Montreal in summer is all about looking and pretending not to look, seeing and pretending not to see. This city of balconies, where we eat our breakfasts perched like birds on wires, across shady laneways from strangers also perched, also pecking. Voyeurism is built into the architecture; exhibitionism is a side-effect of the weather.
For months, my flatmate Colleen and I watched our neighbours across the way. It was impossible not to: their lives backed on to ours. They were a couple in maybe their late 30s, in a house – an actual two-storey house – amid all the bodies crammed into apartments. They were cosily attractive. They had a dog. They added a baby.
Colleen first began to watch them after her ex moved out. It was winter, when the intense cold here can isolate us from each other. She was lonely, and this seemingly perfect couple were a distraction.
Just a treacherously icy 20-minute walk south lived another brokenhearted woman in a suddenly too large apartment, whom Colleen – in her immaculate wisdom – would soon choose as a flatmate. (OK, so I was the only one to reply to the ad; but that just means fate was working her magic extra-hard.)
On moving in, I may have escalated things. I christened them The Perfects and gave them high-flying careers. Jean-François was a former creative and current executive at Ubisoft games company. Manon was a human rights lawyer. As a newborn, little Élodie did not yet have a job, but I thought she’d eventually be some kind of introverted science geek, given that she cried so rarely. Microbiologist?
When the summer came, Jean-François started nesting like a mofo (which I suppose he had literally just become), using the evenings to turn the back garden – an actual garden! – into something grassy and rockeried and patioed that Manon gracefully watered in the mid-morning while he was at work. He put a railing around the second-floor balcony: little Élodie would not be falling off that any time soon.
Having caught snippets of their conversation on the breeze, Colleen informed me in a disappointed tone that The Perfects were Anglophones. But I already knew. I’d heard Jean-François shout something to the guy who helped him baby-proof the balcony. I knew that his name was not Jean-François. It probably wasn’t even Guillaume.
Once, Colleen texted to tell me that The Perfects were having a photoshoot in their living room. I asked her if she could take a photo of the photoshoot, but she couldn’t because that’s probably illegal, and anyway her camera lens wasn’t good enough.
What? We’re just two single women in their 30s, semi-ironically spying on their happily coupled-up and breeding fellow citizens, as if Hitchcock had directed a hilarious episode of Sex And The City in which the ladies realised they were all definitely going to die alone.
I didn’t see the photoshoot, but I could imagine the pictures. The Perfects would melt into each other on their comfortable settee, cradling little Élodie between them, their mouths set in softly curved contentment (they were certainly not the type to smile big toothy grins). Manon would pair natural fibres with statement jewellery; Jean-François would rock his dad jumper and beard. They’d be all symmetry and ease. There’d be one silly snap with the dog, too – just for fun! Oh, those Perfects.
But who were the pictures for, I wondered? Who was the target audience, the intended voyeur? Perhaps they’d hang their family portrait against the exposed brickwork of their living room – for their eyes only. Or perhaps they’d send copies to family and friends, adorning fridges, evoking gentle jealousy in childless brothers, longing in faraway grandmas. Were Jean-François and Manon the type to share the photos on social media? How intentionally had the image been framed?
The Perfects rarely had guests over to their beautiful garden, whereas our higgledy-piggledy balcony hosted a summer-long cocktail hour. Some nights we sat out back and played tunes: me on guitar, Colleen on banjo for that Deliverance edge. We engaged in musical-espionage multitasking, interspersing our folk songs with affectionate commentary on the neighbours. “Hey, what should we call our band?” I asked. Colleen’s answer was obvious: The Perfects.
I started to write about them. I penned rhapsodies of their baby and their dog, of their shiny hardwood floors, excellent kitchen spot-lighting and carefully curated shrubbery. I puzzled out what they represented from my psychoanalytic rear window, recognising that every act of voyeurism is in fact a gesture of self-analysis.
Then one Sunday I passed them on the street as they pushed Élodie in her pram. I tried not to look, lest they discern from my expression that my flatmate and I half-arsedly stalked them as an in-house joke. Up close, I had a flash of recognition. I dismissed it. Of course they looked familiar; I’d been watching them for months.
But that wasn’t it. As I got ready to go to dinner at my friends Alex and Ellis’s place some days later, it hit me. I knew The Perfects! I’d met them at Ellis’s birthday party the year before. They’d even talked at length about buying and renovating their new house. How had I failed to make the connection? I was stupidly hungover at that birthday party – I can’t remember why. My ex, Jess, and I were still together. And Mrs Perfect was kind of mean to me. I am usually oblivious to people being mean to me, preferring to go through life assuming that everyone thinks I’m adorable. But, in this case, it was impossible to maintain my narcissism. When I arrived, I almost knocked over a wine glass with my jittery hands, but caught it just in time. Not the greatest first impression. “Are we making you nervous?” Mrs Perfect asked, coolly. Suddenly she was.
Manon was not a human rights lawyer after all; she was a successful composer. Alex played us some of her work. I don’t know anything much about music, but it was impressive, and I complimented it. This did not go down well. She looked at me for just a moment, as if trying to discern what value to place on my opinion, then turned away without responding. I attempted to be friendly in non-sycophantic ways, and was on delightful conversation-kindling question number three when I realised that this woman was not charmed by me, at all. It’s not like I need everyone to be charmed by me. But was I talking too much? Was I asking the wrong questions? Was my dress a bit titty? Was she honestly immune to my Irish lilt?
I remembered that Jess, The Perfects and I had a conversation about how our respective romances started. I’m a sucker for stories about how people met and fell in love. Even if it’s just, “We realised we both liked David Cronenberg movies on our Tinder date” (Canadian edition), or “We got ossified drunk and collided with each other’s faces” (Irish edition), I want to hear it. (An explanatory aside for those who do not live in the queer bubble of Montreal: my ex uses “they” pronouns. I know it can be confusing at first, but you get used to it.)
When Manon met Jean-François, she knew that he was the one. Funny – that was like Jess and me! I swear I knew I was going to be with Jess before I even saw their face. I was at a party and felt this energy behind me. I know that sounds crazy, but it’s true. I turned around and saw Jess’s back and thought, “I need to go talk to that person.” When I did, it was like they took up the whole room. I thought I’d never seen a more beautiful face. I stole their bracelet so they’d have to meet me to get it back. And I told my friend Ruth on the way home in the taxi, “I’m in love now.” She laughed. But nothing like that had ever happened to me before.
Jean-François had not been so immediately convinced. It had taken time. Manon had to be patient. That was like Jess and me, too! A few days after the party, Jess came to get their bracelet back. I made us a picnic and we talked for hours. We started hanging out all the time, but it took three months of long walks and pretending to be vegetarian before I even got a kiss.
“It can be overwhelming,” Mr Perfect said, “when someone is so sure.” Jess agreed, too emphatically. Then, because my erstwhile honey was in one of those endearing yet socially unhelpful moods where they just got sick of adult conversation, they left me with The Perfects and went off to colour with the children.
That opposites attract has always felt true to me. You need things in common, sure, but I’m an early bird who likes night owls, a party animal who wants a homebody, a fully paid-up member of the loud crowd obsessed with knowing what’s going on in the head of that sexy solitarian. And like poles repel, of course. It’s what we see of ourselves in others that makes us judge them. Do you cringe when your friend becomes boastful? That’s because you, too, are boastful: you just know enough to hide it.
Whatever it was that she saw, Mrs Perfect ignored me as much as she could without making Ellis’s birthday unpleasant. And I ignored her ignoring me, because I have my pride, and also because I was very hungover.
That was it. An unexceptional interaction at a party that I might never have thought of again, except that the couple became The Perfects.
When I arrived at Alex and Ellis’s place for dinner this time round, I was bubbling with the story of how I’d been unwittingly spying on their friends for months. Alex and Ellis found the coincidence delicious, and even dug up a picture of Manon, Jess and me at the party. It was taken when we weren’t looking, but with Ellis’s eye for composition. We’re all three sitting along one side of the kitchen table. Jess is in the background, Manon is in the foreground, and I’m in the middle. Jess is looking stage right, away from the camera and from me, as if there’s something amusing just out of the frame. Their left elbow is on the table, creating a barrier between us: body language communicating something that I should have been able to read, something that would flatten me by the time I gained the perspective to see it.
I look small, because Jess is bigger than me and Mrs Perfect is closer to the camera. I am red and blotchy between the honey-skinned Canadians. I’m gazing at Manon, awkwardly smiling, as if I want to talk to her. My hands rest neutrally in my lap and my eyes are tired. Manon looks past me, also out of the frame. (Ignoring me! Proof!) She holds the bowl of her wine glass in both hands, and her forearms create a wall to protect her. She is serene and pretty. Her chunky wedding band glistens close to the lens. I want to shout at my photo self: stop trying so hard, woman. You can’t make everyone love you.
When I got home, I told Colleen about my connection to The Perfects. “She was mean to you? Well, I don’t like her any more.” We laughed. But I found I couldn’t play the game any more. They were too real to invent lives and stories for, too autonomous to be the unwitting objects of my fantasies. And I couldn’t very well write about them now. Could I?
As Anglophone Montreal is small, and we have friends in common, I encountered Manon twice more. The first time, she didn’t recognise me, which is a reassuring state of affairs for any amateur voyeur. When she was reminded that we’d met at Ellis’s birthday she said, “Oh yeah, I think I remember,” then started yawning as I told our little circle about a comedy show I was helping produce.
I was nervous. I always talk with my hands, but they went into waggly overdrive. I felt like a creep and a fake. But what was I supposed to say? “Hey, funny story, my flatmate and I were jokingly spying on you and your husband for months, but then I figured out I kind of knew you. Isn’t that weird? Your dog is adorable.”
The second time was at Alex and Ellis’s again. I suspected that someone had told Manon about my unorthodox interest, because she was no less cool, but she did sort of acknowledge me. I felt like I’d been caught. Oh, for the safety of my twitching curtains. But this is what writers do, isn’t it? We don’t create so much as observe. I’ve been careful to change enough details to anonymise The Perfects. But, all the same, would they be disturbed if they read this? Would that merely annoying woman from a long-ago party be elevated to the status of total psycho? (Did I mention that Anglophone Montreal is small?)
I tried to put myself in their shoes. To become the observed, desired object. And an odd moment from last summer kept coming to mind.
“Massive muscles,” said a voice from behind me, as I slowed my bike for a red light. “Massive muscles,” it repeated, before I realised the man was talking to me. I turned to look at him: about my age, well turned out, cycling a serious bit of kit.
“Your calf muscles are so big,” he said, pulling up beside me. “Thanks,” I replied. “I’ve never seen a woman with calf muscles like yours. They’re huge.” “Thanks,” I said again. “You’ve probably never seen them,” he continued. “My legs?” I asked, confused, because I have seen my legs. “But you’ve probably never seen them when they’re cycling.”
“No.”
“They’re massive.”
“Thanks.”
A pause. “You should get someone to video them.” The light turned and we cycled alongside one another.
“Why?”
“So you can see how big your muscles are.”
This was the longest conversation I had ever had about my calf muscles. Were they really freakishly humungous and nobody had ever bothered to tell me? They looked kind of normal from where my face is.
“They’re beautiful,” sighed my new friend, revealing – what? A fetish for women with gargantuan hairy calves? Jealousy of my mega-ripped flippers? Or, disappointingly, that my leg muscles are not massive at all, and that this conversation had been a (very) weird pickup ploy? Unless someone wants to record my legs as I pedal, there is simply no way to know.
I did not give the calf whisperer my number. But I did think about the people watching me as I cycle through the day-to-day, and about the people I watch. And I thought about watching: the harmlessness of it, the harm of it, distance, desire, how refreshing it is when someone permeates the boundary between all the strange things we think and all the staid things we say.
In my own way, I am sidling up behind The Perfects and proclaiming, “Massive muscles!” I am informing them that someone should videotape them, because they don’t know how entrancing they are as they move through their kitchen and garden and lives; I’m sighing that they are beautiful, even if I have already been rejected.
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