The Book of Wonders Read online

  Ten minutes later, we walked into the meeting room. Thirty or so people were sitting around the table, looking earnest. We’re talking cosmetics, after all, which is a very serious subject. In this sort of meeting, there’s a bunch of dummies who pretend to be listening, but sit there checking their emails on their laptops, or shopping online. They never say a word, but always agree with the big boss, nodding every time he opens his mouth. When a woman is doing the presentation, she’s expected to wear a short skirt and high heels, to be made up with all the company’s products: Billion Lashes mascara, Ultra-red lipstick, Vintage Chic eye shadow, New York Fun limited-edition fuchsia nail varnish. At the very least.

  Mr Head Honcho likes ridiculing the consumers, whom he condescendingly refers to as the ‘little wifeys’; the models in the Hégémonie ads, whom he compares to poultry, demanding we fire them at the first sign of ageing; the factory workers who don’t give a fuck, those on the minimum wage, who ought to think themselves lucky to have a job and who could easily be replaced by migrant workers who are happy to live on one euro a day; and the female marketing directors, whose language is peppered with English to disguise the hollowness of their recommendations. Mr Head Honcho’s a hoot. And the room’s in stitches, of course.

  I launch into my presentation and quickly notice that our boss isn’t listening. He’s tapping on his iPhone with a lewd smile. I can easily imagine the kind of content he’s watching. I decide to stop. The damned presentation that I’d worked on all night is for the benefit of him and him alone. If he’s not listening, there’s no point going on. People clear their throats and glance up at me, wondering what I’m playing at. The rule is that, whatever the attitude of the sovereign, the show must go on.

  The C.E.O. looks up at me, my silence having grown deafening, and examines me for a moment. Gobsmacked, he sits up and puts his smartphone down on the table.

  ‘Well, Thelma, sweetheart, what’s going on?’

  ‘This presentation is for your benefit, and you’re not listening. So I stopped to give you time to deal with your urgent matter.’

  ‘The executive board is here in the room, as well as twenty of the company’s most senior managers. This presentation is not only for me, and I don’t like your tone. Continue.’

  I hesitate. I look at my feet. I must remain unshaken. Take it on the chin, without batting an eyelid. But sod it.

  ‘Which of you gentlemen could sum up the beginning of my presentation?’

  Renewed interest among the audience. Sardonic smiles. Frightened looks.

  ‘What are you playing at, Thelma, sweetheart?’

  ‘I am not your sweetheart. Fine. Let’s continue.’

  I pick up from where I left off, but am conscious that he is plotting something. He interrupts me mid-sentence.

  ‘No, we’re not going to continue. Your presentation isn’t ready; it’s amateurish. Come back and see me when you’ve reworked it. I thought I knew what kind of woman you were, Thelma, sweetheart, and that pleased me greatly. Do you have any children, Thelma?’

  A vision. Incongruous, unexpected in this work environment. Louis. The lorry. The hospital. Quick, banish those images.

  ‘I have a son, sir, but I don’t see the connection. What kind of woman am I, in your view? And, at the risk of repeating myself, I am not your sweetheart.’

  ‘You’re the sort to put your career before everything else, the sort who’ll do anything to climb the ladder, if you get my drift. And that’s very good; no one here is complaining.’

  Lascivious smile, again. Sniggering around the room. I see myself walking beside the Saint-Martin canal. It’s 10:31. Louis is trying to talk to me. I’m on the phone. I put my career before everything else. This man is right. I feel a mounting nausea. And tears. He goes on.

  ‘I have a horror of those women who do fuck all with their time, unless they buy my products, of course. I thought you were different, that you were devoted to this company, body and soul. I was mistaken. Perhaps you should have spent a little less time mothering and a little more time on this presentation. This meeting is over, Thelma, dear.’

  He gets up. I feel a blind anger rumbling inside me.

  Mothering. I picture myself at Louis’s bedside, the previous day. Mothering my damaged teenager. Trying desperately to make myself useful to him. Trying to hide my grief, then abandoning that hopeless pretence. I see myself with Louis on his first day at school. Mothering my little boy. Slipping a bar of his favourite chocolate into his school bag, with a little drawing of a red heart to comfort him and tell him that I’m there, at his side, always. I see myself cradling Louis in the maternity ward. Mothering my baby. Alone. Feeling like a bad mother because I can’t breastfeed him properly. My breasts are painful, but I can’t do it. Louis loses weight, I’m advised to bottle-feed him, but I persevere. I don’t give up. Two days later, Louis begins to feed and I start to cry. Mothering – don’t talk to me about mothering.

  This bastard has no idea what he’s saying. I walk over to him and I do what I should have done a long time ago. What all the women in the company should have done a long time ago. I plant myself in front of the dictator, blocking his path, and I slap him as hard as I can.

  A Slap with a capital S.

  The ultimate slap.

  The super-slap.

  The mother of all slaps.

  It’ll cost me dearly. I’ll be fired, I know. But what a buzz! What an amazing feeling. The chief tosser stares at me, speechless. He raises his hand to his cheek, then smiles at me and says, to no one in particular:

  ‘Fire her now!’

  I reply, quite simply:

  ‘It’ll be a pleasure, sir.’

  I leave the room in a state I’ve never experienced before. I think I’m about to burst into tears. Instead, I burst out laughing.

  5

  Let My Heart Give Up

  I had failed. My second goal was totally screwed. One thing was now certain: I would not be carrying on my career as before. I thought I’d be feeling really bad, but, from the next day, my shoulders were lighter and I was able to spend entire days at Louis’s bedside. I told him about my performance, the way I’d put that vile pig of a C.E.O. in his place. I really went to town, acting out the scene, making the nurses laugh – especially Sophie Davant, who whispered confidentially that there was a lot to be done on that front in the hospital too, that the place was full of misogynists and that hearing my story gave fresh hope to all the women, humiliated daily, in that testosterone-fuelled environment. I wanted to tell my mother all about the incident, and, for the first time in years, I reckoned she’d be proud of me. But I quickly stifled that notion. I had no wish to see her rock up in my life; she was persona non grata. I’d given her permission to visit Louis, but had carefully avoided running into her. I decided we’d take turns to sit with him.

  Louis was still unresponsive. I wanted to let him know that I wouldn’t be defeated, and tried to brighten up his days as much as possible. The doctors had been clear: it was very unlikely that he could hear anything, but there was a tiny chance, so I clung to that and wanted to show him that his mother was fighting, that his mother hadn’t given up.

  When I got home in the evenings, anxious to wind down, I’d sink into a profound despair. Then I’d allow myself to cry, a glass of red wine in hand, followed by another, and then the entire bottle. I felt better afterwards, drifting in a state of reverie. In my recurrent daydream, Louis manages to stop in time on that damned kerb, and he turns around and begins to laugh, making a skateboarder’s signal, meaning, All good, Mum. We laugh together and set off again in the direction of the Gare de l’Est, arm in arm. In the morning, in real life, I’d wake up with a hangover, gulp down a couple of paracetamols with my coffee, ignore the phone messages and emails from my mother, and leave for the hospital.

  *

  Three days after the momentous slap, brandishing my letter of dismissal for serious professional misconduct, I went to see a lawyer and told him what ha
d happened. He pulled a face, implying that I was in big trouble . . . until I revealed the trump cards I’d been carefully keeping up my sleeve: fifteen years of excellent and loyal service at Hégémonie, glowing appraisals, dozens of clandestine audio recordings of everyday sexism in the company, and – an unhoped-for extra – the spontaneous sympathetic email from one of the few women who had been at that fateful meeting, saying she’d be prepared to testify in my favour, on condition of anonymity.

  My lawyer’s face brightened. I’d done a good job, my case was cast iron: never would a group like Hégémonie, whose business relied entirely on the trust of women all over the world, run the risk of a sexual-harassment scandal that could cost them a boycott, tens of millions of euros in losses and a major P.R. crisis. He would start negotiations with them that would see me financially secure for many years to come. In his view, I could easily obtain some half a million euros or more, but we could aim higher by putting the frighteners on the great behemoth.

  And so the recording of one of the commander-in-chief’s favourite jokes was sent to Hégémonie’s lawyers. Mic on, the scene begins. The marketing team is presenting a new ad featuring Jennifer Preston-Conwell, triple Oscar winner, with some thirty million social-media followers. Mr Head Honcho unceremoniously interrupts the speaker.

  ‘Your Jennifer’s beginning to age. She’s costing us a fortune in photoshopping. She needs liposuction, if you ask me.’

  Pause. Palpable embarrassment. Silence. Mr Head Honcho begins to laugh.

  ‘And how can she have such tiny tits and such a fat arse? Inflate her breasts, shave off her arse; it’ll be OK for this time, but, after that, find a new muse. Otherwise sales of our body-care products will plummet, and you’ll go down with them.’

  ‘Bingo,’ crowed my lawyer, his eyes gleaming with mercenary tears.

  *

  On the ninth day, the medical team decided to halt Louis’s treatment. The infections were cured, the bruising reduced. I wanted to believe that Louis was making progress, but the doctors continued to say that his true level of consciousness needed to be assessed now that he was no longer being maintained in an artificial coma. It was now that we would find out whether Louis was showing signs of awareness. How long would it take to know this? In two days’ time, we would have a good idea of the situation. Patience. Be brave.

  *

  I got through that unbearable two-day wait, but I kept bursting into tears at the slightest provocation. Everything reminded me of Louis. Of his absence. Of missing him. The woman in the bakery said hello, and I welled up at the sight of the macaroons I usually bought for my son. I’d switch on the radio, but couldn’t bear all those hip songs that only made the painful silence of my apartment even more poignant. I’d walk in the street and nearly pass out each time I saw a skateboard. I had to sit down on a bench to get my breath back the minute I spotted a lorry. My life was a series of ordeals which I’d never be able to overcome.

  My headache grew more searing each day. I’d upped the dose from one bottle of wine to two. The hospital staff weren’t blind. They sent their most brilliant representative to see me, in the person of Sophie Davant. They knew she was my favourite, my raw nerve. She talked to me with the utmost gentleness, pushing me to react, giving me the details of a psychiatrist I should go and see without delay; I had a problem; it was pretty standard in my circumstances and it wasn’t too late. ‘Promise me you’ll give him a call.’ Yes, I promise, Sophie.

  I didn’t phone him. I took refuge in silence. I felt wrung out. My lawyer told me that Hégémonie had already raised the bid, that we were close to one million euros. He sounded jubilant, but this news gave me no joy. It was just a piece of information, like any other.

  Those few days forced me to open my eyes to the grim reality of my life. Outside my job and my son, I had nothing. I was nothing. My love life was as flimsy as cigarette paper; I hadn’t had sex for two whole years.

  Even so, I had been all right before. Above average. Slim, five foot six, an intense face with hazel eyes and thick, sensual, well-shaped eyebrows, which I’d always refused to pluck and which emphasized my large eyes. Flaming chestnut hair – that’s the adjective my hair stylist used to console me about my unruly mop. I often wore it up, with a pencil stuck through it. I loved the gesture of lifting my thick mass of hair, twisting it and exposing the nape of my neck, letting my skin thrill to the touch – and sometimes enchant, reminding me of my youth.

  I’d created a profile on several dating sites, offering my neck, eyebrows and straggly chignon to the eyes of the world. I’d ticked the box saying I was open to one-night stands and had been swamped with offers. Married men, mostly. That had convinced me of the inadequacy of the male sex.

  The only real relationship I’ve ever had was with Louis’s biological father. A love affair that lasted nearly two years. But an impossible relationship. He doesn’t know he’s a father. I’ve never tried to find out what became of him. Louis has asked me countless times about his dad, my mother has asked me countless times about Louis’s father. She’s come close to guessing, but I have always refused to say any more. I preferred a simple, exclusive mother–son relationship to an impossible triangle. I chose the broken family rather than the blended-family option.

  *

  On the evening of the eleventh day, I was called into the family room by the senior consultant. Alexandre Beaugrand was aptly named; he was the hospital heart-throb, with his carefully combed, on-trend haircut and killer smile. In other circumstances, I’d have welcomed a tête-à-tête with him. But his expression was grave. And we were in a room whose decor was too garish. To be honest, I was terrified. I sat down, unable to speak, staring at the floor, my arms folded, biting my lip, fists clenched. Everything inside me had shut down.

  Then the doctor explained. Slowly. Choosing his words judiciously. My world fell apart completely. Louis was showing no signs of consciousness. The medical team was very concerned. I’m no longer sure of his exact words. Louis was in what is called a vegetative state. What did that mean, precisely? That he was breathing, that some reflexes were working, that the electroencephalograms showed signs of brain activity. Be clear, for fuck’s sake! I started to lose my cool. He kept his. He must be used to dealing with parents at breaking point. What he meant was that the graph wasn’t flat, so they couldn’t declare him brain-dead, but they had observed a sort of anarchic background noise, which meant that Louis’s neurons showed a totally illogical activity. His condition was still life-threatening. We were going to have to carry on waiting.

  That was when I screamed, I think. Or was it when he said the word I’d been refusing to say to myself for eleven days? Dead. Louis could die. I asked how much longer we’d have to wait until we knew. He was loath to reply. I repeated the question once, and then again, raising my voice each time. My breathing was irregular, I was crying, I ran my hands over my face, through my hair, repeating tirelessly that it wasn’t possible. I was going mad. Alexandre Beaugrand kept saying, ‘I’m very sorry, madame, I can’t answer that.’ I demanded that he reply, he couldn’t leave me like that, he must have an idea of how long it would be until they knew. They would have to monitor the progress of his body and, most importantly, his brain, day by day. Each time there was a new development, they would be able to reassess his condition. Yes, but what if there were no new developments? If nothing happens, after how long will you decide that there’s no hope? Answer me, for fuck’s sake! Answer me, I beg you, I need to know. I need to find out.

  I found out. I sat down. My heart in pieces. Alexandre Beaugrand placed his hand on my shoulder. I wasn’t able to cry. One month. In one month, if there was no change in Louis’s condition, the doctors would discuss whether they should continue treating him and might come to the conclusion that they should stop keeping my son artificially alive. If, in a month’s time, they felt there was no hope of neurological recovery, they would decide not to subject him to further suffering, not to pursue an unreasonable and un
justifiable course. Then they would turn off the machines. One month. One long month. One tiny month. But we weren’t at that point yet. Be brave. Patience. I thanked him, and he asked me once again if I’d be all right, and I replied, ‘Yes, of course.’

  *

  I left the hospital in a daze. I distinctly heard a whistle recognizable among hundreds. A cowboy whistle, the dry whistle of the shepherd calling his dogs, a whistle that I’ve always loathed. I turned around and saw her standing there, one fist on her hip, her expression hard. My mother. That was the last thing I needed. Not tonight. Especially not tonight.

  I pretended not to see her and walked faster. She whistled a dozen more times, as if I were a common dog. I hailed a taxi with tinted windows and dived in. I saw her running towards me, gesticulating madly (my mother’s just turned sixty and is fighting fit). I didn’t know where to go, but I didn’t want to go home. I gave the driver the address of a restaurant. On the spur of the moment, I’d decided to celebrate my son’s final month at a Michelin-starred eatery. I’ll gloss over that evening, during which, for the first time in my life, a waiter refused to serve me. When I ordered my third bottle of exorbitantly priced wine, I was politely asked to pay my bill and leave. I took it very badly. My memories are a bit hazy, but I think I had to be escorted off the premises and ended up having the meal for free – get that inebriated woman out of here without trying to make her pay, rather than cause a scandal in those hushed surroundings.

  I had trouble finding a taxi to take me home. Several stopped but said no when they saw the state I was in. A knight in shining armour, answering to the name of Mamadou, drove me home and deposited me in front of the entrance to my building.