“Did you tell your mother?” he asked her.
“I didn’t have to. She heard it in an editorial meeting, when they wanted to put Pascale on the cover of the September issue, along with an interview with you.”
“I told you, Nadia, I won’t give any interviews. I know I started this horrible mess, but I don’t want to make it any worse than it is.” It was too late to stop the tidal wave of press, but he didn’t want to contribute to it. He was still hoping she would forgive him one day. But he also knew that although Nadia had lived in France for half her life, and in many ways had become very French, at the root of it, she was American and so were her sisters, and the four women were extremely close. He felt sure they must be trying to convince her to divorce him. He couldn’t really blame them, given how it looked, but he was still hoping to stem the tides of disaster, although that didn’t look promising at the moment.
Nadia had retreated into her shell since the announcement of Pascale’s pregnancy, and was saying very little to him about her plans. They were living in a tenuous status quo at the moment, and he doubted it would hold for long. Just long enough, he hoped, for Pascale to have the baby, and for him to make some kind of arrangement or agreement with her, then return to the fold with his wife and daughters before their life burned to the ground. He knew it was a race against time as to how long Nadia would put up with the misery he was causing her. He was fully prepared to try to make it up to her for the rest of his life, but he didn’t know if she would let him, or if the damage was reparable for her. She wasn’t letting him near her, and avoided him when he came to the house, except when their daughters were in the room. Then she pretended to be friendly with him, although not affectionate, which they had always been before. Nadia was a warm, kind, gentle woman, and their relationship had been very close. He wondered now if it ever would be again, no matter what he did to make amends. She was a forgiving person, but he knew he was asking for the extreme. She was living with personal pain and public embarrassment of the worst sort for any woman, her husband openly involved with another woman and having a child with her. He himself cringed when he thought about it, as sanity returned.
Everything about their life had seemed so perfect until now. She always talked about how lucky they were to have such a good life. They lived in a beautiful apartment overlooking the Seine on the Quai Voltaire on the Left Bank, in the seventh arrondissement, with the spectacular monuments of Paris spread out before them like a movie set, and the Eiffel Tower visible from their terrace and sparkling on the hour. Nadia had decorated the apartment with her usual exquisite taste, with a combination of unusual modern pieces and family antiques Nicolas had inherited. It was a warm, comfortable home, and at the same time a showplace when they entertained. They and the children had been happy there.
Nadia had cut herself off from everyone they knew the minute his affair with Pascale hit the papers. She didn’t want to have to defend him, or share her pain. And he was lying low too. Suddenly, after living a full life before, they were living in a vacuum, with only the paparazzi for company. They had lost so much because of him. Knowing how close they were, he was sure she was talking to her sisters for support. Her mother’s visit was the first sign of it, and he dreaded seeing her. Rose could be glacial or brutally eloquent when she felt betrayed, and she was a lioness with her cubs. She was a remarkable businesswoman and opponent, but in her private life, she was a fierce advocate for her children, and loyal to all those she loved. She was old-fashioned and conservative in her values. He had crossed every possible line and he wasn’t looking forward to seeing her. He could guess what her reaction would be, deservedly. Pascale was in the South of France with friends for the weekend, and he had told her he wouldn’t go so he could see his children. He could still call her and say there had been a change of plans. He could catch a commuter flight to Nice at Orly late that night, since Nadia didn’t want him with her mother, and he was grateful to avoid her.
Despite the agonies between them, Nadia and Nicolas were still a beautiful couple to look at. She was petite, with dark hair, and fair English skin that she inherited from her mother, and her mother’s blue eyes. Nadia’s were darker blue, like sapphires. She was always elegantly dressed in a quiet way that he had been proud of. She looked more French than American by now, and had always felt at home there. She had fit right in, from the moment she arrived at the Sorbonne. Her sisters were more American in their style and points of view. Nadia had always been more European, and in a way more like her Italian grandmother, who was warm and funny. Nadia didn’t have her mother’s cool, restrained English demeanor, or her sisters’ more open, outspoken American style. She was very French in her manner and way of seeing things, after living there for sixteen years. She was also a woman of dignity who kept her sorrows private, and he had exposed her to public scrutiny in the worst possible circumstances.
In contrast, Nicolas was fair, with thick blond hair and a chiseled face. She had always loved his looks but couldn’t bear to see him now. He was taller than most French men, broad shouldered and athletic, and looked like a movie star himself. They made a striking couple and, if anything, they had gotten even more attractive in the eleven years they had been married. In a subtle, quiet, distinguished way, Nadia wasn’t obvious or showy, like Pascale, who had dazzled him at first, blinded by her beauty and overt sexiness. Nadia was beautiful too, and infinitely smarter.
His success as a novelist had delighted Nadia, and she had been proud of him. He gave her all his manuscripts to read while they were in progress. She gave him helpful suggestions, which he followed most of the time. And now, in his own disarray, he couldn’t write a single sentence. He was too upset about both women to think about writing or anything else.
Her own decorating business had flourished, with projects in progress all over Europe. She was trying to keep it all going now and avoided discussing the scandal of his affair with her clients.
It was even more painful since they had talked about having a third baby for the last year or two, but decided they wanted to wait another year or so, hoping they’d be a little less busy. And now Nicolas was having his third child with someone else. It was another blow, which went straight to Nadia’s heart.
Their values had always been the same, or she had thought so, although he was more forgiving of his friends’ infidelities than she was. She always said it was a disgusting thing to do, and death to a marriage, and she told her women friends the same when they confessed their indiscretions to her. It was the one thing she didn’t like about French life, and she was outspoken about it. Now it had happened to her, and she either had to eat her words and tolerate it, or leave him and divorce him, American style. She was torn between her two cultures, and most ravaging of all was how much she loved him and wanted to turn the clock back to before it had happened. She couldn’t see how their marriage could ever be the same after this.
“Does everybody know?” Nicolas asked her miserably before he left the apartment. He always made a point of not looking at the tabloids.