Copyright © 2019 A Divorcee.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

iUniverse

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.iuniverse.com

1-800-Authors (1-800-288-4677)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-5320-8506-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-8505-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019917186

iUniverse rev. date: 01/03/2020

This book is dedicated to my father whom I loved dearly and who was a very avid and passionate reader. He predicted, among many other things that in the year 2000’s, many would write their own book. I wish he was here to share mine with him.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Contents

Chapter 1     Intro

The Beginning Of The Book

The Secondary Title: The F*cking Fifties

The Real Beginning: Divorce

The Move

Death

Survival

Movement, Momentum

Chapter 2     It All Started In Casablanca

Casablanca

The Empress Of England

Chapter 3     It Continued In Montreal

The Other Side Of The Bridge

(Flashback To The Glamorous Women Of My Childhood In Casablanca)

Crossing The Bridge (The Teenage Years)

Burning The Bridges

The Popular Girls

The Disco Years

Going Back To The Roots

Flashback To Glamorous Men Of Casablanca

My First Boss

(Flashback To The Glamorous Women Of My Childhood In Montreal)

(Flashback To The Glamorous Women Of My Teenage Years In Montreal)

Elsewhere

Chapter 4     Re Immigration In Paris

Paris

Devil Wears Prada

The Sentier Or Fashion District

Bonpoint Birthdays

(His)tory

India

Bali

My Stroke Of Insight

Alone And Married

Pascale And Azzedina Alaia

Bianca And Prada

Nocturnes Aux Printemps

September 11Th

Americans In Paris

Veronique And Entertaining

Driving In Paris

Eac And The Canadian Embassy

Rainy Day In Paris

My Stint At The Canadian Embassy In Paris

BCBG Encounter In La

Why I Was Able To Lie To Max A

Manoukian Gets Bought Out By BCBG

Corporate Spending Habits

Fashionable French Working Women At War

The Power Dress

In London We Shopped Till We Dropped

I Love New York

Do Not Drink On The Job

How About The Clothes?

The Take Away From New York

Cultural Discrepancies

From The Americans

From The French

Ch…Ch…Changes

Max

Max Sets Sail Into A Documentary Film

Paris St. germain And Herve Leger

From Porn Star To Fashion Model

Dancing Queens

Los Angeles

Price To Pay

Trials

The Finale

Money

Going Through The Motions

Reprieve In Casablanca

Be Brief, Be Brilliant And Be Gone

Chapter 5     The Boomerang Immigration

The Religious Divorce

The Professionals

Play

Matchmaker, Matchmaker Find Me A Catch

Bachelor Number 1

Work

The Web Window

Ice.com And Diamond.com

Marketing Versus Creative Feud

Children

Schools + America = Cult(Ure) Shock

White Picket Fences Are Trampled Over

A Log Of One Day Filled With Single Mom Responsibilities

Generation And Cultural Differences

Showing A Glamorous Made In Canada Line

Beware Of Second Marriage Pendulum Swing

How A Jewish Moroccan Woman Got Attacked By Natives

Canadian Brand Dilemna

Canadian Marriage Dilemna

Day Job With Quebec’s Dragon’s Den Lady

Art Versus Science

Health And Science

Religion And Science

Meeting At The Wailing Wall

Work And Play: Not A Good Combo

I Thought I Was An ML Woman

Exit ML Woman

XO

Street Smarts

Pause

Hilary R. And Hilary Clinton

Web Dating

Jeff The Name And Man

Chapter 6     The Best For Last: Women

Chapter 7     Now What?

The Railroad Crossing

Intensity And Posterity

This End

CHAPTER 1

INTRO

The Beginning Of The Book

One night my youngest daughter, Lisa asked me if I was going to write a book. She must have caught sight of me jotting down notes that I have been amassing for some time now on My Life and Other Lives. She probably observed me writing bits and reminders on scraps of papers, pamphlets or bills in the car or in my notebooks to elaborate on later. So, I answered yes, because I felt it was the least, I could do to live up to some expectations. I thought it was my way of making up for not being a perfect mother like the other mothers, like all the mothers?. But is any mother really like all the mothers?. Probably not, but divorced mothers are even less so. Later, after I was halfway through the book, I realized that she had asked me that question because she did NOT want me writing a book.

Children sense that only the tip of the iceberg is showing where their parents are concerned (perhaps even more so where divorced mothers are concerned). There were things she probably sensed about her mother, with a child’s intuition, that she did not want to know, or even less have the world know. But by then, it was too late; the book was a torrent I could no longer stop, but anonymity seemed like a welcome solution. It appeared to prevail like a peaceful island that my personal waves could wash up on and occasionally slam against. I also reasoned that the new generation does not like to read and for once this observation was one that had a silver lining.

Bonnie and Clyde, sung by Serge Gainsbourg and Brigitte Bardot, seems to be the right song to listen to while starting to write this book. The song feels like what Life has felt like so far; an ongoing, steady and constant drumbeat in the background representing the irrevocable advancement of time. It is jazzed up in the forefront with a rhythmic but much less regular rhythm of hurdles to be jumped. The tempo can be likened to the escape of a gangster who is running for survival. Survival is the theme of this song and of Life itself. Running, jumping a hurdle, running, out of breath, turning a corner, surprise another hurdle, obstacles that come up unexpected, hurdles you see from far and anticipate, more running…running to something and away from other things but always running. That is the general feeling of this song and of life so far.

Bonnie and Clyde

By Brigitte Bardot, Serge Gainsbourg

Vous avez lu l’histoire

De Jesse James

Comment il vécu

Comment il est mort

Ça vous a plus hein

Vous en demandez encore

Et bien,

écoutez l’histoire

Bonnie and Clyde

by Brigitte Bardot, Serge Gainsbourg

(You read the story

Of Jesse James

How he lived

How he died

You like it, huh?

You still ask for more

Well,

listen up good to the story)

The Secondary Title: The F*cking Fifties

At one point, the title of this book was supposed to be the F*cking Fifties but somehow, I still must be old school and did not want such a violent word. The reason for such a title though, was evident. By the time you get to 50, you have survived at least one of three d’s…Divorce, Death or Depression.

The son of France’s most famous actor, Alain Delon, recently opened a leather jacket store in Paris. He said he named it after a Japanese term that means falling down seven times and lifting yourself up again. It is his way of expressing that what counts is rising up again and again. Being the son of France’s most adored actor must have been tough. I used to see him as a spoiled daddy’s boy, but he has aged as well, and I found his vulnerability rather endearing.

Indeed, with all the past events and struggles I have lived through myself or witnessed through the lives of women (and men) around me, the title just appeared as evident as it was perfect.

The alliteration did give the deserved full force to the theme. And then the word F.ck was the one word I truly missed when living in France. Because yes, I grant you the French language is perhaps more complex, nuanced and richer than the English language as a whole, but I defy you to find in the French language ONE word that is more powerful than the word F.ck. When the French are mad, their putain or merde are very lame. This single word is what makes for a tie between both languages in terms of expression.

By the time you are fifty, you usually have not pranced through life unscathed. This is what builds your soul. I am told. Having lived a soulful life gives you a real soul if nothing else. A friend recently faced the sudden death of her soulmate. She had only spent three years with him. But had spent 30 years in a very lonely marriage, with a husband she had absolutely nothing in common with. I came up with a lame, what can I tell you, it’s the fucking fifties. She nodded in agreement. Somehow it seemed to pacify her and explain it all away. It stuck.

The Real Beginning: Divorce

To really start in life and really KNOW oneself, one must divorce. That is the real beginning.

Divorce is real self-discovery. If life were logical (lol), we should start life with a divorce. That way, we would grow progressively from the start. The only problem is we would have to start a marriage really early and who wants that? Funny that all the letters of the word divorce are in the word discovery….

Divorce is underrated. Some things in life are overrated. Like drinking champagne or riding in a limo or first-time sex. Did you ever notice how disappointingly dusty glasses are in a limo? Champagne is too sweet. As for first-time sex, I need not elaborate.

But divorce is definitely underrated. It is so talked about you would think it is an everyday occurrence, but it is about as normal as a tsunami. In a tv series like Desperate Housewives, if a heroine were to get divorced, she would have a good scotch, explain it away in a luncheon (not lunch but luncheon) with her 4 perfectly blow-dried friends all wearing complementary colors, lose another effortless 3 pounds (lucky her) and continue hopscotching through life on heels. Of course, you cannot portray on TV the lump in her throat, the newfound friend cigarettes can become and the horrid emptiness of weekends. Divorce wipes out all the regular routines of your life exactly like a tsunami wipes out a bustling hotel that was on the edge of the beach.

I read in a French article in Paris that in a woman’s life, the most traumatic experiences were death, divorce and moving. I lived through all three at the exact same time. Divorce was perhaps not the most painful in the long run, but at the moment it hit, it wiped out everything else and relegated the other two to second place.

The Move

There was no reason for me to stay in France when my ex-husband decided to quit our family. Montreal, my hometown offered the best option for my four daughters and myself. I had very little family in France. The friends you really want to keep when you divorce are only the ones who refuse to see your ex-husband for their entire life. The other ones can no longer be considered friends; don’t kid yourself. You want to save yourself from silly, gauche or unknowingly at best, hurtful remarks.

When you divorce, you more than ever need a real family environment if you can get one. So, I brought my kids home to their grandmother, aunts, uncles, cousins of all ages; a big extended family and a close-knit community.

Like Marshall McLuhan, our great father of communications said (I got that out of my Master’s in Communications!) it takes a village to raise a child. Not a big city like Paris that feels like a very beautiful, but coldly elegant and slightly depressed woman continually reflecting and philosophizing while smoking cigarettes under the rain. Not a city where on a Sunday afternoon you are alone in the sandpit of the beautifully manicured lawns of Park Monceau, with your five-year-old, trying to contain your tears and fears and breathe regularly while painstakingly counting the minutes before you can decently say, let’s go home and have a goûter now. Just so you can find a corner to cry for a few minutes.

It had been negotiated that my ex-husband would pay for the move, and I had hired a moving service that came to pack every single thing we owned. Yes, I indeed got to keep all the furniture. But like I told my neighbours Anatole and Dan, a charming couple that owned the most beautiful circus in France, what would a single man do with a very ornate Gustavienne dining room? I tried to make people laugh even when I was crying inside.

I was so dazed and confused by the divorce that I had lost track of the weekdays. When the movers arrived one morning at our apartment, all I could do was throw on my bathrobe and push my sleeping mask on top of my head. I was a sorry and slightly funny sight with my pink fluorescent sleep mask with glitzy lashes embroidered on. I answered the door to eight movers who marched into my house, their footsteps resounding on the old Parisian wooden floors and pounding reality again deep inside my head.

I braced myself for yet another painful episode in the Boxing Ring of Divorce. Because that is the type of rude awakening divorce gives you. Constant punches. Right Hook, the first lawyer letter you receive where your ex-husband summons you to get rid of you. It feels like a left hook the first time you have to take out your Livret de Famille, to be filled with the dirty word Divorced. Until now you took it out only on beautiful occasions to be filled in with the names of your newborns. Punch in the stomach, you are not going as a couple to your best friend’s son’s bar mitzvah; it’s you and your girls. Low Blow, it’s Saturday night, two of your girls need to be driven, and he is free for neither one. Yeah, he must have a date. Then one day, you get a low blow, right in the stomach. You bump into one of your best friend’s sister, the one with the big mouth that always put her foot in her mouth. She lets slip that your husband has been seeing this really horrible woman for a while now, didn’t you know? Oh sorry…

This move represented another punch that I had been bracing for since the date had been set. I was reeling with its force to the other side of the boxing ring. And to the other side of the world. We were moving back to Montreal. I kept bouncing off the boxing ring ropes. Boing! Boing! I was amazed that I could still feel anything after all the punches I was the recipient of. I wished I were numb, but I wasn’t. You feel each blow, and that is what divorce is. Blow after blow and you being bounced off the sides of the ring in the craziest scheme of things. Total loss of control as your body is seemingly flung to all sides like a rag doll.

The movers entered, took possession and proceeded to pack every article of clothing, furniture and dish we owned to ship out to Canada while my children and I looked on. Important belongings we would need until the container arrived in Canada, two months later, were packed in a few suitcases. The suitcases stared at us, forlornly from a corner of the apartment. All the rest was packed and put on a boat towards our new land.

They packed. I cried.

My help cried too. Madame, must you leave?. Gladys, the nounou as they say in France had given me for my birthday that year a hardcover copy of The Devil wears Prada.

Because Madame, I know you like Prada, she had proudly commented when she presented me with the book.

Not because I am the devil, then right? I chided her.

She had already more than once complained to my children in her lackadaisical way Ah, la vie serait plus facile si votre mère était moins maniaque. (Life would be so much easier if your mother were not such a clean freak). But when my ex-husband asked her to work for him after I left, she nobly refused. She considered this a betrayal.

I cried again while tears streamed down her round face. I had found out that when I had hired her seven years earlier, the ID she had presented me with were faux papiers (fake papers). Her real name was Bernadette.

I looked back and remembered that I had remarked during the interview, Wow, you look so mature for your age. Are you really 20? It must be all those responsibilities you had at home as the eldest child. She nodded and smiled, no doubt, laughing inwardly at how I had rambled on and provided her with the answer to my question. I had never doubted a minute that she was telling the truth. Many years later, she confided her true identity to my children, who laughingly reported it to me. By then, I was very attached to her and cared very little about the scam. I simply told her not to expect me to call her Bernadette after nearly eight years. She shrugged her shoulders. She came from Cameroun where she had practically single-handedly raised 8 younger brothers and sisters. What did she care if I called her Gladys or Bernadette, she seemed to say.

Very shortly after her firstborn, she had a second child. She confided to me, it’s less complicated to have two kids with the same father. Once I have my kids if he wants, he can leave, but at least my daughters will be real sisters. I was impressed by her practical evaluation of the marital situation. She was not surprised by her boss’s departure. She took it all in stride like old souls do.

The week of the move, Bianca, one of my very best friends, came to the rescue, as usual, to support us through this difficult time. As soon as she entered the apartment, she quickly retrieved, from a thankfully still open cardboard box, the kettle for coffee and an ashtray. She then proceeded to give the movers clear instructions that these would be the last to go.

These, she gesticulated to the French and English-speaking movers are the last -‘dernier’- in the box, only when you finished all the rest. They were so happy to accommodate finally a sane woman in this household who was somewhat giving instructions.

They packed. We smoked. I cried.

On the last day of the packing, my ex-husband came to check the last item being placed into the container that would cross the ocean. With his usual practical sense, he pointed out that he hoped the movers hadn’t taken advantage of my tear-filled blurry vision to steal any furniture. Needless to say, I hadn’t kept an eagle’s eyes on them.

This heartless stranger, inspecting the apartment with a matter of fact efficiency, was not what I was mourning. It is not what divorcees lament, I am sure, 9 times out of 10. Why would anyone cry over a man that wants to leave us and therefore does not love us? It is the end of life, as we know it that we lament. It is the fear of the unknown that looms before us. The ruins of a life that must be picked up all alone. Who has the energy after a tsunami to rebuild? Compared to most women who must stay in a city or even in lodgings where they were happily (or not) married, I got off easy assured me, my therapist. My new surroundings would spare me nostalgic links to the past. I was going for a clean slate. After 23 years.

I was moving back to Montreal, to home, to my family, hoping they would help fill in the void and help rebuild a new life for my daughters and myself.

Like Eliette Abecassis says in the book Une Affaire Conjugale:

To do things well, in a marriage, you would have to start with a divorce. And then get married. You don’t know a man in marriage. You don’t know your spouse when you make love to them. (…) No, the only way to really know your spouse is through a divorce. There, one takes the full measure of his human, moral and psychological quality.

Death

In the middle of this horrible divorce, in the middle of the most horrible winter, the person that I was closest to on earth, my father, passed away. Did G.d want to spare him the pain of seeing his eldest daughter and adored grandchildren abandoned and suffering cruelly?

My husband and I had found an eye of calm in the tornado of divorce. And that is when I was urgently called to Montreal. My uncle called me with a tremor in his voice that I can still hear today telling me to come. I kept repeating that I could not come, I had work etc., as if I was trying to avoid the truth of how bad the situation was. I was just trying to make this horrible phone call go away. He told me my father was still alive, but not doing well. He didn’t dare to tell me the truth, and I know it was his compassion for me that robbed him of this courage. My husband was devoid of any compassion; he had been told the horrible truth, but he was too busy to accompany me. During the whole plane trip there, I rocked back and forth praying, but it was too late. I lived for the next ten days the nightmare that all my life I feared of.

The day my father had turned 60, I had been struck with the realization that he would not be around forever. It was about at that time that I started bothering my parents with neurotic phone calls just to check up on them. Sometimes I would stay up late because of our time difference between Montreal and Paris, incessantly calling until they finally picked up. This was before cell phones, but as soon as they came out on the market, I insisted they get one. The day I had dreaded for so long had come. Immense sadness and emptiness put my marital problems in the background, but not for long.

I landed back in Paris after the Shiva (mourning period). Soon after, my ex-husband greeted me with the cruellest blow, right in the head this time, making my ears pound and pain resonate in my whole being. He refused that I sleep in our bed because I was in mourning. All I longed for was to find refuge in my bed after the flight, to hide under my duvet. I felt that his hatred was becoming too destructive and not to spare me in this cruel moment was more than I could accept.

I asked him to take his belongings and leave. A few days later, he did. He had acted this cruelly, perhaps unconsciously, because he knew that is what it would take to make me abandon the marriage and finally ask him to leave.

I thought I would be able to mourn my father and that divorce would be relegated to the second level of importance. But a divorce equals everyday life that is torn to shreds and filled with sorrow, emptiness and disorientation. The sudden absence of my husband and the father of my children was unbelievably cruel, and to my stunned surprise, it took center stage in my sorrows.

The loss of my father was not given the place of honor it deserved because my life was overcome by divorce. Many years later I have survived and (mostly) gotten over my divorce. I once heard that to calculate how long it typically takes to get over a divorce, you should count a ratio of one year for every five years of marriage. My marriage lasted twenty odd years, so it should take me roughly 5 years to get over it. Normally. I still mourn my father, and this pain will last forever. The pain of divorce cannot and should not last forever. One cannot and should not mourn a person that has chosen to no longer be with us. Seeing pictures of my ex-husband now leave me cold, even if on the spur of the moment, the pain was intense. Seeing pictures of my father still makes me very sad, and I often miss him even many, many years later.

Nevertheless, the destruction of divorce was overruling my whole life, even the pain caused by the death of my father. A man I owed everything to. Perhaps my father’s death had made me even weaker, and I wished not to cope with divorce. Maybe divorce is so destructive it always takes center stage.

Survival

That was my divorce. But in my divorce was my survival.

Because no matter how shocked and terrified I felt, I never missed once a day of work or any of my usual habits and obligations. I ran through them all, going through the motions with the constant lump in my throat and loud heart thuds filling my entire body. Even the ritual chore of going to the dry cleaners on Saturday mornings was religiously executed. Once we were all finally ready to get out of the house, my children, feeling relieved that I had plans for us, would pile into the Citroën and we would start out. By first going to the dry cleaners no matter what our plans were.

Mom, do we have to go? Can’t we go straight to Bon Marché to meet Bianca and Pascale? I am so hungry for lunch.

This will take two minutes. Why didn’t you eat a little something at home? You know it’s our family tradition to go to the dry cleaners. In the grimmest moments, I cling on to my sense of humor, thinking these are the memories and strengths I will leave to my children. Some mothers may leave as memories the smell of home-baked cookies or choucroute or dafina or itchy knitted sweaters or whatever their signature trademark for motherhood is. Humor and grosgrain bows adorning everything are the heritage I hope to leave.

We could have done without this family tradition. It was my way of clutching on to sanity. I needed to maintain a semblance of control over my life by staying on top of things. I needed to keep to our everyday schedule and NOT let things PILEUP and spin totally overwhelmingly and irrevocably out of control.

My life was a mayhem of sadness and tears, and I was petrified that only ugly emptiness lay ahead. I clutched onto my routines and errands helplessly. As if I could not afford to also lose control of these unimportant errands that were the ONLY thing, I had control over. At least I would be up to date on my dry cleaners. Not to skip a beat in the usual rhythm of my life. And all the other tiny niggling errands that kept me going. I focused on crossing off missions and chores from my blackberry to get a sense of achievement. I needed to stop feeling, at least for the time of a task, that my life was not being totally overrun by folly.

Every time I waited my turn at the dry cleaners, I observed the other customers with envy and fascination. These people were probably lucky to be living their ordinary everyday lives and not one like mine, where major catastrophe had hit. How I longed to be one of them; how I wanted for my old life with only minor qualms. Where was MY ordinary, everyday life where ALL was routine? When I could go to the dry cleaners without the non-stop thumping in my throat.

I did not miss a single day of work either. Not because I loved my job, which I did, but because I could not afford to lose control of this too. I chose my clothes as usual with care and tried to maintain my typical face painted with bright lipstick and adopt my habitual cheerful, efficient and controlled manner with everyone. The constant thumping in my throat forced me to periodically go to the bathroom, lock the stall and cry silently.

I had close work friends in whom I confided and will forever be grateful for. Some spoke from experience, having themselves gone through a divorce and offered successful examples that gave me a tiny hope.

Unlike the paramedic who came to collect me one particularly depressing Sunday when I was so anguished that I had a hard time breathing. He did not help any by telling me in the depressing ambulance on the way to the depressing Parisian hospital that his own mother had NEVER gotten over her divorce. Typical scene of french realism.

This book is not about Love and Divorce or Children and Divorce or Adultery and Divorce. It is about Survival and Divorce and Women. Because when you divorce, whether or not you love your spouse, (how could I love this man who didn’t mind hurting me), whether or not there are children (I thank G. for my four wonderful daughters), whether or not there is adultery, (obviously there was) the toughest thing about divorce is surviving it.

For every divorcee out there, there exists a real Survivor story. This is the story of my fight for survival. And in my battle for survival are woven in my