No use crying

The date had started off so well. I had knocked back a rushed gin and tonic before reapplying my lipstick and running out the door. I arrived 10 minutes late, saying very cutely that I had got lost on the way (which wasn’t a complete lie - the winding streets surrounding the Sacré Coeur in Montmartre resembled a tangled ball of wool). We quickly established that we would speak French (even though his English was excellent); après tout, on est à Paris, non? We walked up the steep steps that led to the foot of the cathedral, and I tried not to pant as I cursed the rollie I had smoked out the window while doing my makeup.

He ordered 2 bières pression, and we wandered over to find a spot to sit on the grass in front of the Sacré Coeur. The view of Paris was outstanding, but I feigned nonchalance, as if I regularly went for pints with ridiculously attractive French men at twilight, overlooking the most beautiful city in the world. We took our masks off, and my stomach lurched as I got a proper look at his face. The pictures on his dating profile didn’t do him justice: he had a tanned, chiseled face with full lips and a careless smattering of stubble. His prominent brow cast a shadow over his eyes which were dark and intense. The word “smouldering” came to mind, unbidden, and I brushed it away. Pull it together, Lucy. I cleared my throat and attempted to resume my cool girl act.

He asked in a distinctly disinterested manner what I did for a living, and I explained how I had become a chef, skipping over the more boring details, and emphasising the spontaneity of my career path. He seemed vaguely interested in the life of a chef, and I played up the parts that I thought would be impressive: the shouting, the cuts and burns, the drugs and smoking; making it clear that I was unfazed by all of this, because of how chill I was. Like, ouais, une fois an angry head chef grabbed me by the throat because I messed up a grill order, but tu sais, occupational hazard. And yeah, a couple of weeks ago, somebody spilled boiling oil on my forearm, main bon (shrugging), what are you gonna do about it?

He was a DJ, recording and producing French rap and electronic music, which I pretended to be mildly surprised about, even though the previous morning, I had followed the link on his Instagram bio and listened to his entire first EP and latest single. His music was moody and obscure, but well-produced (apparently in a studio that he owned in the Tour Montparnasse). Conversation was surprisingly easy, given how nervous I was and how little we had in common: he was of Moroccan origin, had lived in Paris his whole life, was wearing a Cartier ring on his left thumb. I was fresh off the plane from Ireland, working as a chef and sleeping on my sister’s couch; freckled and naive.

I was painfully aware of how I was coming across, and made sure to sit with him on my left, so he was looking at my good side (with the nose ring). The beer helped my French flow more fluently, and before long, I was enjoying the date, adding layers to my carefree guise. With some embellishment, my last breakup (which had, in fact, ended on mutual terms) became a messy situation whereby I had broken his heart and left to pursue a career as a chef. Bah, t’es un peu femme fatale alors, he said with a glint in his eye, and I demurred, secretly thrilled that he thought I was a heartbreaker. I had reached that exhilarating point that many language students will be familiar with, where I wasn’t translating from English into French anymore, but speaking French directly, employing phrases that I had only heard used by native speakers before. I made a joke about being a twin, and when he laughed, he seemed caught off guard; like he hadn’t planned on laughing at all on this date.

Too soon, 7 o’clock drew closer, and the crowds milling around started to disappear ahead of the Covid-induced curfew. I wasn’t ready for the date to end, so when he suggested that we go back to his to boire un coup, I pretended to think about it, but in my head I was already there. He lived nearby, in the slightly dodgier area to the west of Montmartre. There were crowds of men speaking Arabic on the street where he lived, and heads turned at the sight of someone so pale, so ginger. Maybe I was imagining it, but I felt that he moved closer, protectively, and the thought made my stomach flip. He lived on the 5th floor of a beautiful 19th century stone building, through a courtyard and up several flights of winding iron stairs.

His room was exactly as I had imagined, abstract paintings and prints on the walls, featuring mainly representations of breasts and lips. There was a keyboard in the corner, with classical sheet music and a manuscript with several bars scribbled in. The books on his shelves were a mixture of French and English books: George Orwell, Kazuo Ishiguro, Khaled Hosseini and poetry by William Blake. The floors were dark mahogany, with a thick Berber rug that he told me his late grandmother had given him. He put on a Frank Ocean record on his LP player (of course), and opened a bottle of Merlot. He filled up two small tumblers, and looked me solidly in the eye as he said santé, to which I cheekily replied, sláinte.

We talked about our parents as he rolled two neat rollies, which we smoked sitting on the edge of the bed. His mother was Moroccan, and had met his father when she came to France to work as a doctor. His brothers were all successful in their respective careers: lawyer, accountant, homme d’affaires, and we bonded over being the “wildcard” sibling (my brother and sister are both doctors). I was feeling at ease at this point, and enjoying the version of myself I saw reflected in his tawny eyes.

After a brief pause in conversation, he leaned in and tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear. I felt my heart beat forcefully in my throat as he slowly moved closer, until I could feel his breath on my lips, and then he kissed me. For a moment, my instincts took over and I kissed him back, one hand on the back of his neck and the other on my glass. Then, all at once, the reality of the situation hit me. I was in Paris, kissing a beautiful stranger on his bed. My perspective shifted and I was suddenly completely and painfully aware of the room and the building and the city and all the people in it. My carefully constructed facade fell away as I jerked backwards, spilling a drop of wine on his jeans. I gasped in dismay and moved to stand up and get a cloth - and in the process, kicked over the entire bottle of wine, all over his precious inherited rug. My mouth fell open and I tried to formulate an appropriate response. There was none. Instead, I mumbled Christ, as I picked up the bottle and tried to pull the rug away from the ever-expanding pool of dark red wine. It was like a crime scene, with the joint casualties being his precious Moroccan rug and every ounce of my self-esteem.

He stood up, all seductive energy vanishing abruptly. Putain, he muttered as he stormed into the kitchen, while I ineffectually dabbed at the wine stain with a packet of tissues I found on his desk. When he came back, he ordered me to laisse le, which I gladly did, and put on my coat and shoes. My previously flawless French evaporated as I searched for the words to apologise for my clumsiness. “Je- je suis vraiment desolée”, I said to the back of his head, but he just shook his head angrily. The sophisticated representation of myself that I had so carefully prepared was shattered. I was Lucy O’Connor, Irish Catholic schoolgirl, in trouble again. I clasped my hands anxiously in front of me, mind racing, trying in vain to claw back any sense of decency.

It was too late. The only thing left to do was to leave before I caused any more damage. I had no doubt that he would not be calling me for a second date. As I scampered back down the stairs and onto the street, I couldn’t help but think that I deserved it: what was I doing, pretending to be someone I wasn’t? Was it any surprise that I had made such a colossal mess? A little voice in my head laughed tersely: that’s what you get for playing make-believe, Lucy. My eyes stung as I sniffed back tears and hurried back to my bike; praying that I wouldn’t be fined as it was now well past curfew. I resolved to delete the dating app as soon as I got home, and this time for good.