Chez Minette

I wait for the perfect moment to enter. I have dressed with more care than usual for this and catch my reflection in the polished glass as I stand outside the door. My thick golden locks are swept neatly into a high bun, adorned with a pearl comb. I push an errant curl into place and smile with satisfaction at the image which smiles back. I want this to be the performance of a lifetime.

I can see my husband already sitting at the table through the restaurant’s large paned front window. He looks the part of a smug, money-born business tycoon. His slicked-back dark hair with slight graying at the temples, and thin pencil moustache, complete the aristocrat. There is a dark-haired woman at the next table who is stealing glances at him between drinks of red wine. He turns his head to speak to an acquaintance who stops at his table, and I quickly open the door and walk into the cozy, red velvet upholstered, dimly lit atmosphere that is Chez Minette.

I remove my coat and gloves and hand them to the attendant while my husband continues to give his full attention to Monsieur Henri De Saint-Simon. He hasn’t seen me come in and this is a relief because I hate it when he watches me, his dark eyes assessing as if looking for weakness. I cannot afford to get derailed or flustered now.

I am escorted to my seat and as I sit down across from him, he gives Monsieur De Saint-Simon a firm handshake and a thin smile. Then he turns to me, “A little en retard, darling?”

“The roads were so congested. So sorry to keep you waiting.”

“Not at all, my dear.”

There is a lull in the conversation. My husband looks up to catch the waiter’s eye, and I lower my eyes to my hands. I am staring at my wedding ring and thinking about that day twenty-four years ago when he put it on my finger, when he looked into my eyes and it sent shivers down my spine, when we were in love.

We have fallen in and out of love many times over the years, but of late, it seems that we spend more time out of love than in it, and now that he is becoming careless, out in public with her on his arm, it is intolerable.

“What would you like to drink, ma chérie?”

“Champagne, of course,” I address the waiter, who stands between us, “Veuve Clicquot, s’il vous plaît.” Georges raises his eyes at this. “Of course, Georges, darling. We are celebrating.”

“Très bien.” The waiter bows slightly and walks toward the kitchen.

“You’ve been keeping busy,” I say, once our waiter is out of earshot. “I haven’t seen you in two days.” I can feel that my jaw is clenched and I try to relax the muscles, while still maintaining my composure, managing direct eye contact and a smile. It is very thinly veiled, because I am seething inside.

“It is true that I have been busy. The railway project, you know. It is set to begin within the month,” he replies smoothly, straightening his tie. “Have you not been busy yourself, with all the Spring Gala nonsense?”

“Raising money to renovate the Hôtel-Dieu Hospital is a worthy cause. It isn’t nonsense!” I say as evenly as possible. Georges is baiting me.

“Is that what it’s for? I thought you were focused on finding our daughter a suitable match, since you have taken great pains to invite the families of every eligible bachelor in Paris.”

The waiter interrupts the conversation at this moment, setting two glasses in front of us. He then expertly twists off the cork and fills our glasses with the bubbly liquid.

“Santé,” Georges says with a brief raise of his glass. I raise mine as well and take a grateful sip.

He is unbelievably sure of himself. He really thinks that I have no clue what has been going on, except that I do know and that knowledge settles me and makes me feel more powerful than I have ever felt.

“Who is she, Georges?” I say in a perfectly blunt matter-of-fact monotone. My acting skills surpass even my own expectations.

“Who, Louise?” Georges looks innocently across the table, but I can see that he is unnerved. He clears his throat and reaches for his glass.

“The woman you accompanied to the opera last night?” My voice expresses harmless curiosity as my eyes harden to diamond.

He had the gall. Yesterday was our anniversary. His guilty conscience must have reminded him partway through the evening because that was when he sent me a short message to wish me a happy anniversary and ask if I would be able to celebrate tonight instead.

I had to revise my answer four times to graciously accept without the embellishing expletives and other imaginative language which were my honest, first reaction.

My hands are shaking and I hold on tightly to my small, beaded purse to steady myself as I speak. “Catherine, you remember Catherine, n’est-ce pas? We became friends after you tried to seduce her at Blainville’s Christmas party last year? Oui. She was there, Georges. She saw you. In fact, all of Paris saw you and the whole city is buzzing with it.”

Discomfort with this situation is creeping up Georges’ face like a red tide and he leans in toward me. “Keep your voice down, Louise!”

“And pourquoi? Everyone knows, everyone in this room surely knows that my husband is a womanizing, adulterous scoundrel!” My voice reaches strident levels which cause the diners around us to stop talking and turn in our direction. For a split second, the scene seems to be frozen in time. I push my chair back and slowly get to my feet, taking the time to smooth down the bronze silk of my gown. Georges’ face is beet-red, his eyes as wide as saucers, a paralyzed look of astonishment on his face as if he beheld an emanation of Medusa and not the woman he had been married to for nearly a quarter-century. All eyes are on me as I raise my glass to the spectators and turn to my husband. “To my dear husband, Georges!” I say with conviction, take another sip of champagne and then throw the rest in Georges’ face. “I hope you have a lovely evening,” I say to the room as I turn to go. The maître d’ has anticipated my exit and holds my coat for me.

I vaguely hear Georges’ pitiful voice behind me, just above the scandalized murmurings which now fill the dining room. He’s begging me to wait, to stay, to let him explain, but I ignore him and instead I nod gratefully to the maître d’ as he holds the door for me and I offer him a few coins. “For the inconvenience,” I say, as I walk out into the cool night air.

“Ok that’s a wrap,” the director calls out. The lights come on and everyone on the set relaxes visibly. I know it was good. I feel it in the energy around the room.

“Great work, Tanya,” he says as I pass him on the way to my trailer.

Mark follows me. He is still wiping ginger ale off his face. “Well, that seems to have gone quite well. You outdid yourself, Tanya, dear. Do you have a preference for dinner tonight?”

More words are there, simmering all day, catching in my throat, and demanding to be released. I stop when I get to the trailer door and turn to face him.

“Twenty-four years,” Mark continues, oblivious to the brewing storm, shaking his head slowly and grabbing hold of my hand, the one where my wedding ring glimmers in the sunlight. “I can’t believe I have been this lucky for so long.”

Tanya stands a little taller and meets her husband's gaze, eyes hardening to diamond. “You can drop the love-bombing, Mark!” The words ring with the assurance and sophistication of Louise De Montargis, in her silk gown and curls. The crew members within earshot stop their conversations and turn in our direction. “I’ve seen the photos and I’ve had enough. I hope she has room for you in her apartment on Bayside. I want a divorce!”

The world stops for a split second. Mark looks as if I’ve just slapped him. I turn in slow motion to make the grandest exit of my career, opening my trailer door, stepping inside and then slamming it shut in his face, and this is when the scene is truly over.