The next day, when I woke up next to Vincent in his queen-sized bed, I realised that staying with him for longer than a day or two was not an option. Twenty-something Parisians with normal jobs live in tiny studio apartments that barely fit a bed, let alone a couch. Vincent’s couch wasn’t even big enough to give a tiny dyke like me a semi-comfortable place to sleep, so he offered me a pillow next to him. The situation was not ideal. And then I had to go to work.

My boss Nigel was a good friend of Claire, they had known each other since Claire had arrived in Paris, which was ages before I got to work for him. Apart from the job and Claire, Nigel and I had absolutely nothing in common. We never talked about personal stuff at work, ever. All I knew about Nigel’s private life, I got from Claire. So you can imagine my surprise when around lunch time Nigel called me into his office and asked me to close the door. He never closed the door because he had nothing to hide, he was as boringly straightforward as they come. First I thought I was getting the sack already. Claire had got me hired, so she could just as easily have me fired. But she hadn’t. Instead she had apparently asked Nigel to give me a break. She knew I would never ask for it myself, out of professional pride. I’m sure she made herself believe she was acting in my best interest once again, but from my point of view it was just one more über-controlling act on her part. When Nigel said, “Claire told me what happened. Why don’t you take the afternoon and tomorrow off? I’ll cover for you”, I could not have been more flabbergasted. These were not words that came naturally to my stiff-upper-lipped, repressed, British boss. Claire put them in his mouth. So, not only had she embarrassed me in front of Nigel, the guy I worked closely with every day, and my immediate superior, she had also shown me who still pulled the strings in my life.

So there I was, out on the streets on an ironically beautiful Paris afternoon, with a day and a half to get my act together. That’s when Vincent texted me to say that Claire had done the unspeakable, she had taken the day off. VPs in general don’t just take a day off like that, but VPs who have their sights set on the Presidency definitely don’t afford themselves that kind of luxury. That’s how I found out that despite her bravado and attempted micro-management, Claire was just as broken-hearted as I was. And I decided to pay her a visit. 

Of course I wanted her to be a mess, but the whole concept of Claire being messed up was completely foreign to me. Claire never fell apart. She was always in control, because if she had no control, she had nothing. So yes, I took instant pity on her when I saw her. How could I not? She was in tears, her make-up smeared all over her face and she was clearly fighting a hang-over with more alcohol, on a Monday afternoon. Indeed, the vice-president was in no shape to assume her duties that day. Whenever she tried to speak, she teared up. I’m no expert, but I didn’t need to be: she was in the middle of an emotional breakdown. For a fleeting moment I felt strangely satisfied, but more than that, I felt compassion, because in spite of all the dyke drama, this was the woman I had loved for the past three years. Whether it’s unfortunate or not, you don’t just forget about that.

To be continued…