The Exchange (23 page)

I spun around. I felt a bit daft myself, even a little mad. But I also felt the power of being the centre of attention, even if it was, for now, strictly for myself. And I felt the power of being someone other than myself.

I spent the afternoon looking through the photos I had taken and then revisiting some of Sherman’s work online, then I got ready to go to the club. I tidied up my make-up a bit, although I knew I’d be able to get one of the girls to help me when I got there.

I stood in the doorway for a good twenty minutes, rattling the keys in my hand, wondering if I’d be able to go through with it. I could imagine Rochelle standing there laughing at me – I didn’t imagine her to be malicious, but doing what she did and dressing the way she did, she would think I had gone mad to be sweating this so much.

Finally, I swore at myself and left the apartment, letting the door bang loudly behind me, wanting nothing more than to walk back in and hide myself under the duvet and never come out again.

***

At the club, no one batted an eyelid – the girls were all consumed by their usual frenzy to get ready in time, all of them having arrived late as usual. There was lot of half-naked running about between rooms as girls sought the missing constituents of an outfit, new pairs of false eyelashes, or a needle and thread for a quick fix. Some were drinking cheap wine from plastic glasses as they darted about, others puffed on cigarettes out of windows.

Only Lisette seemed to notice, but all she said was, ‘You look really pretty,’ then, a bit more surprised, ‘Isn’t that Rochelle’s dress?’

I bit my lip. ‘You don’t think she’d mind, do you?’

‘Oh hell, no. You know Rochelle – well, you don’t. But you can imagine. She’s all into dressing up, and dressing other people up. She’s obsessed with possibility and playacting. She lives it. And I think she’d be delighted to think you were decking yourself out in her stuff.’

She reached over and brushed her thumbpad against the outer end of my eye.

‘You need to practise a bit more with the make-up, though. Here …’ She steered me towards the mirror in her room, pushed me down, and started dabbing furiously at my face with an old-fashioned powder-puff. Then she put two dots of a creamy rouge in the centre of each of my cheeks and blended them in. Lastly, she applied two flicks of kohl to my upper lids and a fresh layer of black mascara.

I stared at my reflection. I looked like a little doll – pretty, but utterly unreal. I didn’t particularly like myself like this, but I was intrigued. Intrigued by who this person was and what she was capable of.

I stood up. I hadn’t brought my camera that night and felt lost without it. It was very rare that I left home without it, but I’d promised myself that I would just talk shop with Kir and then scurry home, so I thought it wisest to leave it behind.

I wandered around backstage for a while, feeling self-conscious. Without a camera at hand I felt like a true voyeur, and an absolute outsider. Eventually I headed for the club itself, where I ordered a drink and sat and watched all the acts again over a couple of drinks, waiting for the Russians to arrive.

They came in the second half of the evening, just as Lisette was about to come on. I imagine they’d timed it that way. They waved to me and we all went and sat down at a table at the front. Aleksei and Kir whistled and waved at Lisette as she came on to perform her splendid veiled dance. Aside a wink at Aleksei, barely perceptible through the flash of a veil as she swept it across in front of her, she was the consummate professional, never once letting herself be put off or distracted by their proximity.

When she came off, lightly sheened in sweat, she sat down and reached for a glass of champagne, which she downed in one avid gulp. Then she smiled around the table at us.

‘How was I?’

‘Perfection,’ said Aleksei, picking up her hand from where it had come to rest on his knee and kissing it, mock chivalrous. ‘You were exquisite, darling. Wasn’t she everyone?’ He raised a glass to her, and we all did the same.

‘You were wonderful, Lisie,’ said Kir, and then he turned and, hailing a passing hostess, ordered another bottle of champagne.

We polished it off quickly, glancing at the other acts but mainly talking amongst ourselves. When the girls had finished and the punters were drifting away, I fetched my portfolio case from backstage. After getting one of the waitresses to wipe down our table, I laid out some images for Kir. They were the cream of the stuff I’d taken in the club itself and had printed out.

Kir leaned forward to study them, frowning lightly, although I sensed it wasn’t in disapproval so much as in concentration. He certainly seemed to be taking his inspection very seriously. Lisette and Aleksei had pulled their chairs back away from the table so as not to disturb him and were leaning into each other, whispering. Every so often Aleksei would plant a cheek on her upturned button nose. He seemed to be very fond of her and I was glad, even if they seemed an unlikely match.

Finally, Kir sat up and leaned back, hands on his thighs, seemingly contemplative.

‘These are fantastic,’ he said finally. ‘Beautiful, sad, provocative. You’ve captured something about this place that really speaks to you about the human condition. This is real art, worthy of any gallery in the world.’

I sat back in turn, flabbergasted. Then, in an uncharacteristically touchy-feely gesture, I put my hand on his forearm.

‘That’s so kind of you, Kir, but you don’t have to say that. I’m a big girl and I can cope with the truth.’

Kir looked down at my hand, then placed his own on it, lightly. ‘If you’re thinking I’m only saying this because I want to sleep with you, you’d only be half right. I do want to sleep with you, but I also love these photographs and think you have an incredible talent.’

I didn’t react in any way, and for a while we sat chatting about what I’d had in mind for these pictures, and about the book I’d been outlining with Camille, and all the time I felt keenly his hand on mine and wondered if I was going to sleep with him. He did seem more attractive to me than the night before, but I wondered if that was because I’d been flattered by his praise. I couldn’t see a clear way through my own tangled feelings.

‘Well,’ he concluded, cracking his knuckles as he spoke. ‘I’d certainly be very happy to make some introductions for you. I know some people who could be very useful to you both from a publishing point of view and in terms of exhibitions. Would you like me to set up some informal meetings?’

I was sure Kir was for real, and his words thrilled me. Suddenly new worlds glimmered at the edge of my vision – worlds in which I would be fulfilled and even celebrated, where I would be in demand as an artist. Worlds in which people could see my images in famous galleries around the globe, and in which my name would rank alongside those of my photographer heroes.

I must have had a dreamy look on my face, for Kir was smiling at me now. ‘I’ll give you some time to think about it,’ he said. ‘There’s no hurry. I want you to be entirely comfortable with whatever I set up for you.’

‘Would I need an agent?’

‘In time, yes. But again, that’s something we can talk about.’ He waved over at Aleksei and Lisette, then turned back to me.

‘But shall we take a break from talking shop and have a little fun?’

‘Sure.’

I smiled. I was relaxed from the champagne, but I also trusted Kir, both professionally and because he’d come straight out and told me that he wanted to fuck me. I appreciated his candour – in fact, I even found that it turned me on a little. One of the things that irritated me about dating and relationships and sex in general was the whole faffing around trying to gauge each other’s intentions. Cutting to the chase as Kir had done left the ball very much in my court.

Yet as I followed them out of the club, I told myself that it wasn’t such a straightforward decision as it seemed – that the question was not just whether I wanted to fuck him. I didn’t know where we were going or what situations awaited me. I’d had too much to drink and I was confused about my feelings. Was my attraction to him real or was I duping myself, flattered by his praise and his promises to further my career?

A driver awaited us outside, at the wheel of a sleek midnight-blue Mercedes with blacked-out windows. By now I had caught up with Lisette and threaded my arm through hers.

‘Very Russian mafia,’ I said, and she gave me a funny look.

‘Aleksei is
not
mafia,’ she snapped, pulling her arm away from mine as she stepped into the car.

‘Oh for fuck’s sake,’ I hissed after her. ‘It’s not as if I meant it.’

I wondered why she was suddenly so tense, so touchy, but I didn’t have time to dwell on it. As the car started up and slid soundlessly through the Paris streets, Aleksei opened yet another bottle of champagne that was cooling in an ice bucket in the car, flicked a switch that opened a hidden panel behind which gleamed some champagne flutes, and poured some for us all. Lisette, giggling as she sipped, all snippiness gone, nestled into his armpit.

I took the opportunity to really study Aleksei and Kir. They were dressed alike, in black jeans and tight black T-shirts. Both wore expensive, flashy watches, and Aleksei had a chunky gold chain around his neck. Each man had closely cropped hair, although their colours – as their complexions – differed. Each had a leather jacket, too, although they had taken them off in the club and carried them out.

Several times I made to ask where we were going, but somehow the words never came.
It doesn’t really matter
, I kept telling myself. It’ll be a bar or a club. Lisette wouldn’t let them take me anywhere dodgy without checking that I was OK with it. Would she?

I looked at her, and it suddenly struck me that Lisette and I knew each other very little. That made me anxious. Here I was driving out into the night with three virtual strangers – four including the silent chauffeur. I had relinquished control, and that felt very odd indeed.

It was impossible to even guess, with my limited knowledge of Paris, where we were headed, but it soon became clear that we were leaving the city and travelling out through the suburbs and beyond. Clusters of housing began to become more spaced out, and then we were travelling between ever-smaller towns. I didn’t recognise any of the names. Finally we were in open countryside, driving through a velvety darkness, with only the occasional village coming into relief before blackness took hold again.

By now, the conversation between the four of us had stalled. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but there seemed to be a kind of tension in the car. Or was that just me, transferring onto the others? They, I assumed, knew where we were going. But Lisette had fallen silent and looked strangely thoughtful, while Aleksei and Kir exchanged the odd sentence in Russian. Their voices seemed a little strained, as if they too had things on their minds.

Suddenly the car came to a halt. We all craned our necks to look. We had halted in front of a pair of enormous black wrought-iron gates. As we looked, they began to open, infinitesimally slowly. For a moment it seemed to me as if no one in the car was breathing, as if we were all holding our breath in excitement or fear, or a mixture of both. Then the driver applied the lightest of pressure to the accelerator and we entered, equally slowly.

A long driveway lined with tall trees unfurled in front of us. I looked around at the others but they didn’t return my gaze. I wondered whether to start panicking but decided that it was fruitless. I had relinquished control and that had brought me here, and now I had to deal with the consequences. But in any case, this, precisely this, I told myself, was what I needed to allow myself, as an artist but also as a person. Mystery, adventure, perhaps even danger, or at least the possibility of it.

The car took a bend in the driveway at a leisurely pace and a large building came into view. I gasped – it was an extravagant castle, like something out of a Gothic fairytale, picked out of the darkness by floodlights trained on its elaborate façade.

‘Where are we?’ I allowed myself to ask at last, but it was too late – we were pulling up in front of the sweep of stone stairs leading up to the heavy double front doors, and my question was lost, or ignored, in the mêlée as we all gathered our belongings and climbed out of the car.

I looked at Lisette but she seemed to be studiously ignoring me, as if she was unwilling to countenance my questions. I kind of understood where she was coming from – she’d brought me here and she didn’t want to be responsible for me freaking out and demanding to be taken home.
Don’t ask
, seemed to be her attitude, and in a strange way it strengthened my resolve to see the night out, whatever it might bring.

But as Lisette ignored me, Kir appeared by my side and linked one arm through mine. ‘In answer to your question,’ he said, ‘we are deep in the forest of Fontainebleau, a place of myths and legends. A very special place.’

I looked up at the door in trepidation. ‘And what’s in there?’ I said.

Kir brought his face to mine and kissed me on the lips. It was like a bolt of electricity going through me and suddenly I wanted more. I kissed him back, hard, then again, with a strange savagery I hadn’t known existed in me. Kir’s head jerked back in surprise and when he held his fingers to his lips they came away with a streak of blood.

‘What’s in there?’ I said more urgently.

Kir smiled darkly, one finger laid vertically against his mouth. ‘Trust me,’ he whispered, and I nodded.

He took my arm and we followed Lisette and Aleksei up the steps towards the front door. Like the gates, they swung open automatically but very slowly at our approach.

My heart was thudding now, but I urged myself to be brave. Already I had tasted something new – the weird pleasure of biting another human being and drawing blood. Other revelations surely awaited me, if only I could hold my nerve.

As if sensing my readiness to bolt, Kir clutched my arm, and in a way I found myself enjoying that too – the feeling of being restrained.

We stepped into a cavernous hallway with but two sweeping staircases, each beginning at one side of the room and curving round to meet each other at the top, in the middle. The room was buzzing with people, sitting on the steps, on antique sofas and chairs in front of a vast hearth, or even on the floor. They were drinking, laughing, talking. But I was aware that many pairs of eyes turned to appraise us as we made our entrance.