Eat My Heart Out (6 page)

‘I always cared,' I said.

‘But you fucking loved it. Didn't you?'

‘Can we talk about something else for once?' said Freddie.

Jasper positioned himself over the billiard table and fired at empty space; no balls clicked. He turned to Samuel. ‘You know, one thing I will say. The problem with your big sister Allegra as a lay was that she was too damn pliable.'

Samuel looked at Freddie.

‘Jasper,' said Freddie. ‘Dude. Don't.'

‘Yah,' Jasper went on. ‘I mean, when I was fucking Allegra and I had her perfect fucking porcelain behind in my hands and I was squeezing her cunt, it was like trying to get blood out of a stone—'

‘You're disgusting,' I said.

‘Wait,' said Jasper. ‘There's a compliment for you.'

I waited.

‘She was never really
there
, you know what I mean?' Jasper went on. ‘I felt like she could just be anything I wanted her to be like, like her buttocks were made out of running wax and I could fashion them into anything I chose. I felt like I was crafting a woman!'

Samuel left the room.

Freddie followed him.

Jasper stared at me.

I stared at Jasper.

‘But with you at least I felt like you were with me,' he said.

Five

What does it mean for a woman to submit?

To submit is to lose oneself. To want to submit is to want to lose oneself. I'm talking about consent. We can lose ourselves through religion, alcohol, sex, drugs, political fanaticism, or love.

Why would a woman want to lose herself in love?

In short, why would she want to fall?

Because it's fun? Oh yes, it's fun.

Or because it offers her respite from the pressures of the meritocracy?

The meritocracy demands that she alone is responsible – for her successes, yes. But also for her failures. Falling is a way of avoiding failure – or success.

Falling is a form of submission.

The modern woman senses that in order to win a man's love, she must deny her capability and regress.

Marge had left her copy of Stephanie's book under the table. It was signed:

Dear Marge
,

Sending you love from my (rightful?) place of exile. It's cold here but the sistahood can't get me from all the way across the Atlantic. I'm sorry again – if it's right for me to say sorry
?

In solidarity, as ever
,

Steph

I stroked the dust jacket, hoping to absorb the gravitas contained in those pages by the power of touch alone.

I was sitting on the front step of the closed Barclays next to Leicester Square tube station, working my way through a family-size bucket of fried chicken, which I had purchased from the fake KFC over the road.

A hen party wearing angel wings and devil horns staggered out of the all-night pizza place, clutching a long train of torn white netting.
Fiona! Fiona!
they chanted. Fiona grabbed a man wearing a pinstripe shirt who seemed to be attached to a stag do and shoved her clenched fist down the front of his trousers. He groped under her boob tube. Her friends began to sing:
Puuuuuurrrfect!
The old Eddi Reader song. The man walked away.

Rickshaws carrying cargos of people fucked out of their brains swerved dangerously close to the night buses that swelled with yet more people cramming kebabs into their mouths, letting their sleeping heads knock against the windows on the upper deck, missing the view of this splendid city.

‘Do you know, there is no direct translation for jouissance in English?' toad man was saying to me over martinis in the bar.

I had taken a night bus from Leicester Square to The ASH Hotel, which was situated between The City and East, combining money with creativity in an ideal cocktail of dynamic penthouse suites, stellar service, and conceptual art, according to the brochure that I was reading intently.

‘I like to think of myself as French in spirit,' he went on. ‘Even though I'm English with only the faintest tinge of Scot.' He chortled and rubbed his belly. ‘So to sit with a French woman in the flesh is something of a minor miracle for me.'

‘Minor?'

‘Oh, they are hard to find in London. The French tend to stick together and close ranks. Unless I were to lurk outside the gates of the Lycée!'

‘No, I mean why is it only a minor miracle? To find me?'

‘Do forgive me! A major one!
Salud
!'

We clinked glasses; mine was already empty.

I sucked the olive on its stick. I stopped sucking it when I saw what toad man's eyes were doing to my mouth. That tongue appeared. I crossed my legs. Then I uncrossed them. I rattled the cocktail stick against my teeth.

There was a long silence.

‘But we don't even know each other's names!' I said with a laugh. I let my eyelids droop, seductively.

‘Are you sleepy, dear?'

I opened my eyes as wide as possible. ‘No.'

‘James.' He extended his hand. It was warm and soft.

‘I'm Camille.'

‘How erotic.'

‘Yeah. My mother named me after my father's courtesan. She was a chorus girl at the Moulin Rouge. She could kick her legs up extremely high.'

‘And what does your mother do?'

‘She … bakes croissants. But she was like photographed by Man Ray and all the surrealists back in the day.'

‘Back in the day? As in the 1920s day?'

‘Yeah,' I said. ‘She's very old.' I gestured to the bartender for another drink. He was about my age. There was a dish of spicy green balls on the bar; I was crunching them at record speed. ‘Hhm,' I said. ‘Japanese, I think. Try one?'

James shook his head. ‘What do you look for in a man?'

New drinks arrived. I said thanks to the bartender but he averted his eyes.

‘I don't look for anything.' I paused. ‘Do you know the song “I'll Be Your Mirror” by Velvet Underground? Yeah, I'm looking for that. The lyric goes something like
when you think the night has taken over your mind and inside you're unkind and twisted, I'll show you that you're not
. I mean, I'm looking for a man who can see that I'm not horrible even if I act horrible sometimes.'

‘So you're looking for a punch bag?'

‘No. That's not what I meant.'

‘Some men are very threatened by female strength.' He stared at my thighs.

‘I know.'

‘Some men are appalled by the idea of performing cunnilingus ad nauseam. They regard the vulva as a Venus flytrap, designed to eat them alive.'

I downed the martini. Now I was getting really drunk. I put my hand on James's shoulder and said: ‘What I love about you is that you've got a lot of progressive ideas about women. I love that about you.' I gave him a kiss on the cheek.

He acted quickly; his face jerked to the left and he tried to get that tongue in my mouth. I pulled back.

He looked sad, so I said: ‘But how rude of me! I haven't asked you what you do?'

‘I am in the pussy business.'

‘Oh? That's not what I meant.' I was slurring. ‘I mean – this is for free.' I opened my arms wide. ‘I am here for free. Because I like you.'

‘Why, thank you, my wild orchid.' He touched the tip of my nose. ‘I like you too.'

‘And I'm lonely.'

He pulled a BlackBerry out of his waistcoat pocket. ‘Look.' He showed me a picture. It was a cat with orange eyes and blue-grey fur.

‘That looks like a cute alien!' I cried. I gestured to the bartender for two more martinis. He was wrapping the spirit bottles in layers of cling film; they looked like silkworm cocoons. I told him so. He ignored me.

I hitched my pencil skirt up shorter.

‘That's Lola,' said James. ‘She is a chartreuse. I breed. One is not supposed to breed chartreuse on English shores according to the blasted CFA.'

‘CFA?'

‘Cat Fanciers Association. But to hell with them!' His face became angry. ‘They are the most sumptuous pussies in all the world as far as I'm concerned! In all of Europe. I've been obsessed with them ever since I came across one while backpacking through the Chartreuse Mountains, from whence they derive their name.' He stared into my eyes. ‘I was a young man then. That was before I met Margaret.'

I reached for the tiny green balls but they had all gone.

‘There, the mountains are blue,' said James. ‘The monks make blue liqueur. Everything is blue.'

‘I want to go there,' I said.

A white statue wearing nothing but a pair of jazzy speedos and Ray-Bans was standing in the corner of the lift, reflected a million times in the mirrors that fenced us in. James and I were reflected too: we looked hideous together. The statue was made of porcelain, not marble. Its hair was slicked back,
American Psycho
style.

‘He reminds me of my father,' I slurred, pointing to the statue. We were heading up to the seventh floor: good luck. ‘'Cept my father was taller and looks more like Tom Cruise in
Risky Business
. Have you seen that film?'

James shook his head.

‘Me neither. But I've seen the posters. There's a photo of my mother and father on a cruise ship in 1984. That was the year they met. Actually, they met
on
the cruise ship. Because my father was making a noise in cruises. A big noise. And my mother was just … there. It was sailing from Portsmouth to Bilbao.' I looked at my million weathered faces in the mirrors. ‘They fell in love.'

There was a ding. The doors opened. The corridor was long and pale and candy-coloured. It was making me seasick. I touched the wall, and found that it was made of leather.

‘Was your mother selling croissants on the cruise?'

‘No,' I said. ‘That was in her muffin phase. She was selling muffins.'

James laughed heartily and grabbed my hand. He kissed my knuckles. I balled my fist. He prised my hand open and put my index finger in his mouth. He sucked it very slowly. I watched him, fascinated.

‘I love a girl with imagination,' he said to my finger.

‘But that bit about the cruise ship was true,' I told him.

James was doing his toilette. The bathroom door was closed. I sat on the end of the king-size bed and stared at the cupboard containing the TV for a long while. Then I shouted loud enough for him to hear: ‘I love you!'

‘I love you too!' he shouted back.

I opened the cupboard and stared at the blank TV screen inside. I opened the mini-bar and uncorked a bottle of champagne. It hissed. I filled two flutes.

A collage of insects hung over the candy-coloured leather sofa, which matched all the cushions and all the curtains and all the sheets. On closer inspection, I saw that the insects were cut-outs of vintage porn. This was confirmed by the framed text next to the picture. There was a stack of magazines on the coffee table:
Frieze
,
Monocle
,
Dazed & Confused
.

I turned on the TV.
Come Dine with Me
. A brunette was laughing and pointing at a mound of collapsed cream and banana.

James appeared, full of the joys of spring. I was full of something; not spring. The champagne had failed to go to my head. He looked about twenty years younger than he had in the bar. His comb-over was freshly oiled.

Now he opened the box of truffles on the pillow and pushed one into my mouth. It tasted too sweet. He unfastened my pencil skirt and rolled it over my legs. He rolled down my tights too. He rolled down my knickers. He was squatting in front of me like a toad.

I shifted away from him and turned the volume up loud. ‘I think it's the voice-over,' I said. ‘That's what makes this programme so funny.'

The brunette was leading a conga line around her front room. A man who looked like an accountant was circling his hips, unevenly. The song changed to ‘Hey Macarena'.

James pawed at me.

I said in a loud, assertive voice: ‘Sebastian's parents would never let their kids watch TV. That's why they grew up so creative. When Sebastian first came to my school, I'd only ever read
The Baby-sitters Club
and
Sweet Valley High
.'

‘Who's Sebastian?' said James.

‘But then he introduced me to all these books. Henry Miller and Anaïs Nin.' I turned to James. ‘Have you read them?'

He shook his head.

‘I thought Sebastian was a genius like Miller,' I went on. ‘He said he wanted to make my ovaries incandescent like Miller. But when we did it the first time, they didn't go incandescent. So Sebastian.' I laughed. ‘Got really angry and started punching the wall and going mental. It was funny. Because he wasn't really like that – he wasn't mental.'

James lay back on the bed. Then he sat up again.

‘He wasn't really a genius either,' I said. ‘When we were about thirteen he told me that I wasn't in love with him – I was in love with love itself. He said it was a privileged form of mania because apparently a lot of artists and writers had it. He said he didn't have it, and he seemed really angry about that. But I was sure it was a curse – whatever he said I had. It must have been a curse because it meant my heart didn't belong to – myself. It belonged to someone other than myself. It belonged to him.'