The Sexopaths (11 page)

Adam declines this little olive
twig.  He holds some high ground, and he’s not quite ready to sue for
peace.  He says:

‘Well – that’s kind of my
point.  It’s usual to behave like that, isn’t it?’

‘But she is not very popular
among the Board.’

‘Is it a popularity contest?’

‘In a way, it is.  For me
– I have had to take over from some pompous English man that represented
the UK before me.  Nobody liked him.  He was really blocking the UK’s
progress.  We won no awards during his term.  This year we got six
golds and came second overall.  I think they like me and it has begun to
make a difference – and the UK committee is very happy.’

‘That’s great.  Well
done.  But I hate feeling like I’m in
Indecent Proposal
.’

‘My darling – don’t be
silly.’

‘I’m trying not to be.  I
can’t help how I feel.  It’s not easy watching you in the middle of what
looks like a mating ritual, even if you are oblivious to it.’

Monique laughs, as if she thinks
this statement can’t be meant seriously.  ‘They are half of them gay,
anyway.’

‘That’s a poor excuse. 
Who’s gay?’

‘You mean you can’t tell?’

‘It’s not something I go round
looking for.’

‘Well T-J, for a start.’

‘What – the Dutch
guy?  The tall one?’

‘Aha.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Oh, my darling – you can
tell from a mile off – look at the way he dresses, and speaks, and acts.’

‘Well he seemed to be getting
friendly enough with you at the dinner.’

‘Like a girlfriend? 
Yes.  It’s not T-J you should worry about.’

‘So whom do I have to worry
about?’

‘
Personne
– don’t be
so silly.’

Too late – Adam’s radar has
homed in on the implied alternative offered in her defence of the effeminate
Dutchman.  The effect is amplified by her lapse into stressed
French.  So another blip joins the squadron of spiky alien contacts that
populate his mind’s screen.  First there was the bouquet coinciding with her
election to the AMIE Board.  Then the first Brussels meeting soon after
– she hadn’t stayed away overnight, but nevertheless had chosen flights
at extremes of the clock, for a meeting that evidently lasts only a couple of
hours; she’d returned in a strange mood, ebullient yet somehow detached –
she’d said she was drained by the long day, but he could tell she’d been
drinking, albeit that might have been on the plane home… he hadn’t felt he
could interrogate her.  A week or two afterwards she’d bought the latest
new mobile and, for the first time he could recall, had recorded her own
personal greeting on her voicemail service; while he told himself he was
imagining things, surely there was the hint of exaggerated coyness in her
voice, and a measured precision in her enunciation… the extra care with which
one speaks to a foreigner, perhaps?  More generally he had a feeling that
there was an ongoing communication – in practice no doubt an online
mini-community, that Monique was now part of – that went unshared with
him.  When the subject of the AMIE Board arose between them it was
apparent she now knew much of the workings, of events past and future, and was
becoming familiar with the personalities more speedily than the limited
exposure in person would have allowed.

These buzzing irritants he
thought he’d dismissed as rogue signals, magnified by his irrational
insecurity.  Now there’s the hint that he ought to be concerned about
someone.  Maybe that should be no surprise – after all, he’d
observed her in Mykonos, seemingly unfettered by his presence, courted; he
could identify with the plays made for her favours; he could feel the brooding,
watchful intent.  Perhaps he should take seriously the paranoid Belgian
woman with her delusions of systematic infidelity?  Maybe she was right
about Secretary Simone and the French President?  He thinks back to a
poolside cameo: it was the first afternoon when they’d arrived and straightaway
had taken Camille to cool her exuberance.  He’d noticed a man and woman
emerge from the bar and stroll around the pool in their direction, arms linked,
in quiet, apparently intimate conversation.  The girl had turned out to be
Simone, the guy – older, forty-something, self-assured, hair swept back,
nose aquiline, a well-fed bulge beneath a designer polo-shirt above
expensive-looking chinos – the French President.  Adam had barely
paid them a second glance – he’d assumed they were just a couple staying
at the hotel.  But suddenly Simone had spotted Monique and greetings
flowed forth.  Monique, clad in a glistening gold bikini, taut over her
shapely body, had climbed the chrome ladder beneath their steady gaze and,
shaking her hands of water as best she could, kissed them in time-honoured
fashion.  Adam was supporting a water-wingless Camille, and so was spared
the necessity of this formality.  He’d waded with her to the side of the
pool, but Camille predictably opted for shyness and protests, so he’d retired
to the shallows after a brief introduction and a promise to speak properly later,
while Monique regaled them with the story of their journey, and they exchanged
news of other colleagues’ arrivals.

‘Sorry.  You made it sound
like I should.  Worry.’

‘Look – I am just trying to
be pleasant to everybody.  Like I said, the British have not been popular
– apparently the French would not even talk to my predecessor.’

‘Well, we don’t like the French.’

‘Come on – you know we are
all good friends.  Les Rosbifs et Les Grenouilles.  L’Entente
Cordialle.’

‘The French are perfectly cordial
so long as they’re getting their own way.’

‘That is what they think of the
English.  Spoiled and stubborn.’

‘The French are arrogant.’

‘Same.’

‘Well, lucky I’m not English,
then.’

Adam grins and Monique
reciprocates – his lines of attack are well rehearsed and she, as always,
parries adroitly and gives no quarter in return.  There is one thing
though, that intrigues him.  He says:

‘Do they know you’re an
imposter?’

‘I am not an imposter.’

‘Poacher turned gamekeeper, then.’

‘I have not made a big thing of
it.’

‘They must be able to tell. 
The average Brit doesn’t just roll up and start spouting French like you can.’

‘They say I sound like a
schoolgirl!  They’re teasing, of course – but it is true I don’t
have as much business vocabulary.’

‘You sounded like you were doing
fine to me.  I don’t even get ten percent of it.’

‘You are a good French speaker,
my darling.  I think your accent is superior to mine.’

Adam smiles graciously, but
persists with his line of inquiry.  ‘So now UK is flavour of the
month?  Or you are, to be precise.’  He decides doesn’t like the
image that accompanies his metaphor.

‘But… it feels good that I can
make a difference.  You don’t see me at work – it is normal that I
would treat people how they like to be treated.  You are not used to being
in a client-facing role.  I do it every day of the week, and there are
good ways and bad ways to achieve consensus and get your point across. 
Surely the good ways are best?  I even got an email from Lucien saying I
had brightened up his morning, and I had only sent him a pack of boring
information on the UK education programme.  That is progress compared to
the deadlock before I took on the role.  We are back on the marketing map
of Europe.’

‘Remind me which one’s Lucien?’

‘The President.’

‘The boss who’s shafting his
secretary.’

Monique frowns
disapprovingly.  She says, rather obliquely:

‘Between the two of them, they do
most of the running of the organisation.  Anyway, Simone is not
his
secretary – she is Secretary to the Board.’

‘Do they work together?’

‘They are from different
companies.  Lucien is the CEO of a big agency in Paris.  Simone works
two days a week for the Board and the rest of the time she has her own
consultancy.’

‘In Paris, too?’

‘Aha.  We might visit
her.  She says we can stay at her apartment when there is a meeting
there.’

‘Is she married?’

‘No, she’s single.’

‘What about this Lucien guy?’

‘I think someone said he is
married, with older kids.’

Adam nods, as if he’s received
enough information, but the vague answer bothers him.  He says:

‘You said ‘we’ might go to
Paris.  Are you planning to include me on all these meetings?’

‘My darling, of course I want to
be there with you.  We can have some more nice trips.  Otherwise I’m
not sure I should give up my time to be on the Board.  If there is a
meeting in a place that is interesting and you’d like to come, I want you to be
with me.  Maybe sometimes – if it is just the same day, Brussels, or
somewhere not so exciting… London? – you will choose to stay home.’

Adam gives a shrug of
agreement.  ‘Look – I’m sorry to go on about it.  I suppose
it’s just today, I’m a bit over-sensitive, what with you getting your knickers
off for that Russian guy.’

‘Adam - shh!’  She gives his
hand a reprimanding tap.  ‘I did not take them off for
him
. 
What conversation would we be having tonight if the sauna staff were
female?  I wonder if you would have behaved so well as I!’

‘I wonder if you would have
behaved even worse.’

Monique smiles.  ‘Well, I certainly
should have felt less stressed out.’

‘It’s female therapists at your
regular place?’

‘Yes, of course.  Like
almost everywhere.’

‘And are you naked for the
massage?’

‘Usually you wear a g-string.’

‘And do you think sometimes
things happen?’

‘Maybe.  But I think
rarely.’

‘Do beauty salons attract girls
who like girls?’

‘It is possible.  I think
girls anyway are better at touching one another and better at being touched by
a girl.  It is more relaxed.’

‘And what about the girls who do
your massage?’

‘It is usually the same
one.  She is older – the owner – probably not your idea of
attractive, my darling.’

‘But you like it.  Her.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘And could you let her make you
come?’

Monique hesitates before
answering.  ‘Yes.’  She draws the word out, as if she’s still making
up her mind about something while she’s saying it.

‘Does it ever feel like you
might?’

‘I feel like it wouldn’t take too
much.  When she’s doing the tops of my thighs and accidentally brushes a
little… close.  Especially if I am naked.’

‘What about the guy today? 
Would it have taken much for him to make you come?’

‘No.’

This time her reply comes without
hesitation, and she looks him in the eye with a certain audacity. 
Equally, there’s a message that says ‘See – it didn’t happen.’

‘Hmm.  Bad girl
Monique.’  His tone errs towards the approving.  ‘Are you sure you’ve
told me everything – that he didn’t touch you… intimately?’

‘My darling – I said… it
was close a few times.  But the excitement was more about the whole
bizarre scenario – and that I was naked with a strange guy – it was
so weird.’

‘So it’s
excitement
now?’

‘You know what I mean… yes, it
was in part exciting – I admit – you have found the same, I am
certain.  But it does not mean I had to have sex with the guy.  It
was an exciting situation and not one I would have planned to get into… the
unexpectedness of it was part of the thrill, an unplanned encounter.’

‘And so you thought you’d make
the best of it?’

‘No!  Well – yes, in a
way.  Up to a point.  It was nice.  He made it feel nice. 
But I wanted to get back to you.  After I had finished and you weren’t
there I had to go into the shower and make myself come.’

‘Jesus, Monique!’

She seems to be testing,
deliciously – perhaps unwittingly – his pain-pleasure threshold.

‘Adam!  Shh… look – it
was nothing.’

‘Thanks for waiting.’

‘But
you
didn’t wait…
anyway, we soon made up for it didn’t we?  And now I’d like to back to our
room to make up for it some more.  Let’s be very good bad.’

***

Adam enters the room naked except
for the taut blindfold.   He can smell a scented candle and hear its
faint hiss, a tiny signal by which he can navigate.  His knees make
contact with the foot of the bed and he climbs slowly on, taking care not to
put a sudden weight upon an unseen limb.  His hands explore and he touches
her body: she’s face down as expected, ankles taped, hands – presumably
fastened likewise at the wrists – pressed beneath her midriff, hair
gathered in by tape apparently covering her mouth.  She’s moving, almost
imperceptibly, rhythmically.  He steadies himself and feels for a point of
balance, then kneels behind her with his legs either side of hers.  Firmly
he lifts her at the hips; she affects to resist but he presses forward, gliding
easily between her oiled buttocks and feeling the touch of long smooth nails
that seem to guide him.  He pushes, she yields, her gag suppressing a
moan.  Quickly he begins to thrust, deeper and faster, her entire body
rocking with each lunge.  It’s not long before he comes: role-play subsumed
by nature, the leading man deaf to his supporting partner’s muffled
protestations.  Then just as quickly he extracts himself.  She
whimpers.  He exits.

‘What’s taking you so long? 
Are you masturbating in there?’

Monique’s bald accusation jolts
him from the subconscious act, from the electrostatic memory.  The second
assignment.  The rape fantasy.  That he’d again been denied any
visual cues had served only to heighten the charge: in his mind’s eye the naked
blonde supplicant, her warm flesh prepared; his own arcing excitement tinged
with trepidation; permission to execute the visceral deed.