Under the Channel. Gilles Pétel

it was, a well-cut black pair. They would have gone well with the black top which she had taken back out of the cupboard for another look. But no, she really couldn’t. The question of shoes was solved on the spot. Espadrilles. Sporty, elegant and relaxed, all at once. Perfect for the occasion. Juliette would never have dreamed of wearing heels. She didn’t need the added height since she was already six foot tall, plus she thought stilettos looked common. So now for the top half. A black shirt didn’t work with black jeans; a T-shirt, yes, a shirt, no. It was too much. Too prim and proper. She wasn’t sure why but she knew instinctively it would make her look frumpy. The blue one was a no-no too. Juliette suspected that Roland would be wearing the blue shirt she had bought him. Yet she wasn’t exactly spoilt for choice. The rail was hung with a sad selection of shirts and skirts she never wore. She didn’t have much of a wardrobe. Thanks to her job, she had gradually come to wear pretty much the same thing all the time: low-key, functional outfits. Juliette rarely wore make-up. Age had begun to make her care less about looking good. Her husband’s disinterest had done the rest. Tonight, she felt newly aware of her own femininity. She was grateful to Roland for that. Being asked out for dinner at a smart restaurant forced her to learn the art of seduction again, like being sent back to school. The next minute she felt a pang of resentment for the fact he had taken so long about it. She wasn’t sure she wanted to be a schoolgirl again. ‘What game are we playing with one another?’ she asked herself. She didn’t have the answer. This red silk blouse was the one. She had bought it on a whim a year earlier at Bon Marché, when she had been in the mood for an impulsive purchase. She had never worn it. Too red, too showy. Maybe tonight was the night to stand out. Juliette wanted to be looked at. Her brown hair, almost as long now as it had been when they met, was tumbling in an artful mess over her shiny blouse when Roland found her talking to the babysitter in the living room. He couldn’t help but think to himself that Juliette had not so much got dressed as got into costume. ‘We shall go to the ball,’ he said to himself. Juliette had caught the look of surprise on her husband’s face and been seized with doubt, but brushed the feeling aside. The blue shirt. ‘I knew it,’ she told herself, examining Roland in turn.

      Desfeuillères had come home from the station early, leaving his new deputy, Sub-lieutenant Bouallem, in charge. Originally from Marseilles, Samy Bouallem had been transferred to Paris in early summer. Having just turned thirty-five, he was younger than his boss, and had his sights set on moving up the ranks. Dynamic as well as thorough, he had very quickly become invaluable to Desfeuillères. The two men got on well and often had lunch together.

      Roland therefore had no qualms at all about leaving work a bit before time. He had to pick something up before going home, something important. It was a purchase he had been contemplating for some time, ever since two of his colleagues had put the idea in his head. One had told him it was fashionable, the other that everybody had one. Despite having hit forty, the lieutenant wasn’t all that worldly wise. He had only ever been with one woman, and had never been tempted to cheat on Juliette. As their sex life had dwindled both in frequency and quality, Juliette had on more than one occasion faked an orgasm; her husband had not been fooled. Roland had 1) told himself these things happen over time; 2) wondered if a dip in your sex life could break up a marriage; 3) decided to be more attentive to his wife. This simple chain of thoughts had taken a good few weeks to formulate. The events of the previous weekend had persuaded him to bring forward his plan. Lying awake in the middle of the night, he had put his thoughts in order: 1) time, 2) sexuality, 3) desire. Or was it 1) sex, 2) the years passing? No, he told himself as his eyelids grew steadily heavier, no one fucks the same way at forty as they did at eighteen. So time came top. Having to endure his colleagues’ teasing had allowed him to see his relationship troubles in perspective.

      ‘You need to win her back,’ said one. ‘Surprise her,’ added another.

      The problem, as is so often the case, lay in deciding how to go about it. A dirty weekend just wasn’t going to cut it.

      ‘Too easy, too obvious,’ threw in the younger of his colleagues. ‘Teenage tactics,’ the other mocked.

      Desfeuillères sat in uncomfortable silence.

      ‘You know what you have to do…’

      The lieutenant normally did his best to avoid this kind of conversation, but the fear of losing Juliette had weakened his defences. We often tell ourselves (only to take it back straight afterwards) that we can learn from others, that deep down we’re all bogged down in the same issues, the same miserable existence that catches us all in the end. So, what are you going to do about it?

      As he left the station, Roland had been on the brink of telling his sub-lieutenant the reason behind his rush, but thought better of it. In spite of Samy’s warm and friendly manner, there was sometimes an austere expression on his face which suggested a puritanical streak. Best not to say anything. He was still young. Having arrived outside the sex shop, Roland dived in like a thief afraid of being caught in the act.

      He and Juliette were now sitting face to face across the table. Elegantly laid though it was, with damask tablecloth and napkins, porcelain dishes, crystal glasses and silver candlesticks, its location was awful. Juliette and Roland had been seated at the back of the restaurant, close to the toilets.

      ‘How lovely,’ remarked Juliette, who immediately asked to move to another table.

      The waiter, a young Asian man with a curious manner, waved his hand at the packed dining room by way of response before scarpering, leaving their menus on the table in front of them. Roland suggested ordering a glass of champagne, a notion immediately shot down by Juliette. She felt ridiculous in her red silk blouse. Walking into the restaurant, she had glanced around at what the other women were wearing; it didn’t take long to realise scarlet was out of fashion. Everyone was in pink. When the waiter showed them to their outlying table, Juliette told herself it was no wonder they were putting her in the corner. ‘I look like a peasant in my Sunday best,’ she thought. A glass of champagne would have been the icing on the cake. They might as well be living in the provinces. Juliette belonged to a family of boho Belleville artisans. Roland was from Brittany. He had grown up in the town of Lorient, a fact she could not resist reminding him of.

      ‘This is just like one of those Relais & Châteaux places in your village.’

      ‘It’s not in the bag yet,’ thought Roland, choosing to remain silent. Playing the smooth cop, he waved authoritatively at the waiter, who hurried over.

      ‘I’ll have a whisky. What do you want?’ he asked, staring hard at his wife.

      ‘The same,’ she told the waiter.

      ‘One–nil,’ thought the lieutenant. He felt relaxed. He was comfortable in his sailor kit. It hadn’t crossed his mind to even glimpse at what anyone else was wearing. Like all headstrong people, Roland saw everything he started right through to the end. This pig-headedness could sometimes evolve into self-delusion, and from there to catastrophe. Tonight he was heading for disaster. As far as Juliette was concerned, the night was hanging in the balance. She was waiting, though for what, she wasn’t sure. A stroke of magic, probably; a miracle, in other words. ‘Is he going to get a handle on this?’ she asked herself as she peered over her menu at her husband, who was making a show of studying his. ‘I’ll hand it to him, he came back well on the whisky. But now what?’

      By the time the waiter delivered the coffees, Juliette was beginning to enjoy herself. She and Roland had both ordered the chef’s special, the Oriental-style pigeon. They had drunk an excellent Pommard which had started to go to their heads. Several times during the night, between the starter and main course and again between the pigeon and dessert, Roland had stroked his wife’s hand. As they moved on to the final dish, an orange soufflé accompanied by a glass of syrupy dessert wine, the ice was finally broken. From the whisky right up until the theatrical arrival of the soufflé, the talk had been strained and excessively polite. Each of them knew that the occasion demanded a certain level of conversation, a turn of phrase in line with the glamorous setting: ideas and feelings in the Relais & Châteaux mould. Yet it also struck both of them that they had no more to say to one another here than they did eating together at home.

      It was the celebratory feel and