Free Almost French by Sarah Turnbull Page B

opinion, beginning with the French Revolution which we covered in one lesson of head-rolling drama at school. Seeing a television documentary about the 1968 riots; reading Simone de Beauvoir, whose uninhibited characters seemed to spend their lives having amorous adventures. This impression of sexual and social freedom was only confirmed after seeing late-night French films on SBS which featured precious little dialogue and lots of nudity. The French were the very last people in the world I imagined to be conservative or socially repressed.
    And yet …
    One evening we’re invited to a drinks party in Neuilly, the suburb next to Levallois which is home to famous actors,television personalities, politicians and wealthy business types. We pull up outside a hôtel particulier which belongs to our host, a successful entrepreneur whom Frédéric knows through another lawyer friend. Already, the serious, stately exterior signals that the evening will be very different from the breezy barbecues I am used to where you turn up with ten friends and twice as many bottles of wine. We are self-consciously fluffing up our helmet hair when a hired butler opens the door, ushering us into an entrance with a sweeping stone staircase and teal tapestries.
    The party is upstairs, in a salon lined with sculpted wooden panels which once decorated a Burgundy château. The round drinks table is crowded with perfectly buffed champagne flutes and bottles of expensive bubbly. But, curiously, no-one is drinking it. Although there are about fifteen people gathered, the room is oddly quiet. Everyone seems strangely inhibited—although by what or whom I can’t imagine. Couples stand together, voices discreetly lowered as if anxious not to disturb. No-one offers us a drink or tells us to help ourselves. After a brief hello our hosts have both disappeared. Although we’re surrounded by unfamiliar faces, no introductions have been made.
    ‘Is this a party ?’ I mutter to Frédéric, incredulous, trying to spot someone who looks like they’re having fun. The scene is terribly grown up—too grown up for any of the grown-ups I know.
    ‘It’s a cocktail ,’ he whispers back.
    Surveying the uptight scene in the imposing room, I wonder if it is a typical French ‘ cocktail ’. Surely the surroundings must be grander than most. Compared to the guests at my first dinner party, the crowd here is more how I imagined Parisians would look at soirées. The women are inchic, short black dresses, the men in sleek suits. Among the understated elegance and high heels, I feel out of place in my black pants and Doc Martens (even if I did polish them for the occasion). According to Frédéric, the guests are mainly lawyers, business and public relations people. Everyone appears ill at ease and it occurs to me that maybe the French are better at dinners than stand around drinks parties. No-one seems to want to be the one to break the ice. The guests are all hanging back. Bewildered by this cool distance, I make the mistake of trying to bridge it. ‘We can’t just stand here talking to each other,’ I whisper to Frédéric. ‘I’m going to introduce myself.’ He looks doubtful for some reason but after a tedious week of no work, I am dauntless, eager to make new friends.
    ‘Hello, my name is Sarah.’
    Surprise scuds across the faces of a crisp couple, who step back involuntarily before accepting my outstretched hand. Frédéric, in the meantime, has just seen someone he knows and goes over to say hello. For the next ten minutes I practise my best ‘people skills’, chit-chatting in the friendly, interested sort of way which can always be relied on to start conversation. What do you do? How do you know so-and-so? These people are proving to be much harder work than I imagined, though. While they answer politely enough they don’t initiate any questions of their own. Unnerved, I try even harder, filling the silences with embarrassingly inane remarks. Quel beau