Holiday in a Coma & Love Lasts Three Years: two novels by Frédéric Beigbeder

Thierry Mugler

Roger Nelson

Constance Neuhoff

Masoko Ohya

Paquita Paquin

Roger Peyrefitte

Ondine Quinsac

Guillaume Rappeneau

The Rohan-Chabots and family

Gunther Sachs

Eric Schmitt

William K. Tarsis, III

Princess Goria von Thurn und Taxis

Lise Toubon

Baron and Baroness Truffaldine

Inès and Luigi d’Urso

José-Luis de Villalonga

Denis Westhoff

Ari and Emma Wiz

Oscar de Wurtemberg

Alain Zanini

Zarak

Loulou Zibeline

(Marc notes with some relief that no government ministers have been invited.)

He declaims the list aloud to emphasise the musicality of proper names.

‘Listen to this,’ he declares to no one in particular, ‘it is the music of the diaspora of existence.’

‘Hey, Marc,’ interrupts Loulou Zibeline, ‘did you know that Angelo Rinaldi mentions these public toilets?’

‘Oh?’

‘Of course. It’s in Confessions from the Hills, if memory serves …’

‘Wow, so the Shit served as a confessional? That’s a new one! Let’s drink to that!’ (Marc often says this when he doesn’t know what else to say.)

Loulou Zibeline, forty, journalist with Italian Vogue, specialises in Biarritz-school thalassotherapy and tantric orgasms (two not necessarily incompatible interests). Her long nose props up a pair of red-rimmed glasses. She has the disaffected air of a woman nobody tries to seduce any more.

‘Madame,’ Marc goes on, ‘I’m sorry to have to say this, but you’re sitting next to a sex maniac.’

‘Don’t be sorry. It’s a dying art,’ she replies, staring at him intently. ‘But I find what you say a little worrying. All men are sex maniacs. It’s when they begin to talk about it that one has to be careful.’

‘Don’t get me wrong, I never said I was a good fuck! One can be obsessed with something in theory and still be poor in practice.’

Marc always boasts that he is the worst lay in Paris: it makes women want to make sure for themselves and usually makes them non-judgemental.

‘Tell me, since you seem to know a lot about it,’ he interjects, ‘could you give me a short list of the best pick-up lines? You know the idea – “Do you live with your parents?”, “Your eyes are like limpid pools”, that kind of thing. It might come in handy tonight, because I’m a bit out of practice.’

‘My dear, the pick-up line is immaterial, whether or not you pick a woman up depends entirely on your face, full stop. But there are a number of questions which all women fall for. For example: “Haven’t we met somewhere before?” Banal, but reassuring, or “You’re not a supermodel, are you?” No one in the world will rebuke you for a compliment. Although insults work rather well too: “Would you be so kind as to move your enormous arse, as it appears to be blocking the aisle?” might work (though with someone not too callipygous, you understand).’

‘That’s really interesting,’ Marc declares, reaching for a couple of Post-it notes. ‘What about something along the lines of “I don’t suppose you have change for 800 francs?”’

‘Too absurd.’

‘What about: “What do you say we pretend there’s nothing between us?”’

‘Too pathetic.’

‘What about this one – it’s my favourite: “Do you take it in the mouth, mademoiselle?”’

‘Risky. Nine times out often you’ll go home with a black eye.’

‘Yes, but the tenth almost makes it worth a try, don’t you think?’

‘If you look at it like that, then yes, I suppose. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.’

Marc has just lied, for his preferred line when addressing a strange woman is ‘Mademoiselle, may I offer you a glass of lemonade?’

Their table is quite well placed. Joss’s table is just next door. A flotilla of waiters wearing white dinner jackets arrive with the platters of pearl oysters. It is an amusing diversion: one shucks the oysters oneself and there are people shouting:

‘Look, there are two pearls in mine!’

‘Why didn’t I get a pearl?’

‘Look at this one, it’s HUGE, isn’t it?’