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Preview from chapter one
My name is Marlène. I am forty-seven, married to Xavier for twenty-five years, and mother to Marie, twenty-three, who has lived in Paris for her studies these past three years. For a long time I balanced, with quiet pride, a career in insurance against the demands of motherhood. After two decades of patient climbing I finally secured the position of agency manager in the largest city of our region—a professional dream made real.
Since Marie left, I have reclaimed time for myself. Aquagym twice a week, a run every Sunday morning, and, for my forty-fifth birthday—coinciding with the promotion—I took the step: breast augmentation. Nothing extravagant. I went from a generous but slightly softened cup to a firm, natural-looking 95D. That small refreshment rekindled something in our private life. Xavier and I sometimes speak of libertinage, of experiences with others. He fantasizes openly. I hold my ground: I feel completely fulfilled with two. No need for more.
Physically I have little to complain about. Natural redhead, one metre seventy for sixty-five kilos, legs still firm from sport, and the new breasts that fill my burgundy or black tailored jackets to advantage. Marie’s friends, when they used to visit, would murmur “MILF” under their breath, thinking they were flattering me. I pretended embarrassment, blushed a little for form… but underneath it stroked my ego in a way I rather liked.
Xavier is fifty. He lost his job a year ago and has not seriously looked for another; my salary keeps us more than comfortable. He is one metre seventy-five, eighty-five kilos, a little soft around the middle, not particularly athletic. He plays golf on weekends and almost never misses a PSG match, especially in the Champions League. Since the season restarted he has been inviting his friends over regularly to watch. They take over the living room—beer without limit, shouting, laughter. I stay upstairs. Netflix, HBO, a herbal tea or a glass of wine, and I leave them to their men’s evening.
For the past four months, though, I have suspected something else. Cash withdrawals of two hundred euros, always on match nights. I finally confronted him. He confessed: small poker games among friends after the final whistle. He swore on his heart it was finished. Promised, never again. Last month the same withdrawals reappeared. He had started again. I said nothing… not yet.
This Wednesday evening PSG is playing in European competition. Xavier has invited six friends: François and Damien, his inseparable companions since childhood, both fifty like him; two neighbours, Éric and Valentin; and two former colleagues, Thomas, forty, and the younger Valentin, twenty-five—Xavier’s old intern, whom everyone simply calls “the kid” to distinguish him from the other Valentin. By one in the morning the match has long been over, yet voices still rise from below. I can no longer stand it. I need to know.