Hotelles (7 page)

In reply, he pointed to a vessel tethered farther away. It had a fresh coat of paint, its bottle-green sides shining with lacquer. From where we stood, I could see a small canopy under which lighted candles danced in the breeze. Our skiff was nothing like the tourist traps. A uniformed man in white gloves was waiting by the boat to greet us:

“Mademoiselle, Monsieur Barlet . . .”

“Good evening,” I whispered, more impressed than I wanted to let on.

As soon as we set foot on the varnished deck, a string quartet started playing Vivaldi from behind the canvas tent. I hesitated: Did I want to laugh or give in to this avalanche of clichés? Everyone clearly expected the latter. Even romance novels weren't this cheesy.

David read my thoughts out loud.

“My white horse has a cold and asks you to forgive him. Unfortunately, he won't be able to make it tonight.”

“Well . . .” I feigned exasperation. “You tell him I'm sending a doctor to make sure he isn't lying.”

“I will.” He laughed. “But if you're going to go to all that trouble . . .”

The servant had just unveiled a small round table, the epitome of simplicity: a white tablecloth, two bottle-green garden chairs, two candles, two champagne flutes, and one bottle of champagne. Only then did I notice the starry spring night overhead.

“I warn you, I won't be able to manage anything more than bubbles.”

“Perfect. My plan was to get you drunk.”

“Really, that's all?” I simpered coarsely.

He seized my hand, caressing it as though polishing a stone. A distracted gesture that was more of a comfort for him than me.

The boat slowly started to pull away from the dock. A light hum. Our glasses clinked, a crystalline note tinkling amid the long vibrato of the string instruments. As he uncorked a vintage Moët, we floated by the obelisk at Place de la Concorde and the National Assembly. They were both lit up for the night and sparkling. We continued on, passing the Musée d'Orsay's glass arches, which were also dressed in light for the night.

To be honest, I could have gotten used to the clichés. I could pretend all I wanted. Play the young intellectual . . . but he wasn't fooled, and neither was I. Who wouldn't enjoy such a beautiful view, and from their own private boat? Who was I to look down on something millions of other women could only dream of?

I signed my surrender with a sigh. Then I smiled. David and his charming attitude deserved it.

“To what shall we drink?” I asked, tipping my glass in his direction.

“Wait . . .”

He who was usually so self-assured seemed taken aback by my invitation to clink crystal. He shot a furtive glance over the panoramic postcard view as though he were looking for something.

“What, is there a special time for toasting, now?” I teased.

“No, of course not . . . Let's just say, I would prefer a more . . .”

He was looking for the right word.

“ . . .
appropriate
scene.”

The locale seemed more than adequate to me. The boat had taken us to the Pont des Arts, an elegant pedestrian bridge, a favorite romantic rendezvous for Parisians. From the river, I could see thousands of locks that young couples had fastened to the parapet's fence as a symbol of eternal love. The nod toward loyalty and posterity is the sort of thing of which those known as the Immortals over at the French Academy would surely approve.

“Not everyone would agree with you!”

As we floated under the metallic arch, we were greeted by an enthusiastic salvo. Yes, this was real. Some people were lucky enough to live life like you see it in the movies. And tonight, I was one of those people.

 

I wonder if one of the couples on the bridge has already made love here, in haste, hidden behind a tree trunk or lamppost?

One of my girlfriends once told me that several years ago she'd participated in a kind of informal lovers' competition on the Internet. Whoever did it in the most conspicuous or interesting place and got it on camera won. That's how my friend managed to have sex with a fellow game player in one of the Centre Pompidou's subterranean parking lots, in a bush at one end of the Champs-Élysées, and—their masterpiece—in the back of a double-decker bus filled with tourists who were so fascinated by the City of Light at dusk that they didn't even notice the commotion behind them.

 

Anonymous handwritten note, 6/5/2009—Sophia?

 

SQUARE DU VERT-GALANT, A LONG
green strip at the tip of the Île de la Cité, was already receding on our left. David was still distracted by something.

“Annabelle, I . . . ,” he stammered. His face, which was usually so radiant, was suddenly tarnished by an expression I did not recognize.

Jeez, you really have to be completely caught up in something not to see or hear what anyone else would have noticed ages ago.

“Yes?”

“You know, people always say this kind of proposition doesn't just fall from the sky . . .”

“What are you talking about?”

My face probably resembled one of those stone masks that decorate the Pont Neuf, the ones that look like dithering gargoyles who seem to be hesitating between bemusement, pleasure, joy, and fear. I could feel the pressure of the wind on my face as our vessel passed under the bridge. As I was waiting for David's revelation, it felt as though we had suddenly picked up speed.

What was he going to tell me? Worried, I felt a shiver run through my body. It did not go unnoticed. David immediately stood, his hot lips hungrily covering my neck with kisses.

“You'll catch your death . . .”

“Yeah, I'd rather not,” I said without thinking, in my typical ironic tone.

Just then, the arm of the Seine on which we'd been floating lost its charm. Here it was just a thin strip of nothing. Not a single tree was planted on its banks. To top it off, the shadow of 36 Quai des Orfèvres, the seat of the judicial police, darkened the suddenly choppy muddy waters. Would my harasser end up behind those walls?

Probably not, if I didn't say anything  . . .

 

THE VIEW IMPROVED AFTER NOTRE
Dame's two towers passed by on my left. And the mood seemed to lighten considerably. I heard a large insect buzzing overhead. I thought David would kill it reflexively, but instead he smiled. He looked relieved.

“What the heck . . .”

I looked up to see a round black engine the size of a breakfast platter, its four small blades whirring as it hovered a few feet above the canopy . . . above our heads. A drone!

It sounded like the seagulls that made it here from the ocean, fluttering and flapping. Who was piloting the machine? It was getting really close, but I could tell it was being driven with extreme precision. When it was about three feet from the table, a metallic claw shot out from the rigid plastic structure and opened with a dry snap. A little package tied in a ribbon dropped onto the tablecloth, making a light and hollow sound.

“People always say things like this don't fall from the sky,” David repeated. “But I wanted it to for you. Really: from the sky.”

Dumbfounded, I stared at the package. Then, obeying a look in his eyes, I got ahold of myself, though I was still mute from disbelief. The boat trip had already exceeded all expectations. David had already more than fulfilled the kinds of princess dreams I had always disdained.

“Go ahead, Elle . . . ,” he cooed, his voice sounding like it could have come out of a Christian-Jaque or Marcel Carné film. “Open it.”

So this is what he had been hiding from me these past few weeks.

How to measure the ironclad inviolability of our biggest secrets? By the surprised expression on the face of the person to whom we reveal them. Let's not kid ourselves. At that moment, mine was curled into a foolish grin.

I tore off the gold paper and opened the velour jewelry box. Inside hid a ring. Pink gold and diamonds, I noted instinctually. It was the most splendid piece of jewelry I had ever seen. It was subtle and well balanced: its size and setting were understated, the quality of its precious stones exquisite. What's more, I could tell just by looking into its scintillating angles that this ring had a history. It did not come from a jewelry shop window. It had a memory.

“It belonged to Hortensia, my mother,” David remarked gravely. “And to my grandmother before her. And if you want, you'll be the third generation of women in our family to wear this engagement ring. I've already had it resized.”

Family. Engagement. Marriage? My mind went blank. I could only think in keywords, and they were doing some kind of bumper car version of ballet in my head. I had a strange pounding sensation in my temples. Irrationally, I thought my blushing cheeks had started flashing an alarm-signal red.

“Engagement?”

I didn't understand.

“An engagement and wedding ring. It's a tradition in my family. On the wedding day, we take it off and put it back on the ring finger.”

To better illustrate his point, he took the ring out of the box and made as though to put it on my finger.

“Wait . . . No!”

I hastily withdrew my hand. A hurtful gesture, I quickly realized. Still, he was the one who apologized.

“Forgive me . . . As usual, I'm forcing things.”

The onlookers who had gathered near the cathedral didn't understand the importance or uncertainty of this moment for us. Some even started to applaud. For them, our fluvial tryst was an unexpected bonus in their tour of romantic Paris.

I broke out into hysterical laughter.

“Is this a joke to you?”

“No! Not at all!”

I controlled myself with great effort. I didn't want to dampen the mood any further.

“It's just that it's so . . .”

Unexpected. Huge. Surprising. Fantastic. And even a little cheesy. I wasn't sure how to feel, but I knew I was grateful. Gratitude. It grew within me, warm and comforting. Life with him would be as peaceful, calm, and romantic as the river upon which we were currently floating.

Madame Annabelle Barlet. Me, a girl from Nanterre carted into Paris every morning on the RER train.

“Don't give me your answer right away. Take your time.”

“Yes . . . I mean, thank you,” I said, matching his distant tone.

Suddenly, I don't know what, but something felt wrong. Something seemed out of place in this otherwise perfect scene. The servant, who had been standing in the background, came to refill our champagne flutes. We'd hardly touched them.

The bubbles foaming in my glass reminded me of something. The night before. The man I'd promised myself would be my last client. And another memory floated across my mind: the circumstances under which David and I had met. A secret I had been trying to forget  . . .

And what if François Marchadeau, my future husband's old friend, his tennis partner twice a week since forever, the man with whom I'd shared a bed the very night David had entered my life . . . What if François said something? Belles de Nuit, the online catalogue of girls . . . the room at the Hôtel des Charmes.

“I don't want to rush you, but,” David began, “if you give me an answer soon . . . I was thinking about setting a date in the near future.”

What was his radiant smile telling me? He was so candid, so blissfully unaware of my troubles. What was I missing?

“What do you mean by ‘the near future'?” I asked.

“The eighteenth of June.”

My birthday. I'd be twenty-three.

Mademoiselle Annabelle Lorand, will you take Monsieur David Barlet to be your lawfully wedded husband, till death do you part, at an age when you should really let yourself be free to sow your wild oats?

“But that's practically tomorrow!” I exaggerated.

“I know, but don't let that worry you: if it's okay with you, we can do it at our place.”

“At Duchesnois House?”

“Yes. Armand will take care of everything. All you'd have to do is give him a list of people to invite. And sign a few papers, of course.”

I couldn't torture him a second longer. His mention of what was supposed to be the “happiest day of my life” was the coup de grâce, an irresistibly convincing argument in David the expert negotiator's arsenal. What else could I say but:

“Yes.”

On the outside I was radiant and smiling. Inside I felt something visceral hollowing out my stomach. Something was gnawing at me and sending waves of pain throughout my body. It radiated into each one of my organs, shooting out through my limbs.

Was this fear? Happiness?

He leaped around the table, leaned over me, and delivered one of the most tender kisses my lips had ever received. More tender than sexy, as the absence of excitement between my legs indicated. But these things come in time, at least that's what I tried to convince myself.

This man whose picture I'd admired in a newspaper only a few weeks before, this inaccessible man. David, the boss, my seducer, looked at me beseechingly and asked in an excited voice that sounded nothing like him:

“Yes . . . Yes?”

7

June 4, 2009

Y
es.”

One little word and a woman gives herself to a man. Sometimes she knows in advance what she's getting into. But more often than not, she isn't sure if these three letters will mean a few moments or the rest of her life. Just a little bit of her time and body or all of her soul. We make decisions based on our present desires. But what do we know about our future wants? Can we know in advance how many “maybes” and “nos” will follow that one simple “yes”?

I haven't had that many orgasms over the course of my life. A few dozen, max. But I know one thing: at the fateful moment, I am one of those women who scream
no
instead of
yes
. I know some women yell, “Oh my God!,” “More,” or simply their lover's name. What does this say about me? Why am I a “doll who says no, no, no, no, no”? I don't know and I'm not even sure I want to.

 

Anonymous handwritten note, 6/6/2009—How does he know???

 

SO I SAID YES THREE
times, as though I were trying to write my own destiny. There I was once again in David's bedroom nestled at the heart of his mansion on Rue de la Tour-des-Dames. This was number three.

“Come!”

I followed him into his private sitting room, where the decorator had taken care to respect the romantic interiors with appropriately colored upholstery, but had broken with the style's characteristic clutter, particularly with the clean lines of unadorned, ultramodern furniture.

As soon as we were inside, he pressed himself to my back and buried his nose into my neck. I felt him grow against me as he rubbed my backside. I liked his responsiveness. His majestic rigidity. I liked that he desired me like that. Without preamble or long speeches, and especially without my having to give him permission.

“Take it off.”

My panties, of course. The seams showed through the thin black material of my dress. I couldn't get them off fast enough for him. He reached up my dress and slipped a hand over my buttocks. His fingers briskly pulled at the lace covering my crotch, trying to rip them off.

“Ouch!” I cried, my hips smarting, a red welt already apparent.

My panties hadn't budged. Symbolically, I was resisting him. He who got everything—or almost—he ever wanted.

“Sorry, sorry . . .” he breathed into my ear. He sounded more excited and disappointed than sorry.

“It's okay . . .”

With that, I put one hand on a metallic dresser, arched my back, and used the other hand to push the lacy cotton to one side of my impatient and engorged lips. No more obstacles.

A trembling finger brushed my sex. I wasn't as wet as I had thought or as he might have hoped. That's life: I am not one of those girls who turns to liquid at the first kiss. My juices don't start flowing without some sweet preliminaries. My body is like a diesel engine: it takes time to warm up. David knew it.

But that night, I think he'd hoped that the combination of champagne and his proposal would unleash a waterfall. Instead, what he got was light dew pearling timidly where my lips parted.

“Elle . . . ,” he growled into my neck.

His index finger wandered into my flesh, opening me up wide. Once inside me, it moved in a sweeping circular motion that was a little too zealous to be pleasurable. And it wasn't deep enough to reach that treasure spot that hides inside some of us.

 

THAT WASN'T HOW HE WAS
going to make me come undone!

 

NO, DAVID WASN'T GOING TO
make me come, and I didn't need that little voice inside me to point it out.

As if he could hear me, David unzipped his pants, revealing his seriously long cock and its soft, velvety skin that made going down on him such a pleasure. Without warning, he introduced his penis into my recalcitrant vagina. It wasn't fireworks, but I did feel a responsive shudder in my loins. I liked being filled with the man I loved. His in-and-out movements were a little awkward, though. Something about the angle was curving his member. But then he bent his knees and aligned our genitals in a more pleasing way. Sophia would have freaked to hear me talk about such sacred things in these geometrical terms. But to be fair, now that we were better positioned, his movement inside me was not unpleasant. Even though it wasn't earth-shattering, I gave in to the sweet sensation, the warm, diffuse feeling. Suddenly he came to a grinding halt.

“What's wrong?” I sighed.

“Nothing . . . I don't want to come too fast.”

I had to swallow an incredulous “already?!” Instead I said, in a low, comforting tone:

“Okay . . . Okay, darling, you take your time.”

I've heard my friends sometimes complain about their lovers, saying they have too much endurance. “It's been two days, and it still chafes.” Apparently men like that do exist in the world. I'm more accustomed to the standard model—“three little thrusts and then they're done”—or the guy who dutifully puts in his ten minutes before giving in. Just one time I would like to know what it feels like to have a man fill me, fully and completely, until I forget what it's like without him inside me. Can it really be all that painful? Wouldn't it feel so sexy and powerful to be able to inspire such long-lasting desire? I wonder if a man could ever stay erect inside me for hours without moving?

 

Anonymous handwritten note, 6/6/2009—What the heck have I gotten myself into?

 

I HAD JUST
DARLING
-ED HIM
for the first time. I was a little tipsy, and his hands were cupping my shapely ass in what could only be described as a caricatural position of weakness—yet I held the key to his pleasure. I was barely even aware I'd done it. And I don't know if he noticed. Some part of him must have been excited by it because his pulsing movements suddenly became more urgent. He'd never been so ardent, nor shown such a desire to plumb the deepest hollows of my sex.

As he slammed into my hot flesh, I started to feel a light fluttering in my loins, a kind of contraction. I wasn't anywhere near orgasm, but my body was beginning to tremble in pleasure.

“Do you like it like that?”

“Yes . . . ,” I moaned, deliberately amplifying my feral cry. “Don't stop!”

As all women know, myself included, exaggerating the responsiveness of our erogenous zones to a man's caress is nothing to be ashamed of. I'm not talking about faking orgasm. I simply mean it can be used as a form of encouragement, a way to coax our partner into getting us both where we want to go. It's about kicking our sometimes lazy, stubborn libido into gear.

Though he had just pulled out of me, I guided his abdomen back toward my body into an achingly slow, penetrating motion. As I could have predicted, he misunderstood my intentions, confusing his sensations for mine:

“You, too . . . You're coming?”

No. I wasn't as practiced as Sophia in the erotic, but my favorite part of sex was that moment of uncertainty when the tip of the penis grazed my soaking lips, tickling and trembling against them nervously, before plunging back into the pink folds of flesh, reaching for that irresistible unknown. As if rewarding David for his efforts, my sex released an abundant flux, bathing his excited penis in fluid. His rhythm grew quicker, and I prepared myself for his moan of release.

We had been lovers for almost three months. We'd recently given up condoms, after our STD tests had come out clean. Most couples would take this as good news, an important step in our relationship. But for me  . . .

“Oh, no! No!”

. . . it meant sex would be even faster. Sigh.

Everybody knows that direct contact between bodies increases sensations and makes for a shorter time to completion. (Where had I read that? Beats me.)

He had just come. A long, hot, rhythmic set of bursts. One hand gripping my hair like a sailor clutching a rope in a storm. Then he lowered himself onto my curved back and laced his arms around my chest. We stayed still like that for a moment. At last, he straightened and carried me to his improbably large bed, where we collapsed onto his pearly white silk sheets.

I closed my eyes and felt David's breath against my skin. I, too, was drowsy, though not for the same reason. In vain, I tried to feel other bodily sensations. Except for my stomach, which was happily digesting the evening's delicious dinner, the rest of my parts were completely unmoved.

 

WHEN I OPENED MY EYES,
I found my man curled up in the comforter, wearing pajamas that matched our sheets. He was fast asleep. I had trouble believing we had just made love. How long had I been dozing?

I was even more surprised to find myself dressed in a nightgown I didn't recognize and that David had no doubt picked out for me himself. It was hard enough believing someone had changed my clothes while I was half asleep. Never mind trying to imagine David taking care of my intimate places without my permission. I felt between my legs: it was as dry and clean as a freshly powdered baby.

I propped myself up against the white leather headboard and looked at our two piles of neatly folded clothing as well as the piece of furniture against which he'd taken me. Had we really just done it? Nothing about the room suggested it. It didn't even smell like sex.

“Everything okay?”

The irruption of his voice into the silent room startled me. I jumped. Still, I was the one comforting him. I whispered firmly:

“Yeah. Everything's fine. Go back to sleep.”

He didn't argue—proof that he must have been in a deep sleep. I knew it would be impossible for me to get any rest. I got up, put on the pair of Turkish slippers that had been left for me by the bed, and went down to the ground floor.

The main hall had incredibly high ceilings and was flanked on either side by two branches of the same majestic staircase. A graying man was bustling about. It had to be Armand, David Barlet's butler since forever. Before David, he'd worked for Andre and Hortensia—David's parents.

“Not able to sleep, Mademoiselle?”

“And neither can you, apparently.”

He was dusting a giant mahogany hourglass that was as big as a rugby player. It was one of David's most recent acquisitions. David loved antiques and was a regular at the nearby auction houses.

“Oh, you know, at my age . . . You become a light sleeper. In any case, there's always something to do in this kind of house.”

He spoke without bitterness or reproach. Indeed, the old man seemed extremely affable and even kind. Like his employer—or should I say master?—he looked like a famous actor: the distinguished Michael Caine. I had noticed it on my first visit to Duchesnois House. I remember being so taken with the place and its stunning bow windows that when he'd opened the door, my mouth had dropped. He was a perfect blend of distinction and refinement. I was living in a fairy tale, and Armand did not detract from it.

“Maybe it was the construction next door that woke you?”

Armand had informed me a few days earlier that Mademoiselle Mars's house had been undergoing a remodel for the past several months. Its owner had undertaken the ambitious project of restoring it to its original state. It would take forever.

“Not at this hour,” he replied.

“I can't remember, Armand . . . Did this house originally belong to David's mother or his father?”

The truth is my fiancé hadn't told me. He had avoided all questions about his parents, who had both died about fifteen years prior.

“To Madame Hortensia,” he replied, visibly afraid David would overhear us. “She was a direct descendant of Mademoiselle Duchesnois.”

“And who was she? Wasn't it rare at the time for a woman to own her own house?”

“You're right. But Catherine-Josephine Duchesnois was not just anybody. She was one of the greatest tragedians on the French stage during the First Empire. And the great rival of Mademoiselle George over at the Comédie-Française.”

He seemed to enjoy telling me about this little chapter in history.

I played along:

“Mademoiselle George?”

“Georgina!” he corrected, as though it should have been obvious. “One of Napoleon's most devoted mistresses.”

So then this had been a house of women and passion. And here I was, humble Annabelle from Nanterre, about to join the history of this place. I imagined the sumptuous balls that must have taken place here, on this very floor as well as in the perfectly restored reception hall.

“By the way, Armand, did David warn you . . . about Felicity?”

“Your cat, right?”

He said it without animosity, but I could tell he was skeptical. He'd have to get used to it. Soon she and I would be part of this household, and not just for a few sleepless nights. Other suitcases would arrive, adding to the overnight bag I left from time to time. As for Felicity, Mom had insisted she come with me: “Take her, take her, she's
your
cat . . . And you know I don't have the energy to look after her. I might forget to feed her, poor thing.”

“Yes, everything is ready: the food dish and the litter box . . .”

I began to take my leave. “Thanks for everything, Armand.”

“You're welcome, Mademoiselle.”

I was already halfway up the stairs when I heard his muffled voice:

“Oh, Mademoiselle . . .”

I stopped and turned. “Yes?”

“David didn't tell me . . .”

He called him David, not Monsieur David or Monsieur, but despite the familiar form of address, I could tell he respected my fiancé a great deal.

“ . . . will your mother be moving in with us here after the wedding?”

David's offer had been generous, but Mom had not been enthusiastic. She could not imagine ever leaving Nanterre. She would miss Madame Chappuis, her neighbor and only friend, as well as all her little routines. The neighborhood was convenient for her, which was essential given her condition. She could still manage to go by herself to the neighborhood bakery or the nearby pharmacy. And there was bus number 167 to take her to Max Fourestier Hospital.