The Sexopaths (7 page)

‘Nice?’

***

The front door amplifies the
sudden sharp almost-rude double-rap and Adam finds himself answering it with
the empty glass in his hand.  He takes longer than is necessary with the
catch and there comes another knock followed by Monique’s voice.

‘Adam?  Ad…’

‘Sorry, it’s a bit stiff.’ 
He senses the slur in his speech.  He steps back to admit her.

‘Is Camille okay?  You were
taking a while… I was worried.’  She looks pointedly at the glass.

‘She’s fine.  She’s fast
asleep.  I was just getting a drink for…’  By now she has backed him
into the main part of the room and he gestures towards the girl.  She’s
sitting demurely in the easy-chair, knees pressed together, hands clasped on
her lap.  There’s no trace of her drink and the top-cover of the bed is
stretched taut.  She hops to her feet and stands obediently to attention
for Monique.

‘Come.  See.’  She
leads the trio into Camille’s room, Adam dutifully bringing up the rear, where
they all crowd round the cot.  Now she whispers: ‘Very good girl. 
She tell me when she is tired.  She go to sleep herself.  She is very
clever.  And so beautiful.’

They retreat in silence. 
Adam can tell Monique is won over by the praise.  She says:

‘Thank you Elena.’  (Elena
– of course.)  ‘Make yourself comfortable and help yourself to
anything you need.  Are you hungry?  There are crisps and chocolate
in the mini-bar.  Cola, lemonade.’

‘I am okay, thank you.’

‘We have to go back – they
are about to serve.  If there is any problem with Camille, why don’t you
phone the restaurant and somebody can fetch us.  We should not be too
late.’

‘Sure – is no
problem.  Enjoy your meal.’

‘Eh bien, mon cheri.  On y
va.’  Monique takes Adam by the hand and draws him towards the door. 
He wonders if the French is for his ears only.

‘Night… Elena.’

‘We shall not disturb you
again.  Thank you, Elena.’

‘You are welcome.’

‘She is a nice kid,’ says Monique
after they’ve closed the front door and begun to walk back down the driveway.

‘Yeah.’

‘Attractive, too?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘What do you mean, you suppose so?’

‘Well… not as attractive as you.’

‘Good answer, my darling. 
But not quite good enough.’  She lets go of his hand and instead pulls him
sideways by his neck for a kiss.  This becomes prolonged and they end up
facing one another in an embrace.  Over Monique’s shoulder Adam notices
there’s a uniformed porter on duty outside the hotel reception, standing sentry
beneath an uplighter, seemingly untroubled by a succession of kamikaze moths
that make repeated sorties around his head.  Does he look this way? 
It’s hard to tell, there’s only shadow beneath the sharp peak of his cap. 
But so what?  Holding Monique firmly he tangos her ballroom style into the
enveloping black ink that pools beneath the tall foliage cloaking their
neighbouring apartment.  The path jinks around the side of the small
building.  They halt.  Immediately his hands are running over her
curved surfaces, raised nipples, imparting an urgency that prompts her to
reciprocate.

 ‘Mmm.  Bad boy. 
You carry a gun.’

He spins her round
one-hundred-and-eighty degrees and in a single smooth upward then downward
movement hoists her dress and lowers her panties.  She places her palms
flat against the wall to brace herself, curves her back, and on tiptoes tilts
her hips, stiletto heels straining to leave the ground.  She grunts as she
receives him and rocks in time with his rapidly quickening rhythm.  She
calls out again as he comes, more loudly, making no attempt to stifle the cry,
primeval satisfaction that has been signalled into the night down throughout
the centuries.  Then quickly she detaches herself, turns and kneels to
suck him for a moment or two.

‘Bad boy.’  She stands,
simultaneously drawing up her briefs, then kisses him, hands at her hips,
simultaneously wriggling to straighten the undergarment.  ‘I love you.’

‘I love you, too, bad girl. 
What about a tissue?’

‘You are so practical,’ she purrs
amusedly.  ‘It’s okay – I have tampons in my bag.  I shall go
to the bathroom beside the restaurant.’

They gather themselves and step
out into the lamplit driveway, arms around waists, their individual inebriated
surges largely cancelling one another out.  They’ve been missing from the
driveway for barely a minute, an interval so improbably short that they feel
able guiltlessly to saunter past the bellhop, greeting his inquisitive glance
with Greek hellos, surreptitiously pinching mutually.

‘I think you were a little
titivated by our pretty babysitter.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’  He
gives her another nip.

‘She
is
very beautiful.’

‘I only fancy you.’

‘Another good answer.  But
you must admit she is nice.  I saw her looking at you at reception. 
I think she has eyes for you.  Sexy eyes.’

‘Leave off – you sound like
you
fancy her.’

Monique giggles.  ‘I’m just
testing you.’

But the giggle develops into a laugh,
and there’s something in her undertone that jerks at his memory: it was there
too in that scream of abandon, the voice of the alter ego, the bright chameleon
that so adeptly merged into the darkness, quick and willing to serve the
moment.

‘Moni, how sober are you?

‘Enough to know what I am
saying!  Et tu, mon cheri?’

‘Pretty pissed, probably.  I
just had this hallucination that I had sex with a beautiful stranger.’

This time she gives him a bump of
the hip.  They’re almost there, carefully watching their step as they
descend poolside.  The noise level is still boisterous and the crowd at
Monique’s end of the table make some friendly teasing comments and jeers, a
mixture of English and French.  ‘Elle se trouve!’  ‘It is not
bedtime!’  Adam wonders if they’re aware he speaks enough French to
understand at least some of what passes.  But he accepts the mickey-taking
with mock innocence, happy to be a minor centre of attention at last.  He
releases Monique to them as though at the end of their dance, fingertips last
to separate, arms at full stretch.  The tall Dutchman hops to his feet and
with a flourish pulls out Monique’s seat, while Adam sees that the French guy,
the President, reclining casually, red wine in hand, a languid observer of
their approach, has his other arm across the back of Secretary Simone’s chair,
into which she has relaxed with apparent comfort.  He returns to his
place.

‘How is she?’  The
Irishwoman sounds a little concerned.

‘Oh she’s fine.  Sleeping
like a baby.’  As he bends to sit, Adam notices there’s a dark stain on
the paler fabric of his trousers and flicks his napkin across the offending
area.

‘We were wondering, since you
were gone a wee while.’

‘Have I missed much?’

‘Not any food, to be sure.’

At this remark of the Irishwoman’s,
the Franco-Belgian woman gives a nasal snort.  Adam is not sure if it’s in
supportive complaint or indignant contradiction.  He says:

‘It has its compensations, Greek
service.’

‘Are you regulars out here?’

‘A few holidays down the years
– Corfu, Peloponnese, Athens.  Neither of us has worked in Greece
before.’

‘You don’t work together, do
you?’

‘No – no, not really
– not at all, I suppose.  Just occasionally our firms might both
find themselves on different aspects of a project for a large client – so
we can end up in the same meetings.  That’s how we first met, a client
bash – in Dublin, actually.  What a great place.’

She declines the opportunity to
deviate from her present tack.  ‘I hear you’re a bit of star in your line
– must be where the wee one gets her creative sparkle from.’

Adam affects a modest
cringe.  ‘On both fronts I think we’re talking about my wife.’

‘That’s not what the jungle drums
say – I mean, not that your wife’s not successful in her field –
but you’ve already had two books published?  At your tender age.’

‘Hey – I’m probably older
than you.’

‘Flattery will get you
everywhere.  But we both know you’re not.’

Adam chuckles.  ‘Well, I
must discover who’s been giving me all this free PR and buy them a beer.’

‘I think you’ll find it’s your
good lady.  Donal tells me she was singing your praises at the last
meeting.  They had a big argument about the internet.  That’s your
thing, isn’t it?’

‘Oh… yeah, she did say something
about that.  Though… I’m not a techie or anything clever – I couldn’t
read computer language any more than I can read these Greek menus.’

‘So what’s your speciality?’

‘Well – I always find it
hard to put in one word.  Here’s the jargon: it’s about developing
effective communication strategies for social media.  There’s a lot of
hype.  I think common sense best describes it.’

‘Sounds fascinating.’

‘Believe me – I’ve bored
all round the world on the subject.’

‘Maybe there’s a language
barrier?’

‘Unfortunately they usually have
interpreters – you know, the audience wear headsets? – so I can’t
use that as an excuse.  Did you know studies show that learning declines
when the number of words in a sentence exceeds seven?’

‘Then you’ll have to find a
shorter way of expressing that fact.’

Again he gives an appreciative
laugh.  She’s sharp.  But he’s conscious of the so-far one-way nature
of the conversation.  The dour Belgian on his left has been silently
leaning in, but Adam is not really sure how much English she speaks.  He’s
hampered by her brooding presence – it’s hard for him to question the
Irishwoman, without feeling like he’s excluding the Belgian from their
circle.  With what he thinks is an elegant tactic, he slides his chair
back so they have mutual eye-contact, and asks:

‘So what do you guys do?’

The two women glance at one
another, then – to Adam’s surprise, and mild annoyance – the
Belgian speaks first.

‘I am a housewife.  My
husband and I – we have what I think you call a
small-holding?
 
A little farm.
’

Adam and the Irishwoman nod
vigorously. 

She continues:  ‘We have
some animals – goats, chickens, a sow – and we grow our own fruit
and vegetables.  Well sell produce at the market… and flowers, too.’

‘That seems idyllic.’  Adam
wonders if this is going to be the nature of the conversation for the rest of
the evening, in contrast to yet another burst of laughter that erupts from the
far end of the table.  ‘Where exactly do you live?’

‘In the forest, the Ardennes.’

‘Do you have any children?’ 
The Irishwoman.

‘We have five – two sets of
twins, all girls, and an elder boy, aged seven.’

‘No wonder you’re here,’ quips
Adam.

She glowers at him. 
‘Frankly, I come to accompany my husband.  To see there is no
philandering.’

‘I’m sorry?’  Adam thinks
something must be lost in translation.

She’s happy to elaborate. 
‘These meetings, these trips abroad… there is temptation for a man away from
his home.  They dine out like this, consume a lot of alcohol.  Sex is
inevitable.  And, yes – you are correct – I have a short break
in a pleasant location.’

Adam nods empathetically, wondering
what on earth to say in response to such candour.  He glances along the
table.  Monsieur Belgium, a short, sallow-skinned, downtrodden-looking
kind of guy, is sandwiched, like a reluctant schoolboy pressed to turn out for
some special valedictory occasion, between two form mistresses: the Austrian
representative, a tall and glamorous pale-skinned presumably peroxide blonde
who still sports her elaborate designer sunglasses; and a contrastingly dark
Greek woman, apparently a local marketing journalist, who is amply filling a
low-cut silver-spangled bodice.  The fellow looks perfectly miserable
– positively a thorn between two roses – and no surprise to Adam,
having now digested the chap’s wife’s bald statement.  He notices the
Irishwoman, meanwhile, is watching the Belgian woman closely.  He
contemplates the possibility that she might be a player on this particular
stage.  Could that be why
she
attends with her brother on a regular
basis?  Could the Belgian’s remarks be intended to put her on
notice?  If so, she’s unfazed, and quick on the draw once more:

‘Well I’ve been trying for about
a dozen meetings… and I have to say I’ve not managed to click yet.’

The Belgian woman appears not to
detect the murderous Celtic irony in the remark and prefers terrier-fashion to
give the bloodied corpse of her own obsession another shake.  She leans
across Adam, close to him, her dress sagging open to reveal the well-suckled
oversized nipples of her small breasts.  It makes Adam think of her
pig.  Her sickly breath invades his airspace.  He fights the urge to
recoil.  In a low voice she hisses:

‘It is not just the men. 
Simone, for instance – she is not so innocent as she seems.  Now she
has her designs on the President.’

She makes it sound like there was
someone else before.  Adam says:

‘You really think so?’

‘There are signs, if you watch
closely.  See how they fawn around him.’

Her leap to the plural stirs the
murky waters of an anxiety that he thought had cleared in the aftermath of his
whirlpool coupling with Monique.  He wishes to cast off the sinister
asexual presence of this woman.  Her hypothesis that the reconvened crew
has drifted beyond the horizon of normal conventions that bind behaviour
rekindles the sea-sickness that has troubled him since their arrival. 
What would it take for Monique to be press-ganged into their midst, vows
unwinding?  Too much to drink, a broadside of flattery with an intent she
might not recognise, her wish to impress, her urge to charm, to please, to
reward; thus compliant - a planned ‘chance’ encounter in the half-darkness, a
touch of the arm, a trial kiss, sex in sixty seconds.