French dating norms
Omitting them from the guest list would have been unthinkable.After all, most of them had been friends of my husband's since his school days and, until I came on the scene, some had been drifting in and out of his bed for years.Those Parisian women, who would become my friends, didn't simply tolerate their husbands having affairs. Why not, when they were enjoying illicit sex themselves?And once it's no longer fun, you move on and there are no hard feelings. I had a place to study English at Magdalen College, Oxford.If I didn't kiss a boy, I felt nothing would happen.It was as though they were terrified of putting a foot wrong and being too macho. He took me to Positano in Italy and proposed over a plate of spaghetti vongole.Then he would turn up at dawn under my window, proclaiming his love. But our apparent similarities masked a totally different attitude to the most integral part of marriage: sex.The wedding was unsettling enough with the eyes of all those other women boring into my back at the altar.
I married Laurent Lemoine at his parents' beautiful house in Normandy.When this handsome man, completely devoid of the self-doubt I had come to expect from English boys, rolled up outside the station, I was smitten. I'd had several boyfriends, but what struck me about Laurent was that he was a grown-up.