Louise and I became romantically involved. It was hesitant at first. What with my heart that Claire had clearly broken, stomped on and thrown in the trash, and my revelation that I had been threesome-ing my way to a life of luxury at Avenue Foch. Heartbreak and prostitution − albeit borderline − hardly constitute the cornerstone of a new healthy relationship. But she must have really fancied me, for she just took it all on board and went with it. I told Christine and Marie about Louise immediately. Christine had that look of relief in her eyes, as in ‘she had her month of fun, now I get to have my wife to myself again, at least for a while’. Marie, on the other hand, didn’t take it so well. She claimed not to have been finished with me yet, which was all the more reason for me to break it off. She may have sparked some feelings in me, but romance was never one of them. I knew it was time to go.

I needed my own place, one I paid for and decorated myself. At twenty-six, it was finally time for me to spread my wings and rise to some level of independence. I started looking for my own shoebox-sized studio apartment but I was quickly disheartened by the staggering amount of money I had to shell out for the places I liked, and the abysmal state of the ones I could barely afford. I weighed my options. Going back to Vincent’s wasn’t one of them, a single gay man needs his bed free at night. Louise offered to take me in, but our affair was nowhere near the U-haul stage yet. And I was beginning to overstay my welcome at Avenue Foch. While being with Claire, I had been a kept woman, she never made me pay any rent − she made me pay in plenty of other ways though − so I had been able to save some money. But Paris’ rents and deposits being what they were, it still wasn’t enough. Then I got a call I didn’t want to get, but that saved me in the end. It was Claire.

She had direct access to all the information she wanted on me through her assistant, and my friend, Vincent. She knew I was looking for a place to live, and she was very well informed on the state of the Paris rental market, as she owned and rented out a couple of studio apartments herself. So, undoubtedly out of the goodness of her heart, she called me to ask if I wanted to rent one of her shoeboxes.
“Are you crazy, Claire? I don’t want anything to do with you.”
“Don’t be so stubborn. I’m just trying to help you.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because you’re my ex and I don’t just stop caring.”
“It sure as hell didn’t take you very long to get over me.”
“Look Lee, I’m not asking you to move back in with me. I’m offering you the place on Rue Sorbier. The rent is 750 a month. I’ll waive the deposit. I trust you not to wreck the place. Take it or leave it.” 
“Can I think about it?”
“If you must, but what’s there to think about? You won’t get another offer like this.”
“OK, I’ll take it.”
“Great. Stop by this weekend to sign the lease. You can move in straight away.”

Desperation is a tender trap. And I soon found out that having your ex-girlfriend as your landlady, is as desperate as it gets.

To be continued…