INJUPITIBLY

Nothing gave him greater pleasure than using the United Kingdom as a decoy for his own domestic failings. Whenever the political pressure increased for him at home, he would point his finger across the channel and play the blame game.

Boris Johnson he held in particular contempt as he often cringed at the ‘Dulex dog’-looking Prime Minister's attempts at being a fluent continental when he really just looked like your typical roast beef Englishman who had forgot to set his alarm clock.

For President Macron, appearing smart was essential when representing your country at such a high level. As much as he knew when to take his tie off, he also knew when to keep it on. These seemingly micro decisions were greatly significant in the psychology of running France as famous for its visual sense in art as it was for its exquisite taste in gastronomy.

He felt uncomfortable with Johnson's populist approach to running the United Kingdom but recognised similarities with his own approach to leading France.

For when times were especially bad, he too would lean to the Nationalist crowd, then when times were good he would assert his allegiance to the European Union. It appeared he wanted to have both his isolationist and internationalist cake and eat it, all at once.

He'd even once compared himself to Jupiter in a famous interview where he'd stated that he wanted to rule unchallenged and detached from trivialities.

But late at night, when faced with his reflection in the mirror, he didn't see the Roman God of the sky and thunder before him, but more the confused, frightened little boy who'd always needed advice and reassurance from others to give the appearance of convictions he lacked.

Mind you, most of the Western leaders these days were like that. Polling for decisions was the typical play for them. Those with convictions not vetted by fonctionaires were regarded as simply reckless.

But always, the long shadow of history, especially Napoleon, hung over him like a dead horse. It was all very well to be progressive and modern, but when the history books were written, what would they say ahout him? He didn't like the idea of being nothing more than just another elevated faceless bereaucrat. Comparisons with Trudeau galled him, as he considered himself far more ossified in his political convictions than Justin, though they did look good together in G7 photos, he could admit.

With Putin and Trump he'd tried to tilt his inherent beta nature into more alpha territory, at least optically, for the cameras. The famous prolonged power handshake with "Le Clockwork Orange" was more like something one might see in a nature documentary illustrating the power tactics of a silverback gorilla.

But Macron had held his nerve and believed he would win over all of them in the end. He felt he had the perfect combination of suave diplomacy, natural intelligence and Gallic handsomeness to be the saviour of Europe and defeater of unruly despots.

Playing Schumann on his grand piano whilst Brigette read some news articles on her tablet, resting on her chaise longue, Macron felt contented. Deep down he knew he was destined for greatness. "Brigette, what was it Moliere once said about fruit something?"

She put down her tablet for a moment and looked across at him with that same exact look of confident authority she had when she was his teacher at the Lycée la Providence in Amiens.

"Trees that are slow to grow bear the best fruit."

Smiling at her consistent ability to recall quotes, he felt vindicated in his love of this older woman, who provided the wisdom to his youth.

A perfect team.

And yet he couldn't help having the sneaking feeling that he had yet to prove to her that he could be the great leader he boasted of being late at night when they were in bed together. He'd often war game various scenarios of great future moments in his remaining presidency while she stroked his hair in that maternal way he so loved. The student/teacher dynamic which had caused such consternation when they first fell in love continued to be unchanging in its way; he was still her "Peter Pan" and she was still his "Wendy", although recently it had disturbed him to hear that shrunken gargoyle Eric Zémmour refer to him as a "Peter Pan of the Elisio".

"I can be Captain Hook just as much as I can be Peter Pan," he said randomly whilst kissing Brigette's perfumed neck.

"Do you want to be Captain Hook?" Brigette asked him softly, not regarding this statement as anything other than typical pillow talk. At least for them.

"If I'm needed to be, I will be."

"Well, I shall always be your Wendy, I hope."

"Yes. But have you ever considered, Wendy might prefer to sleep with Hook than Pan?"

"Provided he leaves his hook on the bedside table then yes, possibly."

"I'd have to grow a moustache of course!"

"NO!"

Emmanuel smiled. He liked it when his wife was decisive. He wished he could be more like her at times.

Lying in the dark, he thought about what he would look like in ten years time. Would he still have that same boyish charm or would he suffer the same fate as other leaders who appeared to age rapidly as soon as their term was over, as if their youth had been temporarily suspended whilst in power.

Perhaps it was the relinquishing of power, their being made mortal again, that suddenly made them look so old.

He hated that idea.

As long as he could remain President, he would remain forever young.

He would need to incurr yet more favour with the French public who he rarely seemed able to please. They had certainly blown hot and cold with him in recent years what with the seemingly endless riots against environmental legislation, COVID19 restrictions and vaccine passports.

Perhaps all he needed now was a war to reveal his inherent greatness. He knew somehow his time was yet to come. It was this unwavering belief in his own personal destiny that made him unconcerned by the ups and downs of daily political life in France, the trivialities.

He was now only interested in the long arc of history.

"France needs me more than I need France."

He waited for Brigette to respond, but all he could hear was her snoring.

It bothered him but at least he had ear plugs. He remembered an old banking friend of his telling him that older women were more likely to increase their snoring. His friend knew this because he'd researched it after being rendered an insomniac one long summer after his own partner had practically blown the roof of.

"It's just that the tongue and the muscles around the airway become weaker as we get older. It's nature doing what nature does."

As Brigette's snoring became even more pronounced, the French President became alarmed once again at the prospect of growing old.

It frightened him. Even more than Vladimir Putin.

No wonder Peter Pan never wanted to leave Neverland, he thought to himself as he watched the green light of his alarm clock flash on the parquet floor, beneath his ornate bedside table.

Perhaps France could be his Neverland.

Europe even.