My Week, by Carla Bruni*

=== LUNDI ===

“Mais bien sûr!” I say to my husband, “I must go to New York and sing one of my songs at the birthday concert for Nelson Mandela!” My husband stops attempting to fit le adult toothbrush into his tiny, childlike mouth, and peers at me sideways. We are doing our morning ablutions at our twin sinks in the discreetly sloping bathroom in the Élysée Palace. Otherwise, alors, sideways would not be an option. And yet, little Nicolas adopts le uncertain face, and says he’s not sure that this is une bonne idée.

“Oh ’usband!” I laugh, nibbling coquettishly at my toothbrush. “You are jealous? Because we were once lovers?” “You and Nelson Mandela?” says Nicolas.

I shrug. Maybe not. It is so hard to keep le track. But anyway, says Nicolas, it’s not that. It’s just the whole idea. What would I even sing? “One of my big hits!” I tell him.

Nicolas starts choking.

“Sweetheart!” I say. “Please! Less of this foolish pride! We must get you le enfant toothbrush!” “Oui,” says Nicolas, quickly. “Le toothbrush. That was it. Silly old moi.”

=== MARDI ===

I am decided. But it must be le duet. Also on the bill is Stevie Wonder. Alors, I fetch le peculiar French telephone with le weird extra earpiece on the back, and give him a call.

“Stevie,” I say, affecting le premier sexy voice. “I just called to say I love you.” “Who is this?” says Stevie Wonder. “And do you have laryngitis?” I explain. It is I, le First Lady of France, the beautiful yet curiously accessible Carla Bruni. Perhaps we once were lovers. Who can say? This weekend, anyway, I suggest a duet. For Nelson.

“Oh yeah,” says Stevie Wonder. “I heard you’d done a song. Wasn’t it in French? Never realised you’d made a career out of it.” I sigh. There have been many songs, and many albums. And all in French. Poor Stevie Wonder! It must be so hard keeping up with things that everybody else knows, when one is blind! “Not usually,” says Stevie Wonder.

=== MERCREDI ===

Aretha Franklin isn’t returning my calls. And no luck with Cyndi Lauper, either. She agrees that les girls just wanna have le fun, but says that she’d rather have fun on stage with L’il Kim. “Although I quite liked that French song,” she said. Le slag.

Soon, I may start throwing things. Je suis in a right mood.

“Ha!” I say to le husband, bitterly. “You are ashamed of my music! I hate you! It is no wonder that you are cowering behind le sofa!” “I am merely standing behind le sofa,” says Nicolas.

“Sorry,” I say.

=== JEUDI ===

I cannot begin to understand this reluctance. It is almost as though these other artists feel I am not a performer of their calibre, but merely famous for removing le clothes and marrying le shortarse.

“Or something,” agrees Nicolas. “So. Best call le whole thing off, eh?” Non! For there is still Dave Stewart, of Eurythmics! For he has agreed to a duet, and we were never even lovers. I think. New York here we come!

Nicolas still feels it is a bad idea.

“Oh husband,” I tease. “You are just worried that Barack Obama will be ostentatiously peering at le bottom again!” If he does, I add, he must simply take revenge by ostentatiously peering at le bottom of Michelle. “But I’ll be doing that anyway,” Nicolas reminds me. “For I am French.”

=== VENDREDI ===

An argument while we pack, when Nicolas says we shouldn’t bother packing my guitar.

“Fine!” I shout. “And we shouldn’t pack your brick, either!” Nicolas hates to travel without his brick. At a podium, without it, he must stand on books. For a President, this is undignified. He hangs his head.

“OK,” he sighs. “You win. Take le guitar. Oui, you belong on stage with Aretha Franklin, Gloria Gaynor and the like. Oui, I did worry you would look foolish. I am now prepared to admit every one of your songs is le timeless classic. Just let me have the brick.” “Merci,” I say, primly. “And of my many songs, tell me, which is your favourite?” “Oh, le French one,” says my husband. “Definitely.”

* : as told to Hugo Rifkind, in the Times...