The Victoria System

1

I spent three hours preparing the first words I dared speak to her. Victoria is not the kind of woman a stranger can approach without her feeling insulted. The first few seconds would be crucial: I would only have one phrase, one look in her eyes, to persuade her to forgive me, and to stop walking.

I’d just bought a cuddly toy so large that its long, bendy tail poked out of the plastic bag that the shopkeeper had put it in, and this appendage made it look as though I were carrying a fake-fur question mark. I regretted not having found out what kind of animal it was (because Vivienne would be bound to ask: ‘What is it? Look how big its tail is! And what pretty whiskers! Here, touch it!’), but I had lacked the presence of mind to question the sales assistant. I took the escalator down to the ground floor, heading towards the car park where I’d left my car. Vivienne is the younger of my two daughters; we were supposed to be celebrating her fifth birthday that evening.

What is the name of this animal I’m carrying?

It’s not a beaver, or a marmot, or a weasel, or a raccoon, but it’s something along those lines – the sort of animal that you imagine lives on dry land, but without having given up the pleasures of bathing. Does it sleep buried in the ground like a mole, or nestled in the undergrowth like a rabbit, or gripping a tree branch like a squirrel?

I open the plastic bag to check whether the animal’s paws are webbed or clawed. The escalator deposits me on the ground floor, and I am joining the main aisle when my attention is drawn to a woman’s figure. She stands in front of a clothes shop with her back to me, looking at the items displayed in the window. I like this woman: her aura, the austerity of her clothes, the way she holds her head, the way she stands. I stop and watch her. She has a queenly radiance, an authority. It is a long time since I was so attracted to a woman encountered by chance. She moves along the window, then stops again. Prosperity and elegance. I have the feeling that her gaze lingers for a moment on the reflection of her face. Her hair is thick and wavy, her body voluptuous and full-chested. I watch her examine herself. She must be more or less the same height as me: just under six foot. She checks her wristwatch again. With meticulous indifference, she studies an evening dress worn by a headless mannequin; that, at least, is the attitude suggested by her expression, which alternates between irritation and dreaminess. Perhaps she was supposed to be meeting someone?

Much later, she told me the truth about her situation and why she was hanging around outside a clothes shop that day.

I like her calves, rounded and firm, held taut by the heels of her shoes. They eroticize her presence. Looking at them makes me want to make love to her.

She makes a phone call and moves away from the window. She listens more than she speaks. There are no clues as to whether this conversation is professional or personal, whether the words she is hearing are upsetting or pleasurable, whether the person with whom she seems to be in discussion is a man or a woman. Perhaps she’s checking her voicemail? I watch as, pensive and absorbed, she drifts slowly towards me, and at the moment when we are about to bump into each other, she throws me a lively glance. In this glance I detect – in response to my face, my eyes, my fascinated and admiring gaze – a flash of surprise and discreet approval. I turn back, hoping she’ll turn back too, and that she’ll be smiling. But I see her wander on in silence, moving over the tiled floor with a tense concentration that has an air of finality.

I wondered what to do. I found it amazing that I could have sparked a look so indisputably complicit in a woman I had noticed only a few minutes earlier. I had sensed an instantaneous reaction to my presence, and in her eyes I had seen a start of astonishment or recognition – exactly as if this woman, bumping into me the day before a planned meeting, felt a thrill of surprise at seeing me, by chance, in public, sooner than she’d expected. But as I was sure that she didn’t know me at all, I inferred from this that she recognized me as being to her taste, perhaps even corresponding to her most secret inclinations. Would I have followed this stranger if, upon seeing me, her face had not shown this almost unconscious flash of approval? There was a time when I wouldn’t have hesitated to approach women I liked in the street, but I had lost the habit so long ago it seemed inconceivable to me that I could start again in these circumstances: with a woman who was out of my league and whom I presumed would not, as a matter of principle, allow herself to be chatted up by a stranger. So … what happened? Why did I decide to follow her? Because I had caught a glimpse of something beyond the here and now. I had seen her life reflecting mine. This flash gave me the feeling that I’d gone on a long, intimate journey with her, just the two of us. Nothing is more arousing than to glimpse the landscape of someone’s soul when you look in their eyes.

I followed her into a café, where I spent an hour observing her. She slipped off her shoes. I saw her from behind and from three-quarters behind. The newspaper and the two books she had with her implied that she spoke English, French and German.

I contemplated her feet, which I thought magnificent. She kept leafing through her two books and she spread the Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung on the table. What could I say to her? She seemed nervous and impatient. Her eyes surveyed the shopping centre through the windows, and I feared that a third person would come in and destroy the intimacy of this private scene: a man would appear, she would signal to him with her hand, and he would sit next to her, apologizing for his lateness.

Her sandals had been knocked on to their sides, and she was trying to put them right with her toes. She was busy texting, absorbed by remote and doubtless important preoccupations, unaware that she had become the object of such anxious attention. I put a hand in my trouser pocket and stroked myself. I saw her in profile when she turned her head to scan the shopping centre through the windows.

I loved the dress she was wearing: long-sleeved, and fashioned in such light, floating muslin that the air conditioning made her outline quiver. I loved the gentle way her fingers hung suspended, as if in a drowse, each time a daydream immobilized her. I would have liked to have seen her face for longer than an instant, and to have memorized a reality more tangible than that unforgettable flash. Ankles, toes, wrists, fingers, fingernails, chin, hair … I familiarized myself with her body, piece by little piece, before I even knew who she was, before I had seen her smile or heard the texture of her voice. After this hour spent scrutinizing her, I could have pointed out her index finger from among a thousand others, or her earlobes, but without knowing the life of her face, its expressions and its routine. I hoped to be able to think one day, and to tell her with a smile, that I would always have one hour’s head start on her.

She stood up abruptly, ready to leave, gathering her belongings. Then she led me on an endlessly wandering chase.

I’d told my colleagues that I had to leave earlier than usual, but that they could get hold of me in an emergency. As my job consists of solving problems at the very moment they occur, and as a construction site is constantly generating unforeseen complications, a state of emergency had become the habitual mood of my days: I feel time passing like the ticking of a thousand time bombs that I have to defuse. I didn’t dare check my BlackBerry, which had been on silent mode in my pocket for the last hour, because I knew there would be a backlog of disputes to arbitrate, mysteries to unravel, colleagues to help and obstacles to remove. My assistant was the only one to whom I’d told the truth: that we were celebrating Vivienne’s birthday that evening, and that I was in a desperate rush to find something spectacular to give her. ‘Why spectacular?’ she’d asked me. ‘But you can contact me,’ I’d added. ‘Feel free to pass on all the calls you want.’ ‘Answer my question: why spectacular?’ ‘I don’t know, just because. To make up for … you know I’m not home very much at the moment …’ ‘At the moment?’ Caroline interrupted me. ‘For months, you mean!’ ‘Exactly – for months.’ ‘And when they see your face, they hardly even recognize you because you’re so tired. They probably imagine you’ve come to fix the washing machine!’ ‘You’re absolutely right – come to fix the washing machine. And that’s why tonight I’ll arrive at the house at a time when families normally sit down for a meal together, carrying a spectacular present.’ ‘So get out of here, and have a great evening. I’ll try not to let too many messages reach your BlackBerry, and I’ll block anyone who might ruin your evening.’ And then she added: ‘Remember, your daughters don’t need you to give them spectacular presents to know that you love them.’ I looked tenderly at Caroline – ‘Thank you, that’s sweet of you. I hope you have a good evening too!’ – and blew her a kiss from the office door.

Would I be brave enough to speak to such a distinguished woman? I was waiting for an opportunity to present itself that would allow me to approach her without seeming rude. ‘Excuse me, madame, you’ve dropped your scarf.’ ‘Ah, thank you very much.’ ‘You’re welcome.’ ‘Seriously, thank you. I like this scarf a lot.’ ‘I don’t blame you. It’s very beautiful.’ She had to be able to forgive herself for listening to my opening words without slipping away, and then to succumb to the curiosity that my next words would undoubtedly provoke in her. ‘All these horses on your scarf, do you like them? I mean, do you like horses? Do you ride?’ I knew I had to offer her the chance to maintain her dignity, in her own eyes as well as mine.

But she didn’t drop anything.

The most annoying thing was that she headed towards the bowling alley at the end of the shopping centre, where I watched her hire a pair of shoes and get ready to play. Afterwards, I went to the counter (where, pretending to be superstitious, I managed to persuade the ticket-seller to give me lane number eight, rather than thirteen, the one next to hers), then sat in an orange plastic seat from where I could watch this beautiful stranger throw her first bowls. How long would I have to wait before I could speak to her? Was I going to approach her in the bowling alley, or would it be better to be walking back through the shopping centre? It wouldn’t have taken much to make me abandon my hunt when I dropped my shoes off at the counter; it wouldn’t have taken much, in that moment of doubt, for me to exit quickly and remorsefully. Was I going to miss Vivienne’s birthday because a woman I had never met before had responded to my glance with a flash of complicity? In spite of the alarm bells ringing in my head, I found myself incapable of escaping the enchantment I’d been drawn into by the vision of this woman.

I thought about what I could say to her.

‘Madame, excuse me, this is not something I usually do, believe me, talking to strangers …’

‘Madame. If I confess to you that I am sacrificing my daughter’s fifth birthday, perhaps you will give my approach the indulgence it deserves …’

‘Excuse me … madame … I’m sure you’re going to turn me down … but I wanted to tell you …’

What time was it? I hadn’t dared look at my watch for quite a while now.

I was aware of having put myself in a situation that no rational examination could justify. Circumstances had drawn me into a dazzling zone where I felt myself close to some kind of internal truth (which I will try to define a bit later). In spite of that, however, there was no doubt I was behaving absurdly. To lose two hours being taken in by the illusions of a single look could only be described as pathetic, especially to hear at the end of it all: ‘You’re kind … really … I’m touched … your compliments are flattering, but you know … I’m sorry I have to disappoint you … I’m married and I have two children … goodbye … have a good evening.’ And that was a best-case scenario. Did the prospect of making love to a woman whose physical charms had captivated you justify becoming enslaved to the electrified naivety caused by this desire? In other words, would I have followed this woman for three hours if my attraction had been only sexual? I ended up persuading myself that something crucial awaited me: this feeling lit me up inside intensely, like a brilliant intuition. An event had occurred in her eyes – like words spoken, with a tone, a flavour, colours, a texture, an inflexion and a direction – and in that event I had begun to glimpse a new world. I could easily have given up on her body, her presence, the desire to make love with this woman and to kiss her lips: all I’d have to do was get up and head towards the exit. But not only did I refuse to turn away from that elsewhere that had sparkled in her eyes, but I was also afraid I would later regret such a decision and spend years thinking that this encounter might have changed my life. (I’m the type of man who has regrets that last decades.)

The players around me threw their bowls like illustrations of a particular mood or state of mind: grace, fear, pleasure, pride, humour or nonchalance. I noted in particular, in the aisle next to mine, a young girl whose technique was so lacking in skill that it was affected, almost artistic; her singularity was very attractive. I wondered which allegory my beautiful stranger was going to embody. And then she started playing – with astonishing ease. Her bowls seemed not to roll at all, but to advance so silently and motionlessly that it was almost meditative, and it was only when they hit the pins, with an unstoppably violent impact, that I sensed it would have been impossible to go faster, or in a straighter line, or to be more devastating. It was only when the bowl smashed into its target – not during the time when it had the appearance of a mysterious undertone – that the violence animating this woman at the moment when the black sphere left her hand was revealed. It was absolutely incredible. With my fingertips, I caressed a cool metal railing while admiring an allegory of, simultaneously, an orgasm, a thunderbolt, a passionate outburst, and dominance.

She returned to the seat where she’d left her belongings. I saw her almost face-on: her cheeks had reddened, her hard stare pierced the floor, she wiped her hands with a paper towel. I had the feeling that the violence had washed away the anger that inhabited her, in a deflagration of light, vengeance and irony.

But what was she doing there, a woman like her, dressed like a lawyer, in a bowling alley, surrounded by teenagers having fun?

I ventured a look at my watch: it was 9.30 p.m. I checked my BlackBerry: twenty-six missed calls, eighteen voice messages and nearly sixty emails. I was surprised that my wife had left only two messages, the first just after I left the construction site and the second when we had been supposed to sit down to eat.

I had to wait another hour before I could talk to her. What did I do during that time? I watched my beautiful stranger throw bowls and destroy perfect arrangements of pins. I hopped up and down to keep warm: it was cold in the bowling alley. I decided not to have a drink at the bar located a bit further off because I would have had a less clear view of the show she was giving me. A little girl sat close to me. I ended up phoning Sylvie to explain my absence and send a kiss to Vivienne and Salomé.

I pressed the 1 on my BlackBerry. The 1 speed-dialled my home number and the 6 Sylvie’s mobile. She was the one who answered.

‘It’s me,’ I told her.

‘Ah, hello. Hang on a second.’

I could hear my two daughters arguing. Sylvie calmed them down by talking to them in a quiet, composed voice.

‘OK, that’s settled!’ she told me, picking up the phone again. ‘What are you doing? Why aren’t you here?’

‘I had to stay at the tower.’

‘I called the site at six thirty. Caroline told me you’d left to buy a present for Vivienne.’

‘I didn’t see her after that. I haven’t even listened to the two messages you left me.’

‘I wanted to know if we should eat without you. We were hungry and Vivienne was getting impatient.’

‘So did it go well? They sound a bit excited … are they fighting?’

‘It went very well. They were sweet. You should have seen how Salomé made us laugh! She’s incredible when she gets going – she’s so funny!’

‘You seem in a very good mood, anyway.’

‘I’m tipsy.’

‘What did you drink?’

‘When she started imitating her sister! Even Vivienne was in stitches … and Fréderic could hardly breathe!’

‘Fréderic? Hang on, the Deneuves were there? Fuck, that’s unbelievable! They were at Vivienne’s birthday dinner?’

‘I told you last night, David.’

‘What? You told me last night that the Deneuves were coming to dinner, that Fréderic would be there, at Vivienne’s birthday? Fuck …’

‘I told you last night that I’d invited the Deneuves and their daughter to dinner. It was Vivienne who wanted Carla there for her birthday. I asked her parents if they wanted to come too. I told you last night that I’d had that idea, and that the Deneuves had said yes. Anyway, how would that have changed your problems with the site if you’d remembered that the Deneuves were coming to dinner?’

‘You must have really had fun. Didn’t they say anything?’

‘About what?’

‘About me cancelling.’

‘You didn’t cancel. We waited for you and you didn’t turn up. Not quite the same thing.’

‘OK, about me not turning up. They didn’t say anything about that?’

‘What do you want them to say? We waited for you. We tried to get hold of you, but there was no answer.’

‘And Vivienne?’

‘And Vivienne what?’

‘Didn’t she say anything? She didn’t say anything about this birthday dinner happening without me, without my gift? Didn’t she say anything? Didn’t she ask for me?’

‘Would you have wanted her to ask for you, to start crying?’

‘Not at all. I’m just asking if everything went well, if she was happy with her birthday party.’

‘Right, and I’m telling you: everything went very well. Vivienne was happy with her birthday party, and so was Salomé, and so were the Deneuves.’

‘Were they arguing? I heard them screaming, earlier. Were they fighting?’

‘They’ve had a long day, and they’ve got school tomorrow. Carla fell asleep on the sofa. I asked Vivienne to go to bed.’

‘I’d like to say goodnight to her.’

‘Hang on, she’s in the kitchen with Christine. Vivienne, it’s Daddy, he’d like to have a word with you. You don’t want to talk to him? Just quickly, send him a kiss and say goodnight … No? You don’t want to? Are you sure?’ And then: ‘She doesn’t want to. She’s exhausted. I’m going to put her to bed. Vivienne, it is Daddy, though, don’t you want to blow him a big kiss? You want to send him a kiss on a flying carpet? And tell him that you love him? She’s nodding, she says yes, she loves you and she’s sending you big kisses on a flying carpet. She’s here in front of me and she’s sending you huge wet kisses.’

‘Give her a kiss from me and tell her I love her.’

‘He sends a kiss. Here’s a kiss from Daddy. He says to tell you that he’s sending you a kiss and he loves you.’

‘Lots. Tell her I love her lots … lots and lots and lots!’

‘David, what’s up with you?’

‘You couldn’t care less, could you? It’s all the same to you and them.’

‘What is? What’s all the same to us?’

‘Whether I’m there or not.’

‘David, what are you on about? What’s the matter with you? You sound like you’re going mad.’

‘You hardly even notice my absence. I was thinking what a disaster it was, to miss Vivienne’s birthday party! And what actually happens? Hardly anyone even notices I’m not there. You check by phone that David really isn’t coming and then you move on to something else. You sit down and eat without me.’

‘What time are you coming home? Are you going to be at the tower for much longer?’

‘I don’t know what time I’ll get home.’

‘You want us to cry for you, to stop living? You’re never here! Obviously we have to cope with your absence. Why don’t you come home and tuck in your two daughters?’

‘I can’t. I can’t promise that. I don’t know what time I’ll be able to come home.’

‘Well, that’s a shame for you. I’m going to have to hang up, Vivienne’s waiting for me. Shall we hang up?’

‘If you want. Let’s hang up.’

‘I’m hanging up. I love you. I’m going to put Vivienne to bed.’

‘I love you too. Say hello to the Deneuves for me.’

I hung up. I put my BlackBerry in my jacket pocket.

I saw my beautiful stranger, bent forward, getting her breath back. She gathered her belongings and started walking towards the exit.

We were queuing to pick up our shoes. Three American girls were standing behind me, talking noisily. They made loud remarks to a group of men who were waiting in the queue a few metres further up. My beautiful stranger turned around, visibly annoyed, and her eyes met mine. She froze for an instant, stupefied to find me behind her, and then a smile appeared on her lips to cover up the emotion that had gripped us both. That smile made it clear that she remembered having seen me in the shopping centre.

She did not go back to the position she’d occupied before turning round towards the shouting. Her body was slightly in profile, half turned towards mine, as if, by keeping my eyes on her face, and above all by her awareness of it (being unable to respond to it without demonstrating a boldness that she might one day have to justify), she wished to perpetuate the emotion that connected us, however tenuous. It seemed to me that she took pleasure in offering herself to my eyes and in knowing herself admired. She was tactful enough not to make me feel that I had broken the most basic rules of decorum by staring at her. (All it would have taken, to make this clear to me, was for her to look at me, even if only once.)

We advanced towards the counter. My heart was beating so fast in my chest that I could hardly stand up.

An elderly, grey-haired lady waiting in front of us wished to speak to the three American girls without having to shout. She offered to swap places with my beautiful stranger, who refused with stubborn courtesy – in fact, she fended off the same request four times in a row. Jubilantly, I guessed the reason why she was being so inflexible: she did not want to upset the harmonious order we had created between our bodies and our faces. I found this refusal astonishingly open and explicit, almost as if it were a declaration, and I was dizzied by the lack of care she took to conceal from me her attraction. No grey-haired old lady was going to make us give up the sensations our bodies had begun to feel in this enclosed space – that was what she was telling me. The queue moved forward, but the architecture of our intimacy was unaltered. Only a barely perceptible smile hinted at the complicity of our two bodies in their synchronized movements.

We picked up our shoes. I took care to keep away from her: I wanted her to know how she’d feel if I disappeared without trying to make contact with her. I imagined that, in the moment when I went up to her, this small fear she’d felt – a glimpse of the pain that seizes us in the face of something irreversible – might encourage her to break her own rules and allow a stranger to speak to her. I confess to this single instance of cold-blooded strategy.

I followed her into the shopping centre, but only for about thirty metres; if I left it too late, she might suspect that our second meeting was due not to a combination of circumstances but to an act of stalking all the more disturbing because it had lasted three hours. I walked behind her, moving slowly closer. I had the feeling that I was sending the sounds of my footsteps directly into her thoughts, where I feared they would make her panic. But perhaps she would be thrilled to sense me behind her? I sped up. I wanted to overtake her just enough to be able to speak to her sideways, without forcing her to turn her head and above all without approaching her head-on. It was the fear of committing errors that transmitted these subtleties to the small amount of clear-sightedness that remained to me in my panic. And at the moment when it would have taken only a slight turn of the head for her to listen to my first words, I saw her move her face towards mine.

If, at that precise instant, I had given up on the idea of speaking to her, intimidated by the possibility of letting such a woman into my life; if I had told her, ‘Excuse me, I’m sorry, I thought you were someone else,’ before drawing away and going home; if I could have known that approaching her would drag my existence in a direction I was not at all sure I wanted it to go, Victoria would not have died a little less than a year after our meeting. She would still be alive today. I would not be living like a hermit in a roadside hotel in Creuse, separated from Sylvie and the children, brooding over my guilt. I would not have been destroyed by the role I played in this drama, nor by the two days in police custody that followed from it. But it so happened that Victoria’s face did turn towards mine and that I was felled by her astonishing gaze.

‘Excuse me. Madame. I’m sure you’re going to turn me down. But I wanted to tell you. And you would be right to do so. And I should point out that I am not in the habit of approaching strangers in shopping centres.’

An incoherent start. Did she slow down, almost to the point of immobility, in order to better follow my train of thought? I was surprised that such clumsy words could make her stop so quickly.

‘But, you see, earlier, when I passed you in the shopping centre – do you remember?’

She smiled at me. It would have been crass of me to expect a more explicit response from her. I sensed that she was about to start walking again. We were both nervous.

‘So anyway, in the three hours that followed, I thought about you several times. To be honest, I didn’t stop thinking about you. I told myself I should have gone up to you. I was annoyed with myself because I hadn’t dared. So, when I saw you again, I decided that this time I wouldn’t let myself have any regrets. Who knows where regrets can lead you, the way they change over time …’

She looked at me indulgently. I noticed she had little freckles around her eyes. Unconsciously, her look hinted at the desire and disbelief she had felt when our bodies had brushed past each other, but I sensed she was trying to control her expression, fearful it might betray her thoughts. This deliberate reserve turned her into an attentive but neutral listener. I had the feeling she wanted to concentrate, to gather information, to check whether her first impression had been correct, to remain dignified and respectable; or, perhaps, to bring to our contact the same slightly cold seriousness she could see in me. Because of my fear, I wasn’t sure I was putting much feeling into the way I looked at her.

‘Basically, why should one refuse to tell a woman one finds beautiful – I mean a woman one doesn’t know – that she’s beautiful? I see you’re smiling. You find me ridiculous.’

‘Not at all. I’m listening to you with the greatest attentiveness.’

‘It’s the same kind of impact as when you walk past a painting and you’re struck by its beauty. A single second may be all it takes for a person’s face to leave an impression as lasting as, I don’t know, five hours of an opera … Do you understand what I mean?’

‘I think your praise is disproportionate. Either that, or you’re practised in the art of approaching women. And obviously your technique is very effective – the proof being that I’m standing here listening to you, ready to hear more.’

‘I don’t have a technique. You are the first woman I’ve approached in years.’

She looks at me attentively. She is trying to interpret the expression on my face.

‘Shall I tell you the truth? It wasn’t in the queue that I saw you for the second time, but when you entered the bowling alley. I couldn’t imagine talking to you in a place like that, where professional womanizers must proliferate. I have to confess my guilt: I’ve been watching you for quite a long time.’

I flash her a knowing smile. She looks at me suspiciously. I keep talking, without giving her the time to study my response more carefully.

‘I watched you bowl for a reasonably long time.’

‘Don’t you have anything better to do than follow strange women into bowling alleys?’ she said in a hard voice. ‘I hate knowing I was being watched.’

‘I adored it. You were dazzling.’

‘No one could accuse you of understatement.’

‘This is the only way I could find the power to speak to you. Grandiloquence is a form of energy. You can’t imagine how much courage it took me to approach you.’

‘You haven’t answered my question.’

‘Which one?’

‘What you usually do with your days.’

‘Try to guess.’

‘I don’t know. You seem like an intellectual. I mean, as well as being grandiloquent and having lots of spare time. And you use the word proliferate. So … a journalist, perhaps? Or a philosophy lecturer? Or a psychoanalyst? Or you write plays. You’re a screenwriter.’

‘No, but you’re not entirely wrong. There’s some truth in your perception. But my job is not at all – or rather, I should say, no longer – artistic. Highly cerebral, on a human and on a material level, but no longer remotely artistic.’

‘Do you regret that?’

‘Regret what? That my job is no longer artistic? Occasionally, yes. But I don’t have time for that kind of thing.’

‘You still haven’t told me what your job was.’

‘Architect.’

‘You’re the first one I’ve ever met.’

‘I’m a construction manager now. I plan and synchronize all the different activities. I conduct the orchestra. Can I invite you to have a drink with me?’

‘Sorry, I’m expected somewhere. Another time.’

‘Are you sure? Just one drink. Twenty minutes.’

‘You can see me another time. I’m leaving tomorrow, but I’ll be back in just under a month. Do you work in Paris?’

‘Don’t you?’

‘No, in London. But I travel a lot.’

‘You know, instead of wasting time talking here, we could go somewhere more agreeable. What do you think? My car isn’t far.’

I felt her hesitate; her eyes devoured me. All I had to do was insist, and she would have come with me; all I had to do was look in her eyes a few seconds longer and the army of attraction would have conquered the empire of reason. She was about to agree, to say yes. Her face quivered; I could see she was willing, one way or another, to get out of her meeting. But it was late, and it was Vivienne’s birthday, and the Deneuves would perhaps be awaiting my return, so I decided to postpone the time she was ready to offer me: ‘I understand, don’t worry,’ I said. ‘We’ll see each other another time.’ She deftly took a business card from an outside pocket of her bag and handed it to me. With care, I read the few words printed upon it: Victoria de Winter, Executive Vice President, with a company name and an ugly logo.

‘I’m often in Paris.’

‘What is it, this company?’

‘It was originally one of the jewels of British industry. Nowadays, it’s a multinational corporation, essentially American, with offices in about twenty countries.’

‘Executive Vice President?’

‘I’m global head of Human Resources. But I’m going to have to leave you. What’s your name?’

‘I don’t have a card on me. David Kolski.’

‘Call me. Or send me an email. I leave tomorrow, but as I told you, I’ll be coming back soon.’

‘I have to go to London in a couple of weeks, as it happens.’

‘In a couple of weeks? So, around 10 September. I should be there. Send me your dates by email and I’ll let you know. In any case, we’ll see each other – in Paris or in London.’

She smiles at me. Looks deeply into my eyes. There is a long silence. And then she utters the incredible words: ‘And we’ll see if the spark is still there.’

Éric Reinhardt

THE VICTORIA SYSTEM

HAMISH HAMILTON

Contents

THE VICTORIA SYSTEM

1