Edge Play X (22 page)

Compton
stood then and went into the bathroom where he
closed the door. He saw his reflection in the mirror and tried to ignore it.
The crumpled pile of clothing that X had removed the night before was still on
the floor.
Compton
went to it and located
X’s socks, panties, and bra from the folds of clothing. And then, starting with
a sock, he placed each garment against his nose and inhaled deeply, relishing
the scents that lingered in each, whether fragrant or sour, natural or
synthetic. He smelled the pungent armpits of her shirt (somewhat acrid, as X
generally shunned deodorant); he pressed his face into the crotch of her
panties as if inhaling a drug, the smell
both marshy
and sweet, dark and loam rich. His mouth watered.

His desire
had not subsided. There was an understanding deep within him that X would never
truly give herself to him, never love him (but what a sweet victory it would be
if she did). The knowledge brought with it a sense of comfort—as long as she
did not love him, he would long for her, he would dissolve in his attempts to
please her. He did not feel a need to search for equality in his relationships,
whether business or personal.

He was
aware that his business associates and Steinberg would be arriving soon for a
day of meetings. He would have to go into the other room where his suitcases
were in order to get dressed.

Compton
turned on the sink, splashing his face with cool
water and then drying it with a soft towel. X awoke when she heard the running
water. It was early still—the day was just beginning to break the night, and
the softest light entered through the long windows of the room. She rested in
bed and waited for him to finish in the bathroom, and when he entered the
bedroom finally, wearing just his boxers, she greeted him with a simple hello.
Compton
’s nipples, still
slightly red from the recent
piercings
, attracted her
attention. The ornaments made him look younger, hipper.

“My
business meetings will be beginning shortly,” he told her as he sat on the bed
next to X. “At
ten o’clock
, David will take you
to a boutique nearby where he’ll introduce you to a woman who will accompany
you to the shops today.”

“Yes, he
told me already,” she said.

“Good.”

As X looked
at his bare chest, she noticed that a few of the hairs there were white.

“Then this
evening, after my meetings are done, we’ll go to
Versailles
. I’ve arranged for a
private tour.”

 
“I want to know something,” X said.

“Sure,” he
said, leaning closer towards her, “anything.”

“If I allowed
you to share my bed, what would you do to me?”

He seemed
contemplative, thoughtful. Then he answered very simply, “Everything.”

6.

After
Compton
left her, X showered,
dressed, and ordered breakfast, a plate of strawberry and peach stuffed French toast.
As she sat at the table eating the food and drinking her coffee, she watched as
a procession of suited men entered the hotel room where they were greeted by
Steinberg, the man energetic and affable. X knew that
Compton
regarded Steinberg as
a good assistant. The man was inconspicuous, friendly, and obedient, everything
Compton
needed. As she watched Steinberg hand each
participant a packet of materials and then direct them to the upstairs room
where they would be meeting with
Compton
, X thought that he was
sheepish and mechanical, two other traits
Compton
wanted.
 

Simeon had
told X to note who
Compton
’s business partners
were, and she tried to commit to memory the particular physical differences of
the attendees. Although the men varied in their degrees of height, baldness,
fatness, and age, the group appeared remarkably similar to X, appeared to be
heads floating above the static suited mannequins below them. So, instead of
bothering with a task that she knew she would ultimately be unsuccessful with,
she simply went up to Steinberg and asked him for an agenda of
Compton
’s day. He thumbed
through the pile of papers that sat cradled in his forearm before pulling out a
sheet with an accomplished “ah-ha!” and handing it to X. She glanced at the
paper, seeing that all the attendees were listed at the top. Then, there was
another knock at the door and Steinberg was busy again, so X took the paper
into her room. She slid it into her purse before going back to the table and
finishing her breakfast.

Soon thereafter,
when all the men had arrived and the meeting had begun upstairs, Steinberg told
X that it was time to go to the boutiques. She followed him down to the lobby
where they met their bodyguard, the same giant oaf who had accompanied X and
Compton to the tattoo parlor. Once they were out of the hotel and on the busy
Parisian street, they walked a little while before entering a small boutique, X
hoping that the excursion did not take very long, anxious to see the city.

Steinberg
told the bodyguard to wait outside, and as Steinberg and X entered the
boutique, a few employees took notice of their entrance and greeted them with
upbeat
bonjours
and happy smiles before turning their
attention back to their work or clients.

They made
their way past racks and shelves to the rear of the store where a petite young
woman was organizing a display of handbags. When she saw Steinberg she
immediately stopped what she was doing and greeted them enthusiastically. With
her fair skin, rosy cheeks, and dark curly hair, she reminded X of Snow White.

“Bonjour!”
she said, kissing Steinberg on each cheek.
 

“It’s good
to see you Madeleine,” he said in return, his voice happy and light.

The woman
cast her attention to X, waiting for Steinberg to introduce them.

Steinberg
introduced X with her real name, and the sound of it felt foreign to X’s ears.
Compton
only ever referred to
her as X, and she preferred it like that.
 

Madeleine
kissed X’s cheeks as well.
 

“It is so
good to meet you,” she said in her thick French accent. “I have been looking
forward to taking you to the shops.”

“Take as
long as you like,” Steinberg said. “Mr. Compton will be in meetings all
afternoon.”

“Yes! I
will wear her out, I am sure of it!” Madeleine exclaimed. X smiled politely,
feigning excitement.

From his
coat pocket, Steinberg pulled out a leather zippered bag and gave it to
Madeleine. X guessed that it contained credit cards and a good deal of cash
along with Madeleine’s payment for her services. X assumed that the woman would
also get a commission from whatever X bought from the shops that they would
soon visit. Madeleine took the pouch from him without saying a word.
 

Steinberg
bid them goodbye, and then Madeleine went over to the counter and got her
purse, tucking the leather pouch inside of it. The other women at the store
cast their gazes to X sporadically, careful not to let them linger too long and
seem rude. Had X not arrived with Steinberg, she assumed, their treatment would
not have been so polite. She guessed correctly that the saleswomen were assessing
her clothing and appearance, noticing that the clothing she wore was relatively
inexpensive, off-the-rack department store pieces, and that after leaving with
Madeleine they would critique her and perhaps openly question how a woman so
simple and un-stylish had managed to be a companion to a man as filthy rich as
Terry Compton. X thought to herself that if only they knew how small his penis
was, they might not think him such a catch, and she laughed to herself.

Madeleine,
however, if she made any judgments about the people who entered the boutique,
was careful not display her opinions. There was a warm, friendly air about her,
a persona that seemed so natural to X that she had to believe it was more than
just the woman’s sales technique. As X went with her out into the street, she
felt at ease with Madeleine and was genuinely happy to be in her presence. X’s
mother had been the same way, and it made X wonder how she had turned out the
way she had.

Once out on
the sidewalk, X pulled out a cigarette and lit it, wondering if Madeleine would
think less of her for her dirty vice.

“In
France
,” she informed X, “you
used to be able to smoke anywhere, the cafés, the shops, but now it is not
allowed there, but it is still alright on the street.”

“Do you
smoke?”

“Not
anymore, not since I had my son,” she answered. “He’s five.”

X walked
with Madeleine on the sidewalk and the bodyguard followed behind them. When X
finished with her cigarette, she threw it in the gutter. Cars whizzed by them,
horns blaring every so often, the drivers appearing either overwhelmed or in a
hurry. Above them, the sun popped through the winter clouds every few minutes,
casting bright rays down to the city below.

Finally,
when they arrived at the first shop, X tentatively followed Madeleine inside,
leaving the bodyguard to wait for them on the street. The women inside were
expecting them, and shortly after they entered, Madeleine greeted a
sophisticated matron of a woman, her blond hair in a tight bun on the top of
her head and her slim glasses perched on her nose.
 

“This is
Mr. Compton’s friend,” Madeleine said, introducing the women.

“It is a
pleasure to meet you, my dear,” she said in an English accent as she surveyed
X’s body.

“You look
like an American size 8. Am I right?” she asked.

X nodded
her head yes, impressed.

“We have
the most lovely pieces to show you this morning.”
Pieces
, she said, as
if the garments were art. Behind her, the shop girls scurried around, and
within a few minutes, both Madeleine and X had mimosas in their hands.

At the rear
of the store was a dressing area full of mirrors and seating, and Madeleine sat
down as one of the girls brought over a blouse and a pair of pants for X. Once
Madeleine reviewed the garments she told X to go ahead and try them on.

“Right here?”
X asked.

“
Oui
.”

So then X
removed her clothes and handed them to one of the sales girls. Immediately,
Madeleine stood up and came over, a look of concern on her face. She placed her
hands on the bottom elastic of X’s bra and pulled it a little, then said to the
older woman, “She needs new undergarments,” and the older woman shook her head
in agreement.

X did not
see anything wrong with her undergarments and Madeleine noticed X’s surprise.

“The proper
undergarments are the foundation of any outfit,” Madeleine said. As one of the
sales girls measured X, Madeleine continued, “You will be able to feel the
difference as soon as you are wearing undergarments that fit you properly.”

When the
sales girl returned with a few bras, X removed the one she was wearing and the
older woman took it out of her hands.

“I hope you
don’t mind, dear, if I dispose of this. It pinches you in all the wrong ways.
You have too good of a figure for that.”

X slipped
on one of the bras that they had brought for her and admitted that the women
were correct, it did fit better.

“Oh, much
better!
Très
bien
!”
Madeleine said excitedly. “We will take all of those,” she said to the girl who
was holding the same type of bra in a few different hues, “and bring me some
matching panties in her size, please.”

The older
woman came over and cut the tag off the bra X was wearing, and when X saw the
price on the tag, she was speechless at the exorbitant cost. Next, X tried on
the shirt and pants and turned toward Madeleine.

“What do
you think?” Madeleine asked her.

“It fits
well,” X said.

“I agree,
but the color, it washes out your skin. Margaret, bring me the same top in
another color,
s’il
vous
plaît
.”

Madeleine
expertly gave X reasons for why each garment worked or did not, and only a few
times did the women disagree on an item. The women dressed X as if changing the
clothing on a paper doll, as if they could change her essential being by
altering the materials which covered it. And this was the routine they
developed, X trying on clothing and Madeleine judging the garments and giving
her approval or disapproval until they had nearly filled a nearby rack with a
mélange of chiffon, organza, silk, acetate, wool, twill, gabardine, angora,
gossamer, and cotton.

Finally, X
told Madeleine that she wanted to go outside and have a cigarette, and
Madeleine asked if she could accompany her, to which X responded yes, of
course.