I wrote back:
Forget about it. See you in September, I hope the weather is good in France.
He didn’t email me again after that.
Three days later, Melissa invited Bobbi and me to come stay in the villa in étables for a few days in August. Bobbi kept sending me links to the Ryanair website and saying we should go for just a week, or even just five days. I could afford the flights and Sunny didn’t mind me taking time off.
Eventually I said: fine. Let’s go.
*
Bobbi and I had been on several foreign trips together before. We always took the cheapest flights, early in the morning or late at night, and as a consequence we usually spent the first day of the trip feeling irritable and trying to find free WiFi. The only day I had ever spent in Budapest we’d sat in a coffee shop with our luggage while Bobbi drank espressos and engaged in a heated online argument about drone strikes, which she relayed to me aloud. When I told her I wasn’t particularly interested in hearing the discussion, she said: children are dying, Frances. We didn’t speak for several hours after that.
In the days preceding our trip, Bobbi sent me frequent text messages about items I should remember to pack. It was in my nature to remember what I needed, and very much in Bobbi’s nature not to. One evening she called around to the apartment with a list, and when I answered the door she was holding her phone between her shoulder and ear.
Hey, I’m just at Frances’s place now, she said. Do you mind if I put you on speakerphone?
Bobbi closed the door and followed me into the living room, where she dropped her phone unceremoniously onto the table, with the speakerphone enabled.
Hi Frances, said Melissa’s voice.
I said hello, though what I meant was: I hope you haven’t found out about me sleeping with your husband.
So whose is the house exactly? Bobbi said.
It belongs to a friend of mine called Valerie, said Melissa. I mean, I say friend, she’s in her sixties. More like a mentor. She was very helpful with getting the book published, and all that. Anyway, old old money. And she likes to have people staying in her various properties when she’s not around.
I said that she sounded interesting.
You’d like her, Melissa said. You might get to meet her, she does spend a day or two in the house sometimes. She lives in Paris usually.
Wealthy people sicken me, said Bobbi. But yeah, I’m sure she’s great.
How have you been keeping, Frances? Melissa said. It feels like an age since I’ve seen you.
I paused, and then said: I’ve been well, thank you. And you? Melissa also paused and then replied: good.
How was London? I asked. You were over there last month, were you?
Was that last month? she said. Time is so funny.
She said she had better be getting back to dinner and hung up. I didn’t think there was anything remotely funny about time, certainly not ‘so funny’。
After Bobbi left that night I wrote for an hour and a half, poetry in which I figured my own body as an item of garbage, an empty wrapper or a half-eaten and discarded piece of fruit. Putting my self-loathing to work in this way didn’t make me feel better as such, but it tired me out. Afterwards I lay on my side with A Critique of Postcolonial Reason propped half-open on the pillow beside me. Occasionally I lifted a finger to turn the page and allowed the heavy and confusing syntax to drift down through my eyes and into my brain like fluid. I’m bettering myself, I thought. I’m going to become so smart that no one will understand me.
Before we left the country, I sent Nick an email telling him we were coming to stay. I said: I’m sure Melissa told you already, I just want to assure you I’m not planning on making a scene. He replied saying: cool, it’ll be nice to see you. I stared at that message repeatedly, often reopening it to stare at it again. It was so devoid of tone or meaning that it infuriated me. It was as if, our relationship having come to an end, he had demoted me right back to my previous status as an acquaintance. The affair might be over, I thought, but something being over is not the same as something never having happened. In my anger I even began searching my emails and texts for ‘evidence’ of our affair, which consisted of a few boring logistical messages about when he would be back in the house and what time I might arrive. There were no passionate declarations of love or sexually graphic text messages. This made sense, because the affair was conducted in real life and not online, but I felt robbed of something anyway.
On the plane I shared my headphones with Bobbi, who had forgotten hers. We had to turn the volume way up to be able to hear anything over the engines. Bobbi was a nervous flyer, or she said she was, but I thought she played it up to an extent just for fun. When we flew together she made me hold hands. I wished I could ask her what she thought I should do, but I was sure if she knew what had happened she’d be appalled at the idea of me even going to étables. In a way I was appalled too, but also fascinated. Before that summer I’d had no idea I was the kind of person who would accept an invitation like this from a woman whose husband I’d repeatedly slept with. This information was morbidly interesting to me.