Apocalypse Baby by Virginie Despentes Page B

her life and would be capable of going forward alone, without her parents’ support. She had everything she wanted. A husband, two daughters, a very nice apartment. She’d spent ages studying interior design magazines, so that within the limits of their budget, their flat would look stylish. So that Christophe would be proud to invite his colleagues back, and be happy himself to return home in the evenings. She had thought how grateful she was for what life had given her in the nine years with him, every time she found herself chatting to a friend whose husband was unfaithful, or having problems with his career,or being difficult to live with. She had thought how grateful she was, every time she met former schoolfriends who still had no children and thought they could fill their lives with something else. As if you could do without that kind of love and not miss out on what life was all about. In return, she tried her best to take care of everything properly, writing herself long to-do lists that she never completely dealt with. She saw to all the family medical appointments, sorted out clothes for the different seasons, organized their holidays, supervised the children’s homework, thought of interesting activities for them, had plates that matched the tablecloth, found a good dentist, arranged fun birthday parties, paid the bills, drove the children to the swimming pool, bought new shirts for her husband before the old ones wore out, recruited a cleaning woman, located the best car insurance. She had never imagined that Christophe would underestimate the happiness they enjoyed, and his good fortune in having a wife like her at home. A wife who would help his children grow up, who wasn’t a big spender, who was always cheerful and took care of everything without complaint.
    One Friday evening, he had rung up at eight o’clock to warn her he had to work over the whole weekend and wouldn’t be home. Mathilde was watching
Buffy the Vampire Slayer
on television and the little one was in the bath surrounded by Barbie dolls. A lump had suddenly formed in Claire’s throat. The previous times, no doubts had occurred to her, but a list had been building up, in her reason’s blind spot, of all the occasions recently when he had got home at two in the morning, of the conferences in the provinces, and of the meetings at weekends. And that evening, despite herunwillingness to understand, the pieces had come together. There’d been a lot of absences recently. He didn’t call home all weekend and on the Monday night when he got in, he wasn’t his usual self. Claire had started talking, an unconscious mechanism. Her mouth opened and words spilled out endlessly, because she sensed that as soon as she paused, he’d say what he had to say. It had worked before, she knew that without admitting it to herself. She just had to play for time for him to give up trying and say nothing. But that evening, almost as soon as the girls were in bed, he’d interrupted her. ‘I’ve met someone, another woman. And I’m moving out.’ It was ridiculous. She wanted to wipe out the words. It was a cliché. It couldn’t happen to them, it wasn’t
like
them. Before believing he was capable of leaving her, she was angry with him for saying the words. Their love would never again be intact. It would take her a few more years to admit that he had not said something he would later regret. Her great perfect love, he’d smashed it to pieces. And then, rapidly, she’d lost everything.
    Her mother’s pained tone when she telephoned, and the awful feeling that apart from her, everyone else had suspected it. The humiliating pity of other people. The ten years when she had been convinced that everyone she met was impressed by her happy marriage. And perhaps even jealous, since many people were unlucky in love, or had no children, or had to bring them up as single parents. Having to endure