of those spoiled rotten children! I am a real estate agent, and I don’t even own a flat! What's your secret? Did you sleep with someone? Lie? Cheat? Steal?” he questioned.
“My keys, now!” I commanded. I couldn’t believe my ears. The surrounding tables were watching us dumbfounded, they couldn’t (thankfully) understand a word of what we were arguing about in French, but they seemed pretty intrigued, I could tell. I had to leave.
“No! Stupid, spoiled bitch! We need to talk now!” François barked back to me, spraying his spit on my face.
“You are going to give my keys back immediately, or I am going to call the police. I don’t want to talk with you,” I warned.
“You gave them to me, you remember? Now, you don’t want to speak with me? Why? Have you realised I am too poor to be with you?”
“They are not yours and I didn’t give them to you. I am not kidding, I am calling the police now and will shout thief at you!”
“Oh, my God! The spoiled girl wants her keys! I can see your fucking spoiled side now. I bet you always get what you want, when you want. You're just a poor dumb spoiled bitch,” he jested, handing me my keys.
I didn’t even reply to his insults. I just ran toward the exit, swearing I’d never come to this pub again in my life.
I did not believe what had happened. It only took one day in my place for this guy to dig into my businesses. I ran towards home very upset, and soon realised that François was running after me. I reached my building, but he was just behind me. I didn’t open the door. Instead I turned around and said, “And now what? What do you want?”
“You owe me money, spoiled bitch,” he choked, breathing heavily.
“Excuse me? I don’t think so! For what? I am going home now. I don’t want you at mine,” I replied.
“You remember the OXO’s dinner I forked out for; you’re fucking rich you should have paid for it. It’s like loose change for you,” he scolded.
“I'll give you your money, do not worry,” I lied. There was no way I was about to give a penny to this guy.
“I need to take my suitcase, bitch. Now you want to steal my stuff to make money out of it?”
My God, this guy was nonsense. I just responded; “I will bring it to you myself. You’re not coming up to mine.”
“No, I want to take it myself.”
“It is out of question. You’re not invited anymore. If something is missing just let me know, I’ll give it back to you. If you follow me now, I will be calling the police. You better wait here. I am not joking.”
François relented and stayed in front of my building. I went up the stairs, all shaking and furious. In my apartment I realised that, indeed, my things were not in place. François had excavated everywhere, even the smallest corners. I was on fire. Nobody had enraged me that much for a long time, and he had to be French! The icing on the cake of the evening was when I realised that he had started to shout, and I could hear him despite my windows being closed. “Give me my suitcase back, you dumb bitch! Or I will call the police! You have no right to keep it!”
Oh no, this was a nightmare. François was ridiculing me in front of my whole neighbourhood.
I went ballistic, took all of his stuff hastily, put it all in his suitcase, without even closing it and threw it through the window. “Here it is! Casse-toi, pauv' con !!" I yelled.
After that, I never saw François again. Next!