‘Oui, he switched her out with a fully paid-up member of the glitterati. I only hope that Ceecee’s family will delve into his past and see he’s a gold-digging, money-grabbing social climber.’
Unlike stupid me, who didn’t put two and two together. There I’d been doing book launches all over Paris, my name up on billboards, when he happened along. I’d been so sure it was a chance meeting of two souls. Not the calculations of a con man.
‘Who told you about this?’ Why does part of me feel bad for my former housekeeper Helga, for crying out loud? I should have no sympathy, and yet I do, because I know just how charming that silver-tongued devil can be. While she did the wrong thing, my anger is directed solely at him, the person I exchanged wedding rings with.
‘I read all about the new woman on his Facebook account. The guy is an over sharer of the finest order.’
Betrayal hits me square in the gut. ‘You’re still friends with him on Facebook?’ I outlawed such a thing when we broke up. Demanded every family member block him in solidarity with me.
She snickers. ‘Under a fake name to keep tabs on the slimy weasel.’
I slap my forehead. ‘Manon! I bet you’ve toyed with him too for your own amusement.’
‘Oui. I catfished the hell out of him, had the fool running all over Paris to meet his date “Lola”. Andquellesurprise, she hadone disaster after another and didn’t turn up.’ She lets out an evil cackle.
I bite down on my lip to stem laughter because I really shouldn’t encourage Manon. Next minute she’ll make a hundred fake profiles and make it her mission to ruin his dating life. ‘You shouldn’t engage with him; he’ll find out it’s you and then I’ll never hear the end of it.’
The grin she slides my way is a cunning one. ‘He’ll never find out. Firstly, he’s as dumb as a broom, and secondly, I always use a VPN to hide my IP address. He’s not the only person on my hit list, you know.’
Merde!Manon’s probably got a revenge list taped to the underside of her laptop. It wouldn’t surprise me. Still, she doesn’t need to fight my battles.
I sigh. ‘He has the IQ of an oyster.’
‘That’s being unkind to oysters.’
I give her a watery smile. ‘Even if it kills me, which I’m certain is on the cards after the near-miss from above, I will get through this.’ Francois-Xavier probably loosened the bolts on the L’Hotel du Parcsign and hoped for the best. Another worrying thought flutters through my mind and I gasp. ‘I have to change my will! He’s still the beneficiary. That’s just what I need, me to be crushed to death and him to inherit the piddly amount I’ve got left. I’d have to figure out how to haunt him from the afterlife.’
‘Are you suggesting…?’ Her face twists with awe. Only Manon could get excited about a possible murder plot even if the intended victim is me, her favourite cousin. What can I say? She’s got a grisly bloodlust side to her.
I tut. All I seem to do is cry, sigh or tut these days. ‘I’m suggesting no such thing. Francois-Xavier wouldn’t risk climbing on a roof in case he fell and disfigured his face.’ The man is vain, no two ways about it. Originally, I’d thought it wasa good thing, a man who put self-care as a priority, but I clearly had my rose-tinted glasses on. Now I see my ex is just a vapid attention seeker with wandering eyes.
‘True, but I would have relaunched the podcast for that. Do a deep dive into your marriage and his web of lies and call itPlot Twist: The End of the Story. Ooh la la, as much as I love you, doesn’t that soundenticing, what with you being an author?’
I frown. It should be no surprise that Manon is a true crime aficionado and once had a podcast where she investigated cases. Like almost everything with Manon, she grew bored and let it slip away even though she was doing well, helping families shine a light on cold cases. To me, it seemed gruesome, combing over case files featuring the worst of humanity, but none of that bothered Manon; she only wanted to help catch the bad guys.
We’re as different as can be, but those differences are why we’ve always been close. I’m more measured, while Manon is spontaneous. She will blurt out every thought that flutters through her mind, appropriate or not, while I’ll consider how every word will land. I’m her safe space when the world comes crashing down, or so I thought. Right now, she’s that person for me. Who knew that I’d need to find solace such as this from my wayward cousin?
Light rain begins to fall as I push my hands deeper into my coat. ‘I’ll turn this relic into a vibrant hotel catering to festive holiday makers visiting for Christmas all while penning my novel:How to Kill Your Husband and Where to Dump the Body.’
OK, that might be the anger talking. I write heart-warming romantic comedies, but that’s off for the foreseeable future, because I’m not exactly feeling lovey-dovey these days. Each draft of my new book devolves into a massacre – often a scorned wife who exacts revenge on her traitorous spouse and bludgeons him to death. Huh, maybe I’m more like my cousin than I firstthought. But there’s simply no way my British literary agent Margaret will let that sort of thing slide. Writingiscathartic though, so I figure bashing out murder-y plots will help me heal, even if all I do is send them all to the recycle bin. That’s what I tell myself anyway…
Perhaps I need to pivot into the feminist serial killer genre, where I can gleefully dismember cheating men a hundred at a time? The tears start again in earnest. Honestly, what is happening to me? I’m not usually such an emotional blubberingmess.
‘This feels like pep-talk time,’ Manon says, giving me one of her long looks that implies she’s uncomfortable with my constant outbursts. Manon is a straightforward sarcastic type who finds feelings difficult to translate and even harder to understand, so my constant state of flux is probably grating on her. I’ve never been able to have those sorts of intense, deep and meaningful conversations with Manon, because she’s unable to hide her complete lack of disinterest and just cannot relate. She’s always curious why I get so hung up on discussing the minutiae of life and love, and frequently tells me it’s an enormous waste of time worrying over such trivialities.
Even now, with my disaster of a marriage behind me, she treats it as a simple mistake that’s not worth dwelling on. But I just can’t help but hold on to the pain. The humiliation. I’m hoping Manon’s no-nonsense approach will eventually rub off on me though, and I’ll be able to let go and move forward with my life.
‘Francois-Xavierwillget sunburned and wrinkle like a prune in the tropical heat. He’ll dehydrate and prematurely age. Long, coarse white hairs will grow out of his ears and possibly his nose from excessive sun exposure. The future looksbleakfor the runaway husband.’
I have no words.
As the Parisian temperature drops, Manon shuffles on her feet and continues her so-called pep-talk. ‘From the get-go weknewhe was bad news, but would you listen, Anais?Non.’ Almost every family member, from the coast of Britain to the south of France, put in their two cents, telling me he wasn’t genuine, he was playing a part. I’d brushed their negativity off, figuring they’d all gone a little mad. They couldn’t see what we had. They were swept up in the whispers that were passed along the family grapevine. I’m not usually spontaneous, that’s Manon’s department, so they were taken aback that my relationship and subsequent marriage happened so fast.
I choke back sobs. ‘Love is blind.’
‘And hard of hearing.’
She’s right. I didn’t heed any of their warnings. I was love-struck, in a daze, hypnotised by this man who seemed too good to be true. Spoiler alert: he was.
