Hotelles (5 page)

Before getting to the cashier, our arms filled to the brim, I piped up with concern over how much this was all going to cost:

“Rebecca, all of this is wonderful, but . . .”

The way she lifted her index finger, I could tell she'd been waiting for this moment.

“Don't worry about it. The agency will advance you the money.”

So it would be an advance, not a gift.

“But I'll never make enough to pay you back!”

“Rest assured. You won't have any out-of-pocket expenses.”

I slowly grasped what she meant. Much like drug dealers and human traffickers, Rebecca provided her new recruits with generous advances on their future salaries.

“What you mean is you'll deduct it from my first missions?”

“That's right.”

“And so long as I haven't reimbursed you, I'll be working for you for free?”

She glared at me, then broke into a cavernous laugh:

“And here I thought you were just the pretty one. I'm happy to discover that you're also the smarter of the two.”

Intelligent, maybe, but also hers now.

All she had to do was firmly put all the gorgeous clothing in my hands for me to look beyond the poisoned gift and see the promise of a gilded future. A life where I would not need Rebecca Sibony to treat myself to things like these.

Fred was right. I had definitely gone to the other side. And I didn't want to go back.

5

April 2009

Y
ou can open your eyes, Elle.”

How had he managed to perform such a miracle? In less than twenty seconds, the massive dining hall, its staff and fifty guests included, had been completely emptied. Now we were alone. Just he and I in the middle of all the gilt, drinking magnum bottles of champagne under flickering candlelight. The candles ran the length of the hall, replacing the electric chandeliers that had served as lighting until just a moment before. From an adjacent room, we could hear a harpsichord's crystalline notes singing what sounded like a piece by Rameau.

“How . . . How did you do that?”

He and his honeyed voice, the clarity of which reminded me of the actor who'd recorded a reading of Corneille's
Le Cid
and starred in
Fanfan la Tulipe
. I had my own theory: up to a certain point, individuals of the same physical type are equipped with more or less the same quality of voice. But David Barlet's voice was not content to imitate Gérard Philipe. He had deeper, graver inflections that continued to ring in the air long after he'd finished speaking. His voice, like his person, was surprisingly young, but he was as capable as any bass or baritone of giving you shivers. He was a perfect combination of lightness and gravitas.

I know now: a man's voice, and just his voice, can fill me with maddening desire. His voice is like a sex toy that titillates my clitoris with every sentence.
Hmm, I wonder if there's
a Rabbit . . .

 

Anonymous handwritten note, 4/15/2009—David's, I can't deny it . . .

 

A MINUTE EARLIER—AT THIS POINT,
we had only known each other for a half hour—he had asked me to close my eyes. I'd had just enough time to see him whisper something into the head waiter's ear and hastily pass a scribbled note to our immediate table neighbors. A few instants later, the miracle had been accomplished. David was that powerful. He was a magician. A man with what seemed like limitless powers.

 

AFTER MY SHOPPING TRIP WITH
Rebecca, I had a busy schedule of missions. One or two a week. Everything was as she'd described in our interview. For the most part, all I had to do was wear one of the extravagant ensembles she had purchased for me; parade on the arm of a man who was double or triple my age; teeter, long-legged, on my extremely high heels; keep my torso and neck as straight as a ballerina; and attend a great number of frivolous and garish soirees. At least I had the opportunity to visit some of Paris's most beautiful buildings—private homes, ministries, museums, and other exclusive locales—and overhear secrets from the flow of conversation that the journalist in me quietly tucked away in the back of my mind.

Other guests rarely asked questions. Typically, they would compliment my clothing, elegance, or supposed grace. No one was fooled as to my role as arm candy. It didn't bother me. I knew my own worth. I swallowed my pride and took my check at the end of each evening. That was it. I kept myself from giving this job more thought or emotion than it deserved. “Where are you cast tonight?” Sophia had asked a few hours earlier.

I had finally graduated. I knocked on the door of every television network in the capital, looking for a job as a TV presenter. In school, I had focused on broadcasting. I didn't want to apply for jobs in radio or print until I had run through all the possible options there. I would have worked for any station, any show, even the ones with the lowest ratings. I don't think I was a lesser candidate than my peers, but everywhere I went the answer was the same: not enough experience.

“How am I supposed to get experience . . . if no one gives me a chance! It's ridiculous!” I complained to Sophia.

“I know, it's stupid . . . I have the same problem: they want
both
the fresh face of the young ballerina
and
the résumé of a star with fifteen years of experience.”

“ ‘Not enough experience'—I know what they really mean.”

“Oh, yeah? What?”

“Not enough connections.”

Your network. If you were well connected, if somebody could call in a favor on your behalf, it made all the difference . . . This typically French evil allowed the elite classes to reproduce faster than a family of rats. Always the same people. By and for the rich. And for people like Sophia and me—nobodies, without money or influence—the doors were closed.

I didn't stand a chance. Not without a good recommendation.

 

“YOU LOOK RAVISHING!”

The man complimenting me was tonight's date. We were standing in front of the Maison des Polytechniciens, a building in the heart of Paris's very chic 7th Arrondissement. It was an evening for the alumni of HEF, an elite business school. He was the latest in my long list of recent missions, which included a dentist in town for a conference, a diplomat, several executives of prestigious companies, and a number of senior executives wishing to impress management at the big annual gatherings by strutting about with a creature such as me.

“Thank you. That's very kind,” I replied, adjusting ensemble number two, the dangerously low-cut Armani dress.

“I mean it.”

If I were to compare him to my other clients over the past two weeks, François Marchadeau, a well-known economic journalist, was considerably better than average, physically speaking. Less bald, less paunchy. He was in his forties, brown-haired, and well built. His suit showed off his muscles. It was obvious he worked out. I had to admit he looked hot.

“Do you know where we are?” he asked, guiding me to the reception hall.

“The Maison des Polytechniciens.”

“Yes, but I meant the occasion. Do you know what we're celebrating here tonight?”

“Not exactly, no . . .”

“HEF is not as well known as, say, Harvard Business School or HEC Paris, but most of the richest tycoons on the Paris Bourse graduated from it. You're going to meet the crème de la crème of the French business world, and all, or almost all, were top of their class at our school.”

As he went on, the president of the Association of French Entrepreneurs, whom I had often seen on the news, gave him a friendly wave. She was already holding a glass of champagne.

“And what about you?”

“I'm my year's loser. I think I'm the only one who doesn't have a bank account in the Cayman Islands or a chalet in Gstaad.”

“Why do you come to these things, then? Do you like being humiliated?”

He let out a genuine laugh.

“Because I need information for my magazine and after a couple of drinks they're happy to oblige. And they need me to write favorably about their strategies for handling the economic crisis. They want to reassure their stockholders as well as public officials.”

“Win-win.”

“Exactly.”

Over cocktails, I learned about an imminent redundancy scheme at a major automobile manufacturer, the release of a revolutionary new tablet, and some other exclusive tidbits I pretended to ignore. I played my part of the beautiful ingenue flawlessly. But I filed all the information away in my memory. Just in case. My training as a journalism major hadn't worn off.

Still, what was exciting the first hour quickly grew tiresome. And as we sat down to dinner, all I could think about was my freedom after the last bite of rose-infused meringue.

 

I have a recurring erotic dream that takes place at a formal reception. As a joke, and also as a form of provocation, I'm not wearing any underwear. My formfitting dress reveals the absence. No panties. The breeze whips up the silk fabric, blowing gently over my exposed parts, tickling and teasing my clitoris.

The men look at my body with increasing intensity. They don't have to say anything for me to know they've all noticed my little secret.

As I walk by, even though they're with their wives, they caress my buttocks, my breasts, my thighs  . . .

Their collective desire is like the Fountain of Youth. I feel much more beautiful than I really am.

Suddenly, I stop moving, and then I feel an anonymous hand grasp my crotch. Two fingers spread my lips, exposing my dripping vagina. Just as I'm waking up, they sink into me. The interruption is painful. I need to be taken . . . in my dream as in reality.

 

Anonymous handwritten note, 4/18/2009

 

“I BET ALL THIS INTERESTS
you more than you let on? Am I right?”

I heard his familiar voice before I saw him. He was leaning over my shoulder. I hadn't noticed him before. Next, I felt a tickling sensation in my nose. He wore a smooth and yet powerful cologne. Its bouquet was surprising, with notes of citrus, leather, tuberose, and maybe a hint of iris. I had never smelled anything like it. It must have been a custom blend. Like his voice, his cologne was a perfect mix of youth and power.

He extended a large hand, and only then did I see his face for the first time.

“David Barlet.”

“Ann . . . Elle.”

“Annelle?” he asked. “Or Anaëlle?”

His tone was candid, perhaps with a hint of irony. But it was hard to reproach him for it; his smile was just so enchanting.

Rebecca had advised using a pseudonym on missions. All the girls did it. Sophia changed her name almost every time, from Brenda to Zoe to Cleopatra. I'd opted for my actual nickname. It was mysterious enough to entice the messieurs, and familiar enough so that I didn't forget or give myself away.

“No, Elle . . . Like the magazine. Anne is my middle name,” I lied.

Seeing him like this, in the middle of such a tedious evening, as though he had been torn from that article in
Le Monde
I'd read a few weeks before, it felt like a dream. I wanted to touch him to make sure he was real. I made do with shaking his hand.

“I should read more women's magazines,” he teased.

“I was just saying . . . I don't really read them.”

“Oh, yeah? What do you read?”

As if by magic, the decrepit old man sitting next to me stood, leaving a vacant chair. David gracefully sat down, without taking his azure eyes from mine. He didn't say anything. He must have known the effect of his words on me.

“I don't know . . . Dailies, news magazines . . .”

Don't be a groupie, Elle. Don't talk to him about
Le Monde
!

“Don't tell me you read our friend François's rag?” he asked in a voice that was loud enough for my date to hear.

Standing to his right, François turned and parried:

“Don't listen to that old fox! He's a frustrated journalist. Back in college, he was the worst writer among us.”

“Fair enough,” admitted Barlet, triumphantly. “But my little poems weren't my only method of seduction.”

“Right. Well, I wasn't born with a silver spoon in my mouth, old friend. I'll concede that I never could fight you at that level.”

We all laughed at their little duel.

“Tell me everything, Elle: How did spoon-less Marchadeau and you meet?”

“We . . .”

I hadn't anticipated this line of questioning. I was afraid my client would reveal our secret. But even though I could feel him standing behind me, listening to every syllable, Marchadeau did not say a word. I had to come up with a credible story all by myself. Posthaste. Everybody knows that the best lies, the ones you can actually keep up over the long term, contain a small grain of truth.

“I'm a journalism major.”

“At CELSA-Sorbonne?”

“No, at the Center for Journalism Studies. I just graduated. I did an internship at the magazine where François works.”

“And you two got along?”

“Yes.”

David's soft, charming look suddenly threw daggers at his old friend. He could have shot him on the spot. The blend of sensitivity and violence in this man was off-putting. From one second to the next, he was as soothing as a salve and then as harsh as a third-degree burn.

I was finally able to release myself from David's spell to take in the ballet of people around us: men and women alike were drawn to him like moths to a lamp. Yet there were certainly others in attendance who could easily rival his fame and fortune. But everyone seemed to want to be near him, to get his attention, to have some of his glory rub off on them. Everyone wanted to penetrate the magical circle that surrounded him. Standing in such close proximity, even I was a source of jealousy, especially as the minutes went by. He was granting me a considerable amount of his time.

“Who is that? Do you know who she is?”

“Never seen her. In my opinion, she looks rather ordinary.”

I heard people whispering in the background, some perhaps only a few chairs away from ours, gossiping. Who was I to monopolize the star of the evening? How did I dare assert myself like that? Shouldn't I have taken it upon myself to cut my conversation short with the media prince so that other people could get their chance to talk to him?

“And where do you work now?”

David was completely focused on me.

I was so troubled that I couldn't even see the opportunity in front of me. It was so huge I hardly noticed it. The man was so enchanting that I didn't think to grasp it.

“Umm . . . I have leads. I'm taking my time.”

“I see. So, to summarize . . . you have nothing.”

That was the kind of blunt statement that normally makes you want to slap the person who's just assaulted you with it. So why was I standing there dumbfounded and smiling piously. Where was my pride?

Since I didn't have anything to say, David slowly reached toward my face and whispered an order:

“Close your eyes, please.”

“Excuse me?”