The Sexopaths (25 page)

‘She ought to be here by now,
don’t you think, my darling?’

‘I can think of a few reasons why
she might be late.’

‘Shall I call her again?’

Adam shrugs.  ‘What did she
say about timing?’

‘That she would come early if she
could – in her usual taxi – you know? – her lady-driver
friend.’

Adam drains his glass of its last
few drops, a lukewarm half-mouthful he’s been nursing with an optimistic view
to pacing himself.  He says:

‘Oh – try her, then.’

They’re seated at the island bar
in the kitchen.  Adam extracts the champagne from its chromed ice-bucket
and deposits a curling trail of drips as he refills their glasses. 
Monique rescues her mobile from its midst.  Deftly she thumbs the screen
and raises the handset to her ear.  She stares at him, glazed, not seeing
him, he guesses.  Then she inhales to speak:

‘Sharon, hi
cherie
–
it is Monique again.  Just calling to check you are okay.  The
champagne is getting warm – and so are we!  Hot, in fact!’  She
giggles, then continues: ‘So please hurry along your driver!  But do not
worry – there is plenty more bubbly in the fridge!  We are looking
forward to seeing you any moment. 
A bientot!
’ 

‘No answer, obviously?’

‘It rang a couple of times and
then diverted to her voicemail.’

‘Let me try.’  He holds out
a palm.

‘Wait – I shall dial since
you hate this phone so much.’

He grimaces deferentially. 
He does hate it (though he suffers the same model) – its too-innocent
voicemail greeting, the text he wasn’t supposed to see (and others he probably
hasn’t), its rings and bleeps and chimes as persons unknown interpose
themselves, a conduit that he can’t control and which Monique doesn’t seem to
want to seal off.  But how would she know this?  Is it so obvious
– and if so why doesn’t she act on his feelings and take down the
channel?

‘There you are – it is easy
my darling.’

She hands him the phone and it
seems that she simply refers to his antipathy to the particular model.  He
listens for a few seconds, then passes it back to her.  He says:

‘It’s just going straight through
now, no rings.’

‘Why would she switch off?’

‘She could be listening to your
message.’

‘Or maybe she has no signal.’

‘I guess we just drink.’  He
picks up his glass.  Cheers.’

‘Cheers, my darling.  Here’s
to a nice night.’

‘A bit more than that, I think.’

‘Nice good bad.’

‘That could be the understatement
of the year.’

‘She is very cute, no?’

Adam looks sideways at
Monique.  He’s tempted to say she certainly has ‘an arse to die for’, but
he lets the moment slip past and gives a non-committal toss of the head. 
Thinking about the anonymous girl’s review he blows gently at one of the
candles that burns before them, causing the flame to stutter.  Monique is
suddenly prompted, and says:

‘Oh – did you light the
candles upstairs, my darling?’

He slides off his barstool, then
addresses his champagne flute as if it’s a yard of ale.

‘It’s nice if the room fills up
with the scent before we go in.’

He nods as he swallows. 
‘I’ll do it now.’

As if in frustration he bangs the
glass down and spins on his heel, military fashion.  They’ve not eaten and
almost immediately he feels light-headed.  But right now that seems
okay.  He walks carefully along the hallway, ascends the stairs, and
crosses the landing.  He stops for a moment and listens outside Camille’s
room.  The tiny bellows of her regular breathing is just audible from
within.  The door to their own bedroom is closed.  He enters to find
the stifling warmth almost overwhelming – Monique must have cranked up
the heating.  Perfect for getting naked, he figures.  He locates
matches in his bedside cabinet, then works his way around the room, seeking out
the small candles Monique has strategically positioned.  The task
complete, he turns off the overhead lights to admire the effect, the chamber
readied as if for a pagan ceremony.  In the darkness the room has a
devilish glow; the bed, its centrepiece, enfolded by a taut crimson pvc sheet,
glistens red in the flickering gloom like a shining sacrificial altar. 
From each corner snake black straps terminating in Velcro cuffs, and not one
but three semi-transparent spandex hoods lie ready for their wearers.

He knows the hoods are partly
see-through because he has tried one on.  It covers the head completely;
there’s a hemmed opening for the mouth, slightly obscene he’d thought.  He
can feel the tightness of his jeans as he steps into the ensuite and lights the
candles there.  In the basin bob bottles of honey-coloured massage
oil.  He tests the water – it’s tepid, so he empties and refills it,
leaving the hot tap trickling to maintain the temperature.  He opens one
of the bottles and pours a few drops into the palm of his hand.  The scent
is striking – instantly he’s transported back to that first time with the
then ‘Ms Y’.  His blind helplessness, their writhing serpentine
forms.  So Xara buys this stuff, too.

Last evening after dinner Monique
had produced with a melodramatic flourish the ‘bondage kit’, as she described
it.  She’d pre-advertised it as a ‘naughty surprise’ procured for him on
Jasmin-Sharon’s recommendation from an apparently long-established emporium in
a street he’d never heard of down in the medieval bowels of the Old Town. 
He’d wondered if Jasmin-Sharon had made the purchases herself… or maybe they’d
gone giggling in tandem?  Certainly her revelation had added weight to the
side of his hypothesis that placed the two of them in company at some time on
Thursday, Edinburgh’s day for late-night shopping.

Monique had been reluctant to
discuss her company gathering the next morning, protesting tiredness and that
it had been ‘the usual boring stuff, you know?’  His circumspect
promptings had been restrained in part by his own wish to be wrong, and in part
by the sense that she was not yet inured to such questioning, and may react with
anger – dislike, even – if he continually implied misbehaviour,
deceit, infidelity.  He had thus failed to elicit any further clues to
what had taken place.  As if by unspoken mutual agreement they’d dozed on
well past their alarm, with the corollary that their normally civilised morning
schedule became compressed concertina-like into half the usual time.  To
his frustration, Monique had retreated behind a locked bathroom door, while he
deputised to usher Camille through her paces.  He’d hurried her outdoors
with a plate of chocolate-flavoured squares of toast, she complaining that he’d
not carved out her name as usual, while a harassed-looking Monique apologised
to the taxi that had already clocked up a substantial waiting bill in their
driveway.

Monique had seemed distracted;
he’d felt sure there was some bigger story playing across the front pages of
her thoughts.  After she’d departed with Camille, he’d actually checked
the laundry basket in their ensuite, but found it empty.  In the utility
room the washing machine was rumbling away; she’d put on a load before leaving
the house.  That evening, after an early dinner with Camille, he’d
descended cautiously to the lounge having completed his small charge’s bath and
bedtime story, to find Monique already stretched before the tv.  He’d
insinuated himself in beside her – she didn’t object, though seemed
languid and unresponsive.  In any event, the opportunity to talk had
passed; rising waves of tiredness washed over them, and they dozed for an hour or
so until finally managing to scramble a retreat as sleep’s undertow threatened
to pull them down for the night.

And now what to do?  He’s
struck by the sudden conviction that Jasmin-Sharon is not going to make an
appearance.  If this anticlimactic hunch is correct, then they’re on their
own – all dressed up and nowhere to go.  Monique wears her finest
exotic underwear, and an outfit – killer heels to boot – that would
grace the most prestigious of red carpets.  Her make up and hair are
immaculate.  He, too, is showered, shaved and fragranced as if he were
about to head out on a date.  Not to mention the clingy satin
briefs.  He can’t help but draw the ironic comparison: look how they’ve
got themselves up because Jasmin-Sharon is coming – yet they don’t do
this at home for one another.  If they were staying away at a hotel… then
maybe… but for their ‘nice nights’ in, they don’t go to half the trouble. 
He wonders if this is something they ought formally to remedy.  At this
moment it might feel a bit like a wedding without the bride, but if the night
is really for them, why should it make any difference if Jasmin-Sharon doesn’t
show?  How long can they sustain call girls and cocaine as a substitute
for homespun erotica?

Pondering this dilemma, absently
rubbing the oil between his palms and inhaling the spiced essence of bergamot,
a sound from their bedroom attracts his attention.  He guesses Camille has
woken and crept in, as is her wont.  He’d better shepherd her away before
she consumes embarrassing details that might be broadcast in who-knows-what
forum some day henceforth.  Still bearing the oil, his fingers slippery,
it takes him a moment to manage the round door-handle.

‘Back to bed, Cam…’

His voice tails off as he feels
his jaw literally drop.  Prone upon the bed, Monique’s body, naked but for
her sheer and skimpy golden underwear, plus matching heels, glistens in the
scarlet half-light.  Her arms are outstretched as if inviting him to tie
her wrists, and in each hand she balances a filled champagne flute.

‘I am in bed.’

‘You look fucking amazing.’

‘Our friend can join us later.’

‘I’ll listen out for the bell.’

***

‘Would you like what is left, my
darling?’

‘Hadn’t we better save some, just
in case she comes?’

It’s ninety minutes since they tried
unsuccessfully to contact Jasmin-Sharon, and Adam has already eaten most of her
share of the light meal that Monique had prepared earlier.

‘It is okay – I can easily
make more.’

He’s persuaded, and holds out his
plate.

‘Thanks, it’s delicious –
as usual.’

‘You are welcome, my darling.’

As they resume eating silence
slips back between them, an invisible force that gently strains the umbilical
bond they renewed in the last hour.  Adam feels a little dismayed by the
stilted atmosphere, descending so soon after they’d made energetic and
imaginative use of the facilities provided by Monique.  And though he has
his suspicions that she procured these accessories with other scenarios in
mind, all went smoothly upstairs, where for the most part nature took control:
an hour of sensory deprivation and slithering excess.  Monique had
excelled, only towards the end losing herself upon him in a frenetic abandon
that had him doubting her mental fidelity.  Constrained as he’d been, the
hood afforded a restricted but viable view, one that revealed sufficient of her
expressions for him to imagine she was transported to the company of a person
or persons unknown.

Maybe she’d detected a subtle
shift in his body language, a sense of being caught
in flagrante delicto
,
as momentarily he became observer rather than participant.  Post-climax
she’d subsided upon him, dragging off his hood and kissing away his putative
apprehensions; she’d released his bonds and drawn him from the bed and soaped
him in the shower.  Even then, however, there was a hint of haste about
their manoeuvres – although it was a timetable in which he collaborated,
so they could patter barefoot and damp-haired in their towelling gowns to the
kitchen, to check Monique’s mobile for any sign of contact from Jasmin-Sharon. 
There was none, and they’d both – he was sure – affected
indifference, a small deceit that, in the manner of opposing poles, prevented
them from pressing close and signing off their love-making with the appropriate
embrace.

Instead, Monique had turned to
inspect the dish warming in the oven, as if using the pretence to distract from
the disappointment to which neither of them wanted to admit.  Now, for
Adam, it feels like the party is over, while the night is still young; it’s as
if when they were otherwise occupied upstairs, their fellow revellers decamped
to another location, taking the song and dance and flags and bunting with
them.  Monique is watchful, though there’s the curve of a smile upon her
lips as he appreciates her culinary efforts.  He wonders if she is
assessing the moment, trying to gauge whether this is the time – now that
he is physically sated – to confess something of her new found interests.

He is about to ask what’s on her
mind – wrestling with the phraseology that will best match his intended
line of enquiry – when suddenly her phone comes alive.  Monique
swoops upon it, looks at the screen, nods to Adam in confirmation.  She
exclaims:

‘Sharon, hi – how are you?’

She listens intently, her
demeanour changing with each attempted interjection in a series of stills, like
a flick-book, from anticipation to concern to reassurance:

‘We have been wondering…’

‘Oh – no that’s awful…’

‘Yes… yes…’

‘I am so sorry to hear that…’

‘No… yes… of course, you should…’

‘I am sure everything will be
okay…’

‘Don’t worry… it is no problem…’

‘You have to put him first…’

‘It is okay – we are fine…
don’t worry about us…’

‘No… not at all…’

‘Yes… of course we can…’

‘You hurry…’

‘That’s fine… don’t even think
about…’

‘Okay…’

‘Okay… take care.  Speak with
you soon.’

Adam shoots her an inquiring
glance as she replaces the handset on the table surface.  She says: