Playing Cupid

One of my dearest friends is the picture-perfect definition of a catch: a walking advertisement for good genetics and even sweeter disposition. She is the type of woman people would have sang about in old romantic French movies. Whenever I introduce her, she is “my friend who looks like a German model from the 90s with a heart of gold”. I met her in Paris a long time ago through common acquaintances, back when we were both navigating exclusive arrangements. Hers blossomed from casual encounters to an actual relationship, with all the joys and complexities it entails.

It lasted for six years, at a most formative period of her life. With a few more relationships and the learnings that come with it, she may realise she existed in a gilded cage of her own making for the last year. Six years, that is enough time to have a deep impact on her vision of relationships, traditional values and her place within the trophy wife trope. Enough time to imagine what her ideal ring or first property would be. Cheval Blanc weekends, a collection of Chanel that would make Coco weep herself, managers of 3* Michelin stars in her phonebook in case of emergency… He treated her to luxury in a way that would make even the most honest hearts turn a blind eye on any faults. I will not even begin to describe what his “forgive-me gifts” entailed.

But, plot twist that surprises absolutely no one, the relationship between borderline narcissistic A-type executives perpetually “about to divorce”, and much younger, starry-eyed girlfriends blinded by romantic ideals rarely ends well. She was patient, played by the rules, and loved him dearly. Her stubborn heart still does in her own way.