The bizarre coincidence that my novel X in Provence takes place in Mazan in southern France – the same village where Gisèle Pelicot was repeatedly raped ­– still rubs me raw.  But I have a confession to make. My book is based on a true story. It is, largely, a self-portrait and many of the events described in its pages actually occurred in Mazan and under the awning of Mont Ventoux, the jewel of the Vaucluse. 

Why do I fess up to this now? Originally I wrote the story as a memoir, only to be told by an agent I should fictionalize it to have a better chance of it being published as I’m no celebrity. So that’s what I did, create a fictionalized memoir. But bringing this book to light, portraying it as make-up, as my imagination, has not sat right. A pounding internal voice reminds me that I’m not being authentic and true to myself. When I talk about my book, it’s like I’m talking about someone else far removed. But no. The core of it is me. I’ve also been fearful of admitting the autobiographical nature of X in Provence, of exposing myself and others – hence the yin-yang nature of my internal struggle.

But the tide has turned. The “Giselle Pèlicot effect” (of which I’ve written), casting off the shackles of shame and standing up to those who would seek to shirk their responsibility and belittle the victim, has stirred me to action.

Again I state: I draw no parallels between the evils that happened to Gisèle Pelicot – which she courageously chose to expose in public – and my own story. 

What I do aver is this:  I lived in Mazan. I came to know this village of 6,000 inhabitants. I had driving lessons there. I even got married in its town hall. When I describe the murky sexual underbelly of this region in Provence, I know of what I talk. I frequented the sex club in Avignon, the nude beaches in Sainte Marie de la Mer in the Camargue, the taboo-less sauna.  I partook of the sexual activities that were seen as nothing more than playful, delectable hobbies. “Within a broad-based milieu, it is not a big exaggeration to say that an outing to a club echangiste (sex club) was treated as casually as nipping out for a café-au-lait,” I wrote in the book as a knowing participant. But this casualness, is it really what it seemed?

“Anchored in relationships the French had no qualms about having sex with strangers – not that I had carried out any sort of survey on the subject. Could it be that underneath the suave female surfaces I saw at the club there were miseries and jealousies galore?”

This was the side of Provence that I wanted to portray in my book, a darkish demimonde that thrives, in utter contrast to the mellifluous lavender fields and sun-splayed markets stereotypically conjured up by this region. Not that these don’t continue to captivate. 

Obsessive love – call it addiction – is what also compelled me to write the book. I want to shout from the rafters: It happened to me and so it can happen to miss or mrs “every woman” – education, intelligence, socio-economic status be damned.  The disease is this: falling into a highly destructive relationship where you become so hooked to the manipulator that a state of hell, that is, continued emotional abuse, is preferable to being cut loose. I suffered in Mazan, I was kicked out of Mazan, but I loved Mazan.