Your Second Life Begins When You Realize You Only Have One - Softcover

Giordano, Raphaelle

 
9780525535591: Your Second Life Begins When You Realize You Only Have One
Softcover
ISBN 10: 0525535594 ISBN 13: 9780525535591
Verlag: G.P. Putnam's Sons, 2018

Inhaltsangabe

THE #1 FRENCH BESTSELLER

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The feel-good #1 bestselling French novel about a woman whose mission to cure her "routine-itis" leads her to lasting joy and true fulfillment, for fans of The Alchemist and Hector and the Search for Happiness.

At thirty-eight and a quarter years old, Paris native Camille has everything she needs to be happy, or so it seems: a good job, a loving husband, a wonderful son. Why then does she feel as if happiness has slipped through her fingers? All she wants is to find the path to joy.

When Claude, a French Sean Connery look-alike and routinologist, offers his unique advice to help get her there, she seizes the opportunity with both hands. Camille's journey is full of surprising escapades, creative capers, and deep meaning, as she sets out to transform her life and realize her dreams one step at a time...

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Raphaelle Giordano is a writer, artist, and expert in personal development who lives in Paris, France. Trained in communication and stress management techniques, she previously owned Emotone, an events agency that organized art activities and innovative team building, stress management, and creativity/innovation courses. She has previously published (in French) the nonfiction titles Self-Assertion, Stress Management, and Relationships for Couples. Your Second Life Begins When You Realize You Only Have One is her first novel.

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one

The raindrops crashing against my windshield grew larger and larger. The wipers creaked and shuddered and soon the torrents of water were so great that I instinctively took my foot off the accelerator. It was an almost biblical storm; a car accident was the last thing I needed.

To avoid the Friday-evening traffic on my way back into central Paris, I had decided to take the back roads through the woods that surround the city. Anything to avoid the gridlocked highways and the horror of spending hours at a standstill. I squinted as I tried to make out the road signs ahead through the misted-up windows. And as if the weather and the traffic weren't enough, all of a sudden, in the middle of the dark wood, my GPS gave up the ghost.

It has to be said, no GPS would ever have survived the journey I'd just made. Or at least not unscathed. I was returning from an uncharted wilderness, the sort of area where "you are here" means "you are nowhere." And yet . . . out there was a small office park, an unlikely collection of PLCs (Profitless companies, I thought to myself) that my boss must have thought offered enough of a commercial opportunity to justify my trip. Although I had the unpleasant suspicion that ever since he'd agreed I could work a four-day week, he was making me pay for that favor by giving me the jobs no one else wanted. Which explained why I was in this tin can on wheels, navigating the roads on the outskirts of Paris to chase after such small fry . . .

Come on, Camille, stop feeling sorry for yourself and concentrate on the road . . .

Suddenly there was a loud bang. I swerved terrifyingly out of control. My head hit the windshield, and I learned that the story about your life flashing in front of your eyes in a split second wasn't just a myth.

After a few foggy moments, I came to and tentatively reached up to where I'd hit my forehead . . . nothing sticky, thank goodness, just a large bump. I quickly checked myself all over. No, no other injuries to report. More of a fright than anything else, thank god!

I got out of the car, shielding myself from the rain as best I could with my raincoat, and went to inspect the damage: a burst tire and a dented fender. Once I got over my initial panic, fear gave way to anger. For fuck's sake! Could today possibly get any worse? With shaking hands, I grabbed my cell phone as if it was a lifeline. No signal, of course. Why was I not surprised?

The minutes ticked by. Nothing-there wasn't a soul around. I was all alone, stranded in this empty wood.

Don't just panic, do something! There must be people living round here somewhere . . .

So I abandoned the car-it was no use to me now-and set off along the road, braving the elements in my oh-so-glamorous hi-vis waterproof. Needs must . . .

After an eternity of ten minutes, I came across the iron gates of a large house. I pressed the button on the videophone as urgently as if I were dialing emergency services.

A man replied tersely, in one of those haughty voices that you reserve for unwanted callers.

"Yes? What is it?"

I crossed my fingers: Please let this guy take pity on me!

"Good evening . . . So sorry to bother you, but I've crashed my car in the woods behind your house . . . My tire's burst and I don't have any cell recep-"

The buzzing sound of the gate being opened made me jump. Was it my bedraggled shipwreck survivor's appearance that had convinced him to offer me asylum? I didn't care. I slipped inside without a second thought and found myself confronted by a magnificent mansion, surrounded by a manicured garden. I felt as though I had struck gold.

two

The light came on at the top of the front steps, and the door opened. A man's imposing silhouette advanced toward me, carrying an enormous umbrella. When he drew closer, I could make out a long face, good-looking despite the wrinkles. He was one of those men who had aged well: a kind of Gallic Sean Connery. I noticed dimples at the corners of his mouth, which gave him a friendly air. One that put me at ease. He was at least sixty, but it didn't look as if it had taken much effort to get there. His pale gray eyes had a lively twinkle to them, and his salt-and-pepper hair was surprisingly thick for a man his age, only slightly receding in a way that suited the shape of his forehead. A beard as well tended as the gardens finished off his stylish appearance. He invited me to follow him inside.

"Come in. You're soaked through!"

"Tha-thanks. It's really kind of you. Again, I'm so sorry to disturb you . . ."

"Don't be. It's not a problem. Take a seat while I fetch you a towel."

Just then, an elegant woman who I guessed must be his wife appeared. Her pretty face was creased with a frown, which she quickly suppressed when she saw me.

"Is everything all right, darling?"

"Yes, everything's fine. This lady had a car accident and couldn't get a signal in the woods. She just needs to use the phone and to recover a little."

"Oh yes, of course . . ."

When she saw how cold I was, she kindly offered me a cup of tea. I accepted on the spot.

As she disappeared into the kitchen, her husband came back downstairs, holding a towel.

"Thank you, you're very kind, Mr. . . ."

"Call me Claude."

"Ah, OK. My name's Camille."

"Here you are, Camille. The phone is over there."

"Wonderful. I won't be a minute."

"Take your time."

I went over to the telephone, which stood on a pretty inlaid wooden table beneath a piece of modern art. These people had taste, and they were obviously well-off. What a relief I had come across them and not some monster who devoured desperate housewives in distress.

I picked up the receiver and dialed my insurance company's roadside assistance number. Since I couldn't give them my car's exact location, I asked the mechanic to come to the house, after Claude gave me the address. I was told they would be there within the hour. I breathed a sigh of relief: things were looking up.

Then I called home. Claude was considerate enough to go over to the fire crackling in the hearth on the far side of the room and poke the logs while I did so. After eight seemingly endless rings, my husband picked up. I could tell from his voice that he had fallen asleep in front of the TV. He didn't seem surprised or worried that I was calling: he was used to me sometimes coming home quite late.

I explained all the catastrophes that had occurred, but he kept interrupting me with annoyed grunts and tuts of exasperation, before asking technical details: How long would it take the tow truck to come? How much was it going to cost? My nerves were frayed enough as it was, and the way he was behaving made me want to shout down the phone. Couldn't he show a bit of understanding just this once? After telling him that I would sort it out and he needn't bother to wait up for me, I slammed down the phone.

Despite myself, my hands were trembling and I knew tears were welling in my eyes. I didn't hear Claude coming back over to me, so I jumped when I felt his hand on my shoulder.

"Everything OK? Are you all right?" he asked gently. I only wished my husband's voice on the phone a few moments earlier had sounded as concerned.

He bent over me and said again, "Are you OK?"

At that, something in his face brought my defenses crashing down: my lip began to wobble, and I couldn't hold back the tears. My mascara ran down my face as I released all the pent-up frustration that had built over the previous hours, weeks-months, even . . .

three

At first Claude said nothing. He simply stood there, one warm hand resting on my shoulder.

When my tears finally dried, his wife, who in the meantime had put down a steaming cup of tea beside me, went to fetch some tissues....

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Verlag
G.P. Putnam's Sons
Erscheinungsdatum
2018
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0525535594
ISBN 13 
9780525535591
Einband
Taschenbuch
Anzahl der Seiten
244
Kontakt zum Hersteller
G.P. Putnam's Sons
https://www.penguin.com/putnam/

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