I nodded to continue and opened the budget review, that I hadn’t even worked on.

’Tuesday – it’s reserved whole day for shooting at Boulevard Raspail. Wednesday you’re having an all morning meeting at the Ministry of Culture. It should finish around 1PM, and taking lunch into account, you should be able to arrive to Bordeaux around 8PM. For the locations for the scenes with the resistance, and the Manager of Ms. Catherine the lead actress there.’ The sum-up sounded like a soothing melody. ’Your last meeting is Friday afternoon. Do you want to drive home Friday night or should I reserve the hotel till Saturday?’

’No.’ I said sharply. ’I’m driving home Friday, no matter what.’ As she sunk in her chair, I smiled reassuringly. ’Anything else Claudia?’

’No.’ She said unsure, but a blush creeped up her cheeks and she shifted nervously in her chair. ’Well yes. I’m sure you remember but uhm Thursday… uhm your wedding anniversary.’

’Fuck.’ I slammed my laptop closed and jolted up toward the window. ’Fuck, fuck, fuck.’ A heavy weight settled within me, an oppressive presence that whispered of my own inadequacies. A suffocating sense of remorse that clung to every fiber of my being. It was as if a spotlight had been directed toward the darkest corners of my soul, revealing all the hidden mistakes and shortcomings that I had desperately tried to bury. I looked out of the window as if standing on the edge of an abyss, peering down into the depths of my own failure. I considered hurdling myself out. The heat of embarrassment surged through my cheeks.

’I could re-schedule…’

I turned to her, ’What? My wedding anniversary?’

’Huh? Oh no.’ Slowly Claudia shook her head. ’The meetings maybe?’

’I need to see those locations, if they are not fitting I’ll be behind schedule.’ I rubbed my neck. Stuck in a building made of glass. I scanned the view. The newly washed roofs gleamed in the careful afternoon sun, as brightly as mirror. Somewhere there was Bette. ’Where is Jean-Pierre then?’ I asked.

’He’s flying Tuesday to Boston.’

’Fuck.’

’Maybe Mrs. Porter will understand.’

’Uhuh.’ My voice trembled with sarcasm. In my head I created the scene;