The Exchange (8 page)

In the loo, I leaned against the wall and tried to meditate, to calm my racing heart. I wanted to run out of the door and never see Tatiana again, but our food had been ordered, and I felt bad wasting money and time, no matter whose it was and how badly they squandered it themselves. It just wasn’t in my nature. That was a bone of contention between me and Konrad. It’s not that I denied myself – when I loved something, I generally treated myself, and god knows I had plenty of stuff in my life as evidence of that. But Konrad acted as if money burnt a hole in his pocket, as if it would never stop flowing towards him. Thus far, he was right. But god forbid that the silver river would start to dry up for him – he’d never be able to cope. I on the other hand was in my element in thrift shops and bargain basements.

The thought of Konrad calmed me, although I don’t think it was so much Konrad himself as the thought of home. I could go back any time I wanted to, I reminded myself. Rachel and I hadn’t signed any contract; we’d made this arrangement casually, and in fact it was she who said that whatever happened in terms of work or any other commitments that either of us made during these six months, if one of us wanted to reclaim their life and apartment, all that was needed was a week’s notice to make the practical arrangements.

But then I thought of the songwriting course, and of how I had this opportunity to make real change and find my passion. To date, I hadn’t found anything to live
for
. I was living, but I had never been driven by anything but fun. And suddenly fun didn’t seem like enough.

I went back to Tatiana, and I forced myself to get through the meal, partly by turning the focus on her and questioning her about her career. It turned out she was semi-retired, now only accepting very special roles. She’d travelled too much, she said, and now she just wanted to be a homebird, enjoying the wealth she’d accrued and making a beautiful home for herself and Morgan.

‘You’ll have to come round sometime,’ she said, eyes fast on mine. I felt like a fly caught in a spider’s web. ‘I think you’d find it pretty special. You seem like a woman of taste.’

I used the compliment, whether it was sincere or not, to turn the conversation to the subject of her friend Lulu, and to glean some information that might put me at an advantage when I met her, and so I navigated us through the potential minefield of the meal. It was a relief to finally get out of the restaurant and to find out that the shop was just around the corner, so that I didn’t have to carry on diverting the conversation from Morgan.

***

Lulu turned out to be an ethereal, slightly distracted woman with silky silver hair and a face twenty years younger than her likely age. Photos of her late actor husband – who I recognised from several movies – covered the wall behind her as she talked to me and explained what she wanted of her new assistant.

It was hard to concentrate when I was surrounded by so many wonders. I felt like a kid in a sweet shop, and I wanted to run hither and thither, touching the extravagant materials, holding dresses up to my body to parade in front of one of the antique mirrors. It was torture not to be able to do so, but I forced myself to listen attentively to Lulu. It
would
be marvellous to work here, I kept telling myself – it was quiet, so there’d be plenty of time to look through the clothes and even try them on. And I could read, and surf the net, and listen to music. The hefty price tags meant that when somebody did come in, the till would ring itself silly. There’d be absolutely no pressure – the quality of the clothes meant they’d sell themselves, to those with the money and taste to buy them.

And how I wished I was one of them. Suddenly I rued my life and its aimlessness, and my lack of any real ambition. I’d always felt that I was above being interested in money, that I was
worth more
than that. But now I fantasised about being able to just stroll into a place like this and pluck anything I liked from the rails and just buy it, and I thought how sweet money must taste, sometimes.

I looked at Tatiana. Tatiana acted as if money could buy her anything, and I wondered if by introducing me to Lulu she felt that I would owe her, that I would be at her bidding. Even buying me lunch, I had to admit, gave her some kind of hold over me. Money complicated things. I wished I’d insisted on paying my own share of the bill, but it was too late now.

Nothing was concluded, but Lulu took my number and told me she’d be in touch. As I shook her hand, she asked Tatiana if she’d like to stay for a pot of tea, and I was grateful to have the opportunity to slip away alone. Thanking them both, I headed out and then along the street. At the end of it, I crossed the main road and followed signs to Holland Park. Walking, I thought, would clear my head.

When I got there, I felt instantly soothed by the patches of woodland and especially by the serene Japanese garden with its waterfall and koi carp. For a while I was able to just sit still and let my thoughts and emotions wash through me like water. Accepting them but paying them little heed allowed them, I discovered, to flow on and then out of me. I realised with shock that I never sat still and quiet like this. For so long, my life had been about noise and running around, clamour and movement. I’d been like a whirlwind in human form. Everything always had to be busy and complicated and loud. Or so I thought. For the first time I got an inkling that things didn’t have to be that way in order to have value. For the first time I realised that I was looking for peace. The thought made me cry.

When I was done crying, I stood up and walked home. It was quite a way, and much of it was uphill, but it felt good, both on my leg muscles and on my mind. It was only when I got home and played the message on my machine that I remembered what I’d done before I went to the park – the lunch with Tatiana, and before that the dinner party at Kyle’s. Suddenly real life came flooding back in in all its unfathomable complexity.

For a moment I thought it might be Lulu, offering me the job. But it wasn’t.

‘Rochelle,’ came the familiar saccharine voice. ‘It’s Tats. I know this is short notice again, and I’m sure you’re sick of me already.
But
… some friends are having a party at that new hotel on Park Lane.’ She paused, clearly for effect. ‘Well, they own it actually.’ She chuckled. ‘Anyway, I’ve told them about you and they’re
dying
to meet you.’

I sat down, head in my hands. I so much wanted to say no, but the Pigalle part of me just wouldn’t let me. For so long I’d dreamed of London, and of Park Lane in particular. For so long I’d been obsessed with the filthy rich and what they got up to behind closed doors. I knew it was risky – that I was like a moth to a flame and would almost certainly get burned – but it just wasn’t in me to turn down this opportunity.

‘Just for one night,’ I said to myself as I walked over to the clothes rail and began searching through my clothes. Then I thought:
to hell with it all
, and I grabbed my bag and left the flat. I might have been running out of funds, but Park Lane demanded something very special indeed. And Park Lane also demanded that I treat myself to a little tipple – a half-bottle of champagne – to sip while I got myself ready for the ride.

As I strode up the road, a strange energy rippled through me, like electricity.

I woke up hungover, head beating, mouth parched. My camera was beside the bed, on the floor, and I was fully dressed, on top of the duvet. Moaning, I rolled over and reached for my camera, switched it on and began scrolling through the images. The first few – the latest – were of a topless Konrad, posing for me, dancing, vamping it up. I loved the look in his eyes. He was teasing me, leading me on. The cheeky bossa nova tune he had danced to replayed in my mind, tauntingly:

‘
I ain’t wid you

And you ain’t wid me

And that’s why we can’t

Touchy touchy
.’

I lay back, still flipping through the images but wondering what would –
could
– have happened had I stayed. Had I stood a chance, or were the lyrics echoing Konrad’s own thoughts?

But I hadn’t stayed. I’d taken fright, suddenly, afraid that things were getting out of hand. I didn’t know if Konrad was really flirting with me or just having a laugh, and part of me was afraid to find out. If he
was
flirting with me, then dare I even go there? I wanted to, but I didn’t think I was worthy. He was out of my league, and while a harmless fling might be just the thing I needed after my long bout of monogamy with Kyle, I was afraid that I might fall hard for Konrad. It was difficult to imagine not going weak at the knees every time I set eyes on him. Sometimes, I thought, it was better that certain things remain out of your reach. Some things are just too hot to handle. And in any case, Konrad was with Rochelle, even if she wasn’t around right now.

And so I’d finished snapping and then basically fled, not even waiting for the lift in my agitation but running down several flights of stairs, clutching the handrail, knowing that I was stupidly drunk and shouldn’t be tearing around like a lunatic, especially with an expensive camera in tow.

I didn’t remember getting home or collapsing onto the bed. But here I was, unfresh, in need of a good scrub. I got up and started to run a bath while I brewed up a coffee in the kitchenette. While it percolated, I stripped off my clothes from the previous night and swaddled myself in one of Rochelle’s robes. It wasn’t like my comfy towelling robe at home, which I hadn’t had the space to bring along. It was more of a kimono – silken, with an exotic cherry-blossom motif of pastel greens and pinks. It was cute, but not at all me.

I took my coffee in the window, looking down onto the street. There was a strange mix of characters in evidence: prostitutes, even at this hour, but also models on their way to castings or shoots, hip young parents pushing buggies, shuffling tramps, and others less immediately classifiable. This wasn’t Soho, but neither was it Bayswater, where I lived. I struggled to think of anywhere that quite matched its vibe in London. It seemed unique and utterly compelling. I decided I’d go out exploring once I’d freshened up.

But first a bath. I walked towards it, starting to shrug the kimono from my shoulders. As I did, I had a sudden vision of Rochelle falling back on the bed with Konrad’s hands at her shoulders, easing her backwards, slipping the robe from her alabaster skin. Lowering his gorgeous pouty mouth to her shoulders and nibbling at them, peppering them with kisses.

I stood naked, tweaking each of my nipples with my fingers, a growing dampness between my legs. My pussy was pulsing with excitement. I didn’t know where all this sudden horniness was coming from, but it felt good. I hadn’t felt so turned on in years. In fact, I don’t think I’d ever been as turned on. I wondered if it was something in the air in Rochelle’s flat, something to do with the woman she was, what she did for a living? Perhaps, in living here, surrounded by so much of her stuff, I was taking on some of her personality. Or maybe it was Pigalle itself, making me horny?

And would that be a bad thing? I wondered. I’d never been adventurous, and in fact my very lack of spontaneity when it came to sex – or to life in general – had been a factor in my finishing with Kyle. He’d wanted to experiment, and I hadn’t. I’d thought he was the same as me, but it turned out that was just initial shyness. He’d tried to introduce a little spice into our sex life and I’d bailed out.

It was like the photography. In sex as in art, I was a bystander. I found it hard to be involved, to make real connections. Taking photographs was a way of keeping a distance from real life. I knew that, but I didn’t think there was anything I could do about it. It was how I was made. And perhaps it even protected me from getting hurt.

On a whim, I went back in the studio-room to fetch my camera. Then I sat on the edge of the chair next to the bath, opened my legs, and turned my camera on it. With my free hand, I parted my pussy lips, then I began shooting, shifting my position a little every few seconds, relaxing my finger so I was first wide open, then a little more closed.

After a while I sat back and scrolled through the images I’d just created, continuing to strum at my clitoris with my fingers, turned on by what I was seeing – my glistening pussy folds, the deep reds and garish pinks and pale purples of me, the glittering hole at my core. It was obscene and beautiful, a profane still life.

I didn’t think I could feel any more excited, but my thoughts turned to Konrad, dancing in front of me the night before, his green eyes mischievous, undecipherable. I imagined those eyes on me now, watching me pleasure myself. Would he be shocked, or would he get horny seeing me so turned on? Would he watch me bring myself to my shuddering climax, or would he be unable to hold himself back, pushing me from the chair onto the floor and taking me right then, impaling me with his big hard cock, the robe spread out on the floor around me like a butterfly’s wings?

I turned the camera on myself again as I splayed back against the chair, which was tilted back against the bath. For a moment I brought my hand up to my breast again, caressed my still-erect nipples feverishly. But it was impossible to keep myself from returning to my burning pussy.

I widened my legs now, continued the pressure on my clit with my thumb while plunging four fingers inside me, pumping them in and out, established a compulsive rhythm. It was hard to maintain control of my camera as I felt the first waves of my orgasm gather and begin to roll towards me – but somehow I managed to click a few times even as utter, annihilating pleasure consumed me.

Afterwards, I was shocked and dazed. All traces of my hangover had gone. I had a long luxuriant soak in the bath before climbing out and inspecting my self-portraits over another coffee. I was both impressed and fascinated. It was incredible to see myself so out of control, so out of myself. This, I thought, was how Kyle and other boyfriends before him had seen me. This was the privilege of lovers – to see us as we never really see ourselves. My images had reminded me that I
could
achieve abandon.