The List of My Desires Read Free

haberdashery shop. At that age I dreamed in secret of Solal, of Prince Charming, of Johnny Depp and Kevin Costner before he had hair implants, but it was Jocelyn Guerbette, my stout Venantino Venantini, comfortably chubby and a charmer, who came along.
    We first met in the haberdashery shop when he came in to buy something for his mother, thirty centimetres of Valenciennes lace, a bobbin lace made with continuous thread, very fine, with motifs worked into it: a miracle. You’re the miracle, he told me. I blushed. My heart rose. He smiled. Men know the damage a few words can do to girls’ hearts, and, idiots that we are, we swoon away and fall into the trap, excited because at last a man has set one for us.
    He asked me out for a coffee after closing time. I’d dreamed a hundred times, a thousand times of the moment when a man would ask me out, pay court to me, want me. I’d dreamed of being abducted, carried away in a fast, purring car, forced on board a plane flying to islands. I’d dreamed of red cocktails, white fish, paprika and jasmine, not of a coffee at the newsagent and tobacconist’s shop in the Arcades. Or a damp hand on mine. Or those clumsy words, unctuous phrases, already telling lies.
    So that evening, after Jocelyn Guerbette had kissed me, starving and impatient as he was, after I had delicately fended him off and he had gone away promising to be back to see me next day, I opened my heart and let my dreams fly free.

I am happy with Jo.
    He never forgets any of our anniversaries. He likes doing DIY in the garage at weekends. He makes small items of furniture that we sell at the flea market. Three months ago he installed WiFi for us because I’d decided to write a blog about my knitting. Sometimes, after a meal, he pinches my cheek and says, you’re a good girl, Jo, you’re a sweet girl. Yes, I know; he may sound a bit macho, but what he says comes from the heart. That’s Jo for you. He doesn’t know much about delicacy, the light touch, the subtlety of words. He hasn’t read many books; he’d rather have a quick rundown on a subject than a reasoned argument; he likes pictures better than writing. He loved the Columbo TV series because you knew who the killer was from the start.
    I love words. I love long sentences, sighs that go on for ever. I love it when words sometimes hide what they’re saying, or say it in a new way.
    When I was young I kept a diary. I gave it up the day my mother died. When she collapsed my pen collapsed as well, and a lot of other things were broken.
    So when we discuss something, Jo and I, I do most of the talking. He listens while he drinks his imitation beer; sometimes he nods to let me know that he understands and he’s interested in my stories, and even if that’s not true it’s kind of him.
    For my fortieth birthday he took a week’s holiday from the factory, drove the children over to stay with his mother and we went to Étretat. We stayed half board at the Aiguille Creuse hotel, where we spent four wonderful days, and it seemed to me for the first time in my life that this was what being in love meant. We went for long walks on the cliffs, holding hands; sometimes, when there was no one else about, he pushed me up against the rocks, kissed me on the mouth and lost his hand down inside my panties. He used simple words to describe his desire. Called a spade a spade. You make me hard. You excite me. One evening at twilight on the Aval cliff I thanked him, I said, take me now, and he made love to me out of doors, fast and roughly; it was good. When we went back to the hotel our cheeks were flushed and our mouths dry, like a couple of tipsy teenagers, and it was a nice memory.
    On Saturdays, Jo likes to go out with the guys from the factory. They play cards at the Café Georget, they talk man talk, sharing their dreams, sometimes whistling at girls the age of their own daughters, but they’re nice guys; it’s all talk and no action , as we say; that’s our menfolk