The Red Notebook Read Online Free PDF Page B

then university degrees all seemed light years away from the adults they had become. They had kept their relationship going like two poker players who continue late into the night, shuffling their cards and emptying their glasses long after the others have left the table and gone to bed. Laurent had told him about the bag, wanting to believe for a moment that Pascal would share his fascination.
    ‘Why do you say that?’
    ‘Because you don’t know who she is and you never will,’ replied Pascal, chewing his entrecôte. ‘All you have is the bag and her first name, no address and, most importantly, no photos. When I go after a woman, I know who she is, everything abouther: what she looks like, how old she is, what we have in common, what she does, the colour of her eyes and hair, height, weight …’
    Since his divorce Pascal had discovered dating sites on the web. Usually he signed up to them under various pseudonyms. He was spreading himself about in the cyber jungle of the lonely hearts ads and had several times tried to convince Laurent to join him. He used ‘SeniorExec’ on Meetic and Attractive World – and the more evocative, not to say grotesque, ‘Shivers’, ‘Jimmy’, ‘Magnum’ and ‘TheBest’ on respectively: Adultery.com, Infidelity.fr, AshleyMadison.com, Adopt-a-bloke.com. Available for no-strings intimacy evenings and weekends, he was also in the market for ‘serious’ relationships, thereby easing his conscience.
    ‘I’m making the most of it,’ he liked to say, with a satisfied smile.
    It seemed to Laurent that Pascal had been seduced by the very worst that the Western world offered, managing his love life, or, not to put too fine a point on it, his sex life, like the product manager of a small business. At a previous lunch, he had shown Laurent the relevant files on his laptop. In one click, Pascal had made three folders appear, filled with photos of women. ‘Stock’ for the women he had already slept with, ‘In progress’ for those he’d had a date with, ‘Prospective’ for the women he was aiming to date soon.
    ‘Seriously? You haven’t really made folders …’
    ‘Of course I have,’ Pascal said, irritated. ‘And within each folder I’ve put them into categories: nymphomaniacs, shy, teases, frigid …’
    ‘For goodness’ sake, don’t show me that,’ Laurent had protested.
    Pascal had shrugged and closed his laptop. He considered Laurent hopelessly old-fashioned, still believing in the chance encounter, the smile exchanged across a café terrace, or theconversation about a book that led on to something else. Laurent, on the other hand, considered that Pascal had become his own pimp, posting photos of himself worthy of a GQ fashion shoot: smiling, face on, a full-length shot, shirt open, grey jacket slung over one shoulder; or else bare-chested in swimming trunks in a shot taken five years ago on a Corsican beach. He had ticked the answers to questions like ‘What would you say are your best qualities?’ or ‘What sort of relationship are you looking for – a: serious, b: just friends, c: open?’
    Now Pascal was updating Laurent on how his life was going. His son had had a scooter accident, and his daughter wasn’t speaking to him, ever since her friend’s older sister had shown her a photo of the guy she was flirting with on the net and it turned out to be … Pascal. Laurent had decided not to take Pascal up to his flat to show him the bag. Before the lunch, that had been his intention but obviously it would be a mistake. He didn’t want Pascal looking over all the items from the bag, and he wanted even less to hear his rude comments: women’s nonsense, you’re wasting your time, why don’t you throw it all in the bin? You want to meet someone? Create a profile on one of the sites.
    ‘And how’s Dominique?’
    ‘Yes, she’s very well, thank you,’ replied Laurent quietly.
    ‘I heard her this morning on the radio; her analysis was spot on! She’s an