A Roving Eye

Middle age is a dangerous time for men. Some might not acknowledge it but usually there is dissatisfaction with the status quo. Life has lost its zing, the sparkle has gone, work has become a bore and a yearning for life as it used to be, however absurd, continues to grow. Suddenly middle aged men look at attractive young women with the predatory eye of young men again. The married are especially venerable, particularly so if the nature of their job involves a lot of travelling. In this excerpt from Private Lives, Charlie Parker is living his own life for change and his roving eye falls on the beautiful Madeleine in Paris.


Just how he came to be sowing wild oats in the shadow years of his fifties had come as a complete surprise. Certainly no great love was involved, nor even an overpowering passion. All his love and loyalty remained with Samantha and always would. But as a small boy he remembered giving up the warmth and security of his bed and sneaking away downstairs to sleep in an old tent on the lawn. It had been cold out there with an unpleasant smell of damp canvass and even then he had no intention of giving up the comfort of his bed for any prolonged stay. But it had the appeal of being excitingly different, even scary in stormy weather, so he had done it more than once.

His meeting with Madeleine had been a little like that, a breath of fresh air blowing through a typically dull and starchy reception. The host had been one of the usual five-letter acronym offshoots of the United Nations, doubtless providing a vital service of some kind to the Third World, and sponsorship by The Trust must have been involved for Charlie to be there. Though thank God this time his presence had been purely decorative with the speeches reserved for the professional politicians. Even so the evening had taken its toll and despite the air conditioning the room had become increasingly stale. Opening some French windows he had stepped out on the terrace, taking a deep breath of evening air with relief. There was a late September bite to it clearing his head like a douche of cold water.

‘Too much canned air always makes me gasp like a dying goldfish and God save us from those endless trays of plastic canapés.’ Definitely French, the melodious voice held an excitingly husky timbre. ‘Give me a bowl of good onion soup in an atmosphere thick with gauloise any day!’

A woman stepped into the light, mid thirties with a strong but attractive face; perfectly coiffured copper hair complemented a well-rounded figure sheathed in what had to be a designer original. Her shapely legs shod in expensive black high heels completed the picture of a typically chic Parisienne. Somehow the world of foie gras and lobster thermidor seemed more appropriate than onion soup. She caught his look of appraisal with practiced ease.

‘I know what you’re thinking, but I’m not always so chic and sleek. Tonight I’m on show for my husband. On occasions like this I try to look my best in the hopes some of the glamour will reflect on him.’ A fleeting sadness flickered behind her smile. ‘ Poor Philippe, I owe him that at least.’

‘He sounds a lucky man.’

‘I wouldn’t say that exactly but he likes to do the rounds with his glamorous Madeleine, though now it’s done he will be relieved if I disappear.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘I wouldn’t expect you to. Good night, Mr Parker.’

His curiosity piqued. ‘One moment, Madame, forgive me, but have we met before?’

‘No, never, so there’s no need to look so worried. But few people could miss the fabulous Charlie Parker face, your picture has been looking out at us from the covers of Newsweek, Time and the rest for as long as I remember.’ She laughed softly, a nice warm sound. ‘Didn’t anyone tell you, Mr Parker, you’re a very famous man?’

‘I guess they didn’t dare,’ he grinned back, a mad idea taking shape in his mind. ‘ But you’re not the only one who’s been on show here tonight. What do you say we both escape, get the hell out of here and find ourselves a good plate of onion soup?’

‘I would say allons alors, what are we waiting for!’ With a carefree toss of her copper head she slipped a slender arm through his and like a pair of guilty conspirators they hurried gleefully back along the terrace to the cars. She took him to Le Brasserie Bon Jour in a small black shoebox on wheels, driving all the way to Monmartre with the dedication of a World War Two kamikaze pilot. When the nightmare finally ended and he managed to prise himself out of the contraption, surprised to be still alive, she was already waiting on the pavement shaking with laughter.

‘Poor Charlie, you’ve been living in that gilded cage too long,’ she shook her head in amusement tinged with sympathy and took his hand. ‘That’s the way we ordinary mortals get around you know, and most of us are still alive to tell the tale. Never mind, a good bottle of burgundy will soon have you back together again.’

She pushed him through the revolving door into a hive of activity. The place was packed with diners, laughing and yelling at the top of their voices to be heard above the din. Waiters bearing ridiculous numbers of plates balanced up their arms were weaving and bending round tables with the skill of limbo dancers, at the same time managing to acknowledge fresh orders with smiling nods of the head as they went. Sounds of china clattering in the kitchen mingling with a constant popping of corks all added to the general hubbub, while delicious aromas of good food blending with the general atmosphere of wine and gauloise had his mouth watering for the first time in years.