Bye Bye Blondie (17 page)

“That would really suit me. I've got no income, no references, I don't have any of the things you need to rent . . .”

“It's okay, you have all the qualifications!”

“Well, if I could sublet for a bit, it would help me out. I'm gonna end up homeless, if this goes on, so . . .”

But actually, it doesn't really suit her, being all alone again.

Vanessa comes back to the table with two beers. Her phone is making a ghastly noise, supposed to be this disco music but in fact it's something eardrum piercing. Vanessa answers and moves away because the signal inside the bar isn't too good, so she goes out onto the street, walking up and down in the cold, chatting.

Michel takes a piece of paper from his jacket pocket while she's outside.

“Eric asked me to give you his number. I'm giving it to you while Vanessa isn't here, otherwise she'd copy it and start bothering him . . . She's a bit . . .”

“. . . of a groupie.”

“Well, yeah, a bit, she is . . .”

He scratches his neck thoughtfully.

“You were right not to come here last night, you'd have been really pissed off, watching everyone hanging around him. It was freaky, you know, really freaky.”

“It was, like, ‘We're in the backwoods here.'”

“Yeah, pretty shameless. Even people you and I like, they were hanging around him, trying to talk to him, get close, stare at him. Midnight here, you should have seen the place, CRAWLING! People phoned each other to tell them about it. I felt a bit bad for him.”

“He must be used to it.”

“Not sure you could get used to that. Kind of humiliating. I think he tries not to get caught in that kind of situation. We had a word or two. I didn't know him, in fact, apart from . . .”

“Ah well, what goes around comes around, that's how we met, you and me, after all.”

“And since then, we've stuck together, haven't we?”

“Yeah, except now you're going seven hundred kilometers away, so of course that won't change our relations . . .”

He's ill at ease, as unhappy as she is. She unfolds the paper with the phone number he's given her.

“Hey, I could always call him and tell him I'm broke, he's absolutely loaded.”

“He's in Nancy till tonight, I think. Call him if you like. He seemed genuinely keen to see you. I didn't imagine him the way he is.”

“He doesn't look as good as on TV, don't you think?”

“Not physically, but I was thinking he'd be a total bastard, guess I was prejudiced.”

“Prejudices, prejudices—usually justified.”

She puts the number in her pocket, telling herself that she doesn't have a phone anymore anyway. Then she drinks off her beer, lifting her elbow high, without a word and without looking at him, and waits for Michel to do the same, picks up his glass, and goes to the counter. Jérémy is rinsing glasses, he looks tired from all his efforts the night before. He shakes his head.

“Oh, he was really disappointed you didn't turn up. You didn't say, honestly, he was really . . .”

“Look, I can't be bothered with him, okay? You're not going to be on at me for months just because when I was fifteen I used to know this asshole who's on TV.”

That was telling him. She's fed up with bad news, fed up that everyone forgets she's just broken up with her man. In short, she is mega pissed off with everything.

Gloria spends the afternoon sitting at the same table. Vanessa keeps buying her drinks, her glass is empty one minute, refilled the next. She really wants to be best friends. And well, that's not a bad way to try. Then the loving couple leaves the bar. Gloria doesn't feel like going to Véronique's place, no desire to chat. She wonders what to do, feels terrible, sinister, thinks about hanging herself or jumping off a bridge, when Salim turns up, a tall black guy, always with a smile, stereotypical Caribbean. Good-looking, elegant, reliably willing to lend a hand. Suddenly she changes her mind and asks to borrow his phone.

“I've lost mine, do you mind, can I use yours?”

He slaps his thighs with laughter.

“Can't fool me! You didn't lose it, I saw Lucas last night, he told me all about it.”

“Oh, he couldn't keep his big mouth shut, could he?”

“He was in despair. Know what, Gloria? You're a wild woman, you're impossible to tame. What you want is a real man, someone who can properly keep you in order.”

And he taps his chest, boastingly.

Gloria smiles.

“Oh right, sure, if I was with someone like you, who screws anything that moves, I'd calm down.”

“Why do you say that? What do you mean? Okay, you can borrow my phone. Just don't throw it at the wall, okay?”

She calls Eric. In fact, she'd prefer it if she got through to his voice mail and could say, “Too bad,” but he must be one of those people who think they have to be available all the time for any call.

He sounds happy, natural, and surprised in a nice way, he acts as if they were seeing each other every day.

“What about tonight, shall we dine together?”

Gloria cooks, goes home to eat, sometimes has a meal in a restaurant, but she doesn't usually “dine.” And the word makes her laugh, she feels suddenly as if she's in a French film.

“Okay, let's
dine.
So, where do people dine?”

“I'll meet you in Place Stanislas, in the Foy? Eight o'clock.”

She agrees to everything and realizes as she's talking that she's more drunk than she thought. And more impressed, which is really annoying.

After finishing the call, she drinks several black coffees—which are on the house the minute she says, “I'm
dining
with Eric tonight, so I'd better be in good shape.”

Jérémy bustles around her, “Try and come back here afterward, it's great business for the bar if a celeb comes in to have a drink. Do try to come over . . .”

She starts to wonder whether she really wants to do this or to chicken out. She goes back to Véro's place. As the alcohol loses its potency, the adolescent anguish of going on a date starts to kick in. Gloria isn't someone who normally has to overcome such anguish. She's been in infuriating situations, painful ones. Her life has few good points, except that she's used to it. She sees the same people all the time in more or less the same places. She knows them all by heart. She's rarely intimidated by a new situation. And not sure she likes it.

“
WHAT ARE YOU
thinking about?”

“That it's been twenty years. And I didn't imagine it this way.”

“How did you imagine it?”

“That I'd be punching you in the face, of course. I dreamed too often of breaking every bone in your body by throwing rocks, oh, many times, many times. Then after a bit, I stopped thinking about it anymore.”

He's drinking martinis, she thinks that's snobbish.

Everyone in the place is looking at him. He doesn't seem to notice. Gloria is shocked every time someone comes up to their table, interrupts them in midsentence, to say how much they admire him, ask for an autograph, or ask him why the time of the show's been changed. He replies, politely but distantly, he has a technique to get it over quickly.

She comments: “So now you belong to everybody.”

“It's the magic world of TV. I'm not complaining. But still, if you don't mind, I've booked us to have dinner at the restaurant in my hotel. It's very fancy, I'm warning you.
But we'd be in peace there for two seconds.”

“Oh, me, you know, long as they have fries.”

He hasn't changed that much physically. Tall, thin, he's kept that litheness of a young man, a supple, energetic animal. His hands are very white, well cared for, but enormous. They contradict the rest of his body, they seem as if inhabited by some surprising, worrying strength. He's acquired great authority, a calm authority that might be taken for charisma or virility, but it's pretty attractive whatever it is.

He seems sincerely moved. She's watching for the catch, the trick, the problem, what does this asshole want with her and how long is he going to go on looking at her with those silly big eyes? But she has a tendency to lower her guard, thinking he's just glad to see her, still finds her amusing, whatever she does. In that respect he hasn't changed perhaps. She only has to turn her head or open her mouth for him to burst out laughing, he's entertained and under her spell. That is still quite a pleasant feeling. But a bit surreal now.

He takes advantage of a couple of minutes when nobody has come to their table to talk about TV to lean toward her.

“And how
are
you? Well? How's your life, that sort of stuff?”

“Am I happy? No. I'm on benefits. Or when I have a job, it's minimum wage. It kind of makes life less pleasant, I can tell you. I've no regrets, if I could do it over again, I'd do the same, but no, I'm not happy. I'd
like
to have a car, I'd like to be able to go away on holiday, I'd like to buy a CD Walkman, and not have to line up at the post office on the first of the month, just to have enough to pay my phone bill.”

“Okay, I see, in material terms, things aren't so good, but what about the rest?”

“You don't get it, my friend. I'm on
benefits
. That affects all the rest. I'm in debt up to here, there isn't any ‘rest.' I'm dead broke, end of story.”

She wants him to feel guilty, to feel bad, as if he were indirectly responsible. On the other hand, she has no intention of telling him about the fiasco of her love life.

She turns the question back to him.

“And you? You're happy, I guess?”

“No. And please don't give me a lot of grief because I'm depressed although I'm loaded. That's just the way it is. I'm not in a good place. For some years now. And it doesn't get any better.”

“Oh I see, I was surprised you wanted to see me so much—but it's because you're depressed.”

“I wouldn't have put it quite that way. You think you're an expert at cheering people up?”

In his eyes, there's that same amused, playful light that she had completely forgotten. And which still touches her. She feels her throat constrict. A mother—the embodiment of trailer trash, a big blond, with masses of makeup, perching on high-soled trainers that Loana was wearing four years ago—comes into the bar with her two kids who are already heading for obese. The kids have lovely faces, big clear eyes, delightful smiles. The mother wants an autograph. Gloria thinks about making this the moment to make her getaway. She's beginning to feel moved, touched.
She doesn't want to feel this way. It would be inappropriate. And ridiculous.

“I often think about you, Blondie. I wonder how you're doing. I was so sad, you know, when you never replied to any of my letters, never called.”

“Memory failing you again? You should think yourself lucky I've even agreed to
dine
with someone who's on TV. I'd forgotten you called me Blondie.”

“Does that bother you too?”

“No, I like it.”

“
I'd
forgotten how aggressive you can be. It makes me laugh. I can relax when you get cross, I always used to, back in the day.”

“Ah well, don't worry, I'm still aggressive all right.”

“It's weird, you haven't changed a bit.”

“Stop kidding. I've put on weight, my skin's shot to pieces, I've lost one or two teeth, my fingers are yellow with nicotine, my hair'll soon start falling out. You must have got a weird picture of me fixed in your brain if you think I haven't changed.”

He looks hard at her, head to one side, agrees, and his big smile shows off his perfect teeth.

“You're right, Blondie, you're a realist. That must be why I want to fuck you so much.”

“You poor pervert. What brings you to Nancy anyway?”

Gloria has answered him quickly and leans against the back of the seat, lighting up while he explains how it works, making TV shows in provincial France. She listens, amused, relaxed, not fearful. At least that's how it looks on the surface. Inside, there's total panic and alarm. She heard perfectly well what he said. She's playing for as much time as possible.

The restaurant where he takes her impresses her and prompts a nervous burst of laughter. Between two hiccups, she manages to say, “I didn't know people were allowed to SET FOOT in here . . .”

“If it bores you, we can get room service.”

“No, it doesn't bore me at all. But it's strange. It feels like eating in a museum. Quite funny, really. Not ideal for your digestion, but funny as an experience . . .”

Then she collapses laughing again. Nothing in this place is normal, not the waiters, not the chandeliers, not the seats, the napkins, the glasses, the plates, the tablecloths . . . It's as if everything is labeled
refined
,
elegant
, so overpowering that it's stifling. She regains her composure, clears her throat, and has the distinct feeling that she's a woman from the backwoods lost in some remote palace.

Three waiters stand around their table. It's impossible to drain her glass without one of them hurrying to refill it. She leans toward Eric and whispers, “Are they going to stand behind us all night?”

He nods and remarks with a blasé expression, “They're not listening. Between ourselves, I don't think they could care less what we're talking about.”

She sits like Tony Montana in
Scarface
, back braced against the chair, thighs apart. She smiles.

“I daren't even drink the water in my glass. Understand? You're too used to it. Do they serve beer here?”

He doesn't take his eyes off her. He's acting as if he's an attentive suitor. It has been years since any man treated her this way. As if she were an enchanted creature. Strange, not
unpleasant, but somehow odd as an atmosphere. He's attracted to her, and it doesn't wear off. On the contrary, the more they relax, the more considerate, playful, drawn to her, and seductive he becomes.