reading

Transworld is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com

First published in Great Britain in 2018 by Bantam Press
an imprint of Transworld Publishers

First published in France as Ta deuxième vie commence quand tu comprends que tu n’en as qu’une by Group Eyrolles in 2015.

Raphaëlle Giordano has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Every effort has been made to obtain the necessary permissions with reference to copyright material, both illustrative and quoted. We apologize for any omissions in this respect and will be pleased to make the appropriate acknowledgements in any future edition.

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

About the Author

Raphaëlle Giordano is a writer, artist and expert in personal development. She lives in Paris, France.

Your Second Life Begins When You Realize You Only Have One is her first novel.

Acknowledgements

A huge thanks to Stéphanie Ricordel and Élodie Dusseaux, my editors at Eyrolles, for having believed in my project and allowing it to see the light of day.

An equally big thanks to Stéphanie, my twin sister, and to my mother. They have both helped and supported me with their kind and constructive advice throughout the writing of the book.

Thanks finally to my son, Vadim, for being what he is, and for bringing me so much happiness.

My dream is that everyone should take
full advantage of their talents
and responsibility for their happiness.
Because there is nothing more important
than to live life to the limits
of one’s childhood dreams …

Have a good journey.

Raphaëlle

The raindrops crashing against my windscreen grew larger and larger. The wipers creaked and shuddered and, hands clutching the steering wheel, I was shuddering too. Soon the torrents of water were so great that I instinctively took my foot off the accelerator. It was a horrible night, an almost biblical storm; a car accident was the last thing I needed.

To avoid the Friday-evening traffic on my way back into central Paris, I had decided to take the back roads through the woods that surround the city. Anything to avoid the gridlocked autoroutes and the horror of spending hours at a standstill. I squinted as I tried to make out the road signs ahead through the misted-up windows. And as if the weather and the traffic weren’t enough, all of a sudden, just as I drove through the dark woodland, my satnav gave up the ghost.

It has to be said, satnavs never survived the journey I’d just made. Or at least not unscathed. I was returning from an uncharted wilderness, the sort of area where ‘you are here’ means ‘you are nowhere’. And yet … out there was a small industrial estate, an unlikely collection of PLCs (Profit-Less Companies, I thought to myself) that my boss must have reasoned offered enough of a commercial opportunity to justify my trip. Although I had the unpleasant suspicion that ever since he’d agreed I could work a four-day week, he was making me pay for that favour by giving me the jobs no one else wanted. Which explained why I was in this tin can on wheels, navigating the roads on the outskirts of Paris to chase after such small fry …

Come on, Camille, stop feeling sorry for yourself and concentrate on the road …

Suddenly there was a loud bang. A dreadful sound that set my heart racing and made me swerve terrifyingly out of control. My head hit the windscreen and I learnt that the story about your life flashing in front of your eyes in a split second wasn’t just a myth.

After a few foggy moments, I came to and tentatively reached up to where I’d hit my forehead … nothing sticky thankfully, just a large bump. I quickly checked myself all over. No, no other injuries to report. More of a fright than anything else, thank God!

I got out of the car, shielding myself from the rain as best I could with my mac, and went to inspect the damage: a burst tyre and a dented wing. Once I got over my initial panic, fear gave way to anger. For fuck’s sake! Could today possibly get any worse? With shaking hands, I grabbed my mobile as if it were a lifeline. No signal, of course. Why was I not surprised?

The minutes ticked by. Nothing – there wasn’t a soul around. I was all alone, stranded in this empty wood.

Don’t just panic, do something! There must be people living round here somewhere …

So I abandoned the car – it was no use to me now – and set off along the road, braving the elements in my oh-so glamorous hi-vis waterproof. Needs must …

After ten minutes that felt like an eternity, I came to the iron gates of a large house. I pressed the button on the videophone as urgently as if I was dialling 112.

A man replied, but tersely, in one of those haughty voices that you reserve for unwanted callers.

‘Good evening … So sorry to bother you, but I’ve crashed my car in the woods behind your house … My tyre’s burst and I don’t have any mobile recep—’

The buzzing sound of the gate being opened made me jump. Was it my bedraggled shipwreck-survivor’s appearance that had convinced him to offer me asylum? I didn’t care. I slipped inside without a second thought, and found myself confronted by a magnificent mansion, surrounded by a well-maintained, manicured garden. I felt as though I had struck gold.

The light came on at the top of the front steps, and the door opened. A man’s imposing silhouette advanced towards me, carrying an enormous umbrella. When he drew closer, I could make out a long face, good-looking despite the wrinkles. He was one of those men who had aged well: a kind of Gallic Sean Connery. I noticed dimples at the corners of his mouth, which gave him a friendly air. One that put me at ease. He was at least sixty but it didn’t look as if it had taken much effort to get there. His pale-grey eyes had a lively twinkle to them, and his salt-and-pepper hair was surprisingly thick for a man his age, only slightly receding in a way that suited the shape of his forehead. A beard as well tended as the gardens finished off his stylish appearance. He invited me to follow him inside.

‘Tha-thanks. It’s really kind of you. Again, I’m so sorry to disturb you …’

Just then, an elegant woman, who I guessed must be his wife, appeared. Her pretty face was creased with a frown, which she quickly suppressed when she saw me.

‘Yes, everything’s fine. This lady had a car accident and couldn’t get a signal in the woods. She just needs to use the phone and recover a little.’

When she saw how cold I was, she kindly offered me a cup of tea. I accepted on the spot.

As she disappeared into the kitchen, her husband came back downstairs, holding a towel.

I went over to the telephone that stood on a pretty, inlaid wooden table beneath a piece of modern art. These people had taste, and they were obviously well off. What a relief I had come across them and not some monster who devoured desperate housewives in distress.

I picked up the receiver and dialled my insurance company’s roadside assistance number. Since I couldn’t give them my car’s exact location, I asked the mechanic to come to the house, after Claude gave me the address. I was told they would be here within the hour. I breathed a sigh of relief: things were looking up.

Then I called home. Claude was considerate enough to go over to the fire crackling in the hearth on the far side of the room and poke the logs while I did so. After eight seemingly endless rings, my husband picked up. I could tell from his voice that he had fallen asleep in front of the TV. He didn’t seem surprised or worried that I was calling: he was used to me sometimes coming home quite late.

I explained all the catastrophes that had occurred but he kept interrupting me with annoyed grunts and tuts of exasperation, before asking technical details: how long would it take the breakdown people to come? How much was it going to cost? My nerves were frayed enough as it was, and the way he was behaving made me want to shout down the phone. Couldn’t he show a bit of understanding just this once? After telling him that I would sort it out and he needn’t bother to wait up for me, I slammed the phone down.

Despite myself, my hands were trembling and I knew tears were welling in my eyes. I didn’t hear Claude coming back over to me, so I jumped when I felt his hand on my shoulder.

‘Everything OK? Are you all right?’ he asked gently. I only wished my husband’s voice on the phone a few moments earlier had sounded as concerned.

At that, something in his face brought my defences crashing down: my bottom lip began to wobble, and I couldn’t hold back the tears. My mascara ran down my face as I released all the pent-up frustration that had built up over the previous hours, weeks, months, even …

At first Claude said nothing. He simply stood there, one warm hand resting on my shoulder.

When my tears finally dried, his wife, who in the meantime had put a steaming cup of tea down beside me, went to fetch some tissues. Then she vanished upstairs, no doubt sensing that her presence might inhibit what would be a welcome opportunity to get things off my chest.

‘I’m … I’m so sorry, this is ridiculous. I don’t know what’s come over me. I’ve been on edge recently anyway, and I’ve had such a terrible day – it’s all too much.’

Claude had gone to sit in the armchair opposite me, and was listening closely. Something about him made me feel I could trust him. He looked me straight in the eye. It was not a judgemental, intrusive look, more like a benevolent pair of open arms.

Gazing at him, I sensed that I could open up. My inner resistance crumbled. So much the worse. Or so much the better?

I told him the main reasons why I felt so down. I explained how all the micro-frustrations had accumulated and eaten away at any enthusiasm I felt for life, just when it seemed I should have everything I needed to feel on top of the world.

‘It’s not that I’m unhappy, but I’m not especially happy either … It’s so awful, this feeling that joy has slipped through my fingers. I don’t want to see a doctor about it: he would probably tell me I was depressed and stuff me full of drugs. No, it’s just this sort of … dissatisfaction. It’s nothing serious, but … it’s as if my heart simply isn’t in it any more. I’m sorry, I really don’t know if any of this is making sense.’

What I said seemed to move him so much that I wondered if it hadn’t struck a very personal chord. Although we had only met barely an hour before, a strange feeling of trust had sprung up between us. My confession had suddenly brought us several degrees closer, and established a surprising bond.

‘Well, you may know what Abbé Pierre said: “We have as much need of reasons for living as of the necessities of life.” So don’t say it’s not serious. It’s tremendously serious! Troubles of the soul are not something to be taken lightly. And listening to you, I actually think I know what’s wrong.’

He hesitated a moment before continuing, as if trying to work out whether I was going to be receptive to what he had to say. He must have decided I was, because he went on, as though revealing a great secret:

‘Acute routinitis. It’s a sickness of the soul that affects more and more people in the world, especially in the West. The symptoms are almost always the same: a lack of motivation; chronic dissatisfaction; feeling you’ve lost your bearings and everything meaningful in life; finding it hard to feel happy even though you have more than enough material goods; disenchantment; world-weariness …’

He must be used to this kind of reaction, because he remained calm and collected while still projecting compassion.

He briefly explained what routinology was: an innovative method still little-known in France but already popular in many other parts of the world. Researchers and scientists had come to realize that an increasing number of people were suffering from the syndrome. While not being clinically depressed, one could still have a feeling of emptiness and unease, and suffer from the unpleasant sensation that although you had everything you needed to be happy, you didn’t have the key to make the most of it.

I listened to him wide-eyed, drinking in what he was saying. It was such an accurate description of what I was feeling. My expression encouraged him to continue:

‘You know, at first glance routinitis may seem like a benign condition, but it can cause real damage: epidemics of pessimism, tsunamis of discontent, catastrophic storms of bad moods. Smiling could become endangered. Don’t laugh, it’s true! Not to mention the butterfly effect. The more the phenomenon spreads, the greater the number of people who fall prey to it … If not treated properly, routinitis can lower the well-being index of an entire country.’

Although I knew he was being serious, I also realized he was laying it on thick to bring a smile back to my face.

‘Only slightly. You can’t imagine how many happiness illiterates there are. Not to mention all those lacking any emotional intelligence. It’s a real scourge. Don’t you agree that there’s nothing worse than the sense that life is passing you by? Simply because you don’t have the courage to go for what you really want, because you haven’t stayed faithful to your deepest-seated values, to the dreams you harboured as a child?’

‘Unfortunately, developing our capacity for being happy isn’t something we’re taught at school. Yet there are techniques you can learn. You can have lots of money and be really unhappy, or equally not have much but make your existence the sweetest there is. The capacity for being happy has to be worked on, built up day by day. All you have to do is to take a good look at your system of values and re-educate the way you look at life and what’s going on around you.’

He stood up and went over to the big table to fetch a plate of biscuits to go with my tea. He nibbled a few absent-mindedly, seemingly keen to return to our conversation. The more I listened to him telling me about how important it is to rediscover yourself, to love yourself better so as to find your own path and your happiness, to make that joy radiate around you, the more I wondered what on earth could have happened to him to make him so passionate about all this.

He lit up completely as he tried to persuade me to share his conviction. Then, all at once he fell silent and stared at me with that benevolent look of his that seemed to read my mind as easily as a blind person reading Braille.

‘You know, Camille, most things that happen to you depend on what goes on up here,’ he said, tapping his skull. ‘In your head. The things that happen in the mind are full of surprises. You can’t imagine just how far your thoughts influence your reality … Like Plato’s description in his “Allegory of the Cave”: chained up in a cave, mankind creates a false image of reality, because all he knows of it are the flickering images of the things that a fire lit behind him throws on to the wall in front.’

I couldn’t help seeing the funny side of the situation, although I said nothing. I had to admit, I hadn’t expected a philosophy lecture in such cosy surroundings only an hour after a car accident.

‘You’re comparing Plato’s allegory to the way our minds function? Wow …’

‘Of course; I think there’s a similarity with those thoughts that put a screen between reality and ourselves, distorting it with beliefs, presumptions and prejudices … and who is doing all that? Your mind. Nothing but your mind! I call it the “thoughts factory”. It’s a real assembly line. The good news is that you have the power to change those thoughts. It’s up to you whether you see the glass as half empty or half full. You can work on your mindset so that it stops playing tricks on you. All you need is the method, a little patience and perseverance.’

I was stunned. I didn’t know whether he was raving mad, or if I should wholeheartedly applaud his incredible pep talk. In the end I did neither, simply nodding in agreement.

He must have sensed that, for the moment, he had reached the limit of information I could digest.

‘No, not at all. They sound really interesting. It’s just that I’m a bit tired. Don’t take any notice of me.’

‘Of course, that’s only natural. If you like, I could talk to you again about this method another time … It’s really been proved to help people recover a sense of purpose and rebuild a fulfilling life for themselves.’

He stood up and went over to a pretty little cherrywood writing desk. He took out a business card and handed it to me.

The card also bore his mobile number and landline. I took it from him without really knowing what to make of all this yet. To be polite, I told him I’d think about it. This didn’t seem to faze him, and he didn’t insist. As a salesperson, that surprised me: wouldn’t anyone who was self-employed jump at the chance to secure a new client? The fact that he was not at all pushy seemed to me to indicate a rare self-confidence. It made me feel that if I turned down his offer, I would be the one losing out.

But at that moment, I was still feeling the effect of everything that had happened that evening: the stupid accident, the stupid storm like something out of a bad horror movie … And on top of it all: a routinologist. I thought I’d started imagining things. In the next five minutes, the camera crew would appear and someone would shout: ‘Gotcha!’

The doorbell rang. But it wasn’t a cameraman or a TV presenter: just the tow-truck guy.

‘No, thanks so much. I’ll be fine. You’ve already been so kind. I don’t know how to thank you …’

‘It was nothing. Anyone would have done the same. Send us a text when you get home.’

I climbed up into the cab with the mechanic to show him the way, taking a last look back through the truck window. I saw Claude and his wife standing on the steps, arm in arm, waving a brief goodbye. They seemed such a loving, sharing couple.

With this image of peaceful happiness etched into my mind, we bumped off into the darkness, back to reality …

I woke up the next morning with a terrible migraine that lasted all day. I’d spent the night tossing and turning, thinking over everything Claude Dupontel had told me. Was I really a victim of acute routinitis? Did the anxiety that had held me in its grip for several weeks now really mean I had to embark on a course of counselling? What, in fact, did I actually have to complain about? I had a husband and son, and a job that offered me security. Maybe I just needed to pull myself together and stop wallowing. And yet my thirty-something middle-class discontent wouldn’t let me go. I had tried often enough to sweep it under the carpet, without success.

I did occasionally try to put things into perspective. To ‘see the bigger picture’, as they say in women’s magazines. I ran through the whole gamut of human misery in my mind. People in war zones. People with serious illnesses. The homeless, jobless, loveless … Compared to them, my problems seemed so petty. But as Claude Dupontel had said, there was no point comparing what couldn’t be compared. The scale of happiness or misery isn’t the same for everyone. I didn’t know him, and yet he seemed so well adjusted, so centred. Yes, centred was the word. Of course, I didn’t believe in miracle cures that transform your life in the wave of a magic wand. But he seemed so convincing when he said that things really could change. He insisted that feeling down and stuck in a rut was not inevitable, that you can choose to be someone who does not allow daily existence to grind them down, but who lives life to the full. To turn your life into a work of art … It was a project that seemed pretty unrealistic at first, but why not at least try to aim towards it?

In theory, I was all for it. But in practice? ‘One day I’ll go to live in Theory, because in Theory everything is wonderful …’ So, how to get started, to get beyond the stage of shoulda coulda woulda? With all this playing on my mind, I struggled out of bed. I felt as though I’d been beaten black and blue during the night. To top it all off, without meaning to I put my left foot on the floor first. I know it’s a silly superstition, but I immediately saw this as a bad omen: the instinctive reaction of a brain swamped with negative vibes. The day was off to a bad start.

Sebastien, my alleged nearest and dearest, hardly even bothered to say good morning. He was wrestling with a disobedient tie, and in between his stifled swearing I thought I made out that he was late for a meeting. So he wasn’t going to be taking Adrien to school today either. Sigh.

Adrien, my son, is nine years, six months, ten days and eight hours old, as he would be only too happy to inform you. I found his rush to grow up both touching and slightly terrifying; it was all moving so quickly. Too quickly. Adrien had always done everything faster than usual. The only way to have stopped him would have been to tie him to a chair. We soon had to get used to the idea that our son was a ‘Duracell baby’: he never wore out.

But I did. Even though I loved him more than anything in the world, there were days when I thought he must have a mini energy-sucking vacuum cleaner under his T-shirt.

Of course, we were modern parents – we’d practically been weaned on the belief that ‘the child is a fully-fledged individual with a right to be heard’. But experience had taught us that our way of bringing him up had been far too liberal. By sticking to the ideals of dialogue and respect for a child’s personality, we had given our son far too much freedom.

Boundaries: that was what I had been trying to establish for several months now, in an attempt to correct our over-lax attitude. I had done a U-turn, and gone from one extreme to the other. No doubt I was now being too tough on him … but you just do your best, don’t you? I was constantly whining at Adrien in an effort to keep him in line. He would whine back, but comply in the end. In spite of his rebellious side, deep down he was a good kid.

I knew I was on his back a lot – for his own good, I was sure, although at times I felt I was turning into a real nag. I hated being like that. ‘Tidy your room, have a shower, switch the lights off, do your homework, put the toilet seat down …’ I had exchanged my ‘good’ mum approach for the ‘bad’ mum one. And everything I had gained in neatly folded socks had been lost in terms of my relationship with him. There was a tug-of-war going on between us. We were cat and dog, as if we no longer understood each other. Then again, how could he act like such a teenager when he wasn’t even ten yet?

All this was going through my head when I walked into his room. We had to leave the house in ten minutes and he was playing ping-pong against the wall, only half dressed. He had put on odd socks, hadn’t bothered to comb his hair, and his bedroom looked as if a bomb had gone off in it – not that he had noticed.

He looked at me with his chestnut-brown eyes and their astonishingly long lashes, as enchanting as ever. I paused for a moment to consider his round face and strong features, his well-defined mouth that was now stuck in a stubborn pout. Even when it was this untidy, his hair was so lovely and soft it made you want to stroke it. He was a gorgeous little devil. I resisted the temptation to go and hug him and smooth it down, the rascal. I was the drill sergeant, determined to make sure he was in step.

‘But, Mu-ummm! What’s your problem? Stay cool. Chill out,’ he replied, underlining his words with a Zen rapper hand gesture he’d learnt from YouTube.

That drove me crazy. I yelled at him and then stomped into the bathroom for a shower. I washed hastily, already dreading what was on the day’s to-do list.

As I stepped out of the shower, my reflection in the mirror only made me frown more. A deep furrow was ploughed across my forehead.

I stared at this face that used to be pretty – and maybe still could be, if my skin weren’t so sallow and the bags under the once-seductive green eyes weren’t so dark. As could my silky blonde hair, when I found the time to style it properly to frame my round face. A little too round these days, due to the weight I had put on after my pregnancy and the sweet treats I had given in to in the years since then. Annoyed, I grabbed the lifeline of ‘mother’s little helpers’ and swallowed far too quickly, considering their expiry date. By now I was in a thoroughly bad mood.

As I rushed back into the bedroom to get dressed, I carelessly knocked over the photo frame on the bedside table. I picked it up to put it back. It was a great photo of me and Sebastien at a time when we would stargaze and laugh all night long … What had happened to that handsome man with flashing eyes who knew just what to whisper in my ear to make me go weak at the knees? How long had it been since he had made the slightest attempt to seduce me? And yet, he was a good, kind man. Really kind. Thinking about the tenderness that had slowly and subtly replaced the passion of our early days, I felt vaguely sick … Over the years the once wild, lush jungle of our love for one another had been transformed into a formal French garden: everything neat and tidy, with not a single blade of grass out of place.

Anyway, that was how things were now. What had been the tipping point? When Adrien had come on the scene? When Sebastien had been promoted? Who knew? Whatever the reason, the outcome was the same. Stuck in this marital mud, hemmed in by an existence that ran along too smoothly, I realized that our life as a couple had, like a piece of chewing gum you’ve chewed for too long, lost all its flavour.

Your Second Life Begins When You Realize You Only Have One

Raphaëlle Giordano

English translation by Nick Caistor

About the Author

Acknowledgements

1

2

3

4