The Sexopaths (27 page)

‘Well – he doesn’t handle
it himself, of course – Lucien.  Our production manager is liaising
with his counterpart in their Chinese office – I just set up the contact
by email.’

He notices that she’s working to
overcome an objection he hasn’t yet raised, sensing that she’s put him on
edge.  But he wants to believe her claim of an arm’s-length involvement,
and to reward her for this.  He says:

‘You know – you could put
out the story that your container ship’s been hijacked, and then run a
promotion where consumers have to mail in ransom money to free the pandas. 
You’d make a fortune.  And just think of the ad shoot – a little
jaunt in the tropics.’

Monique laughs, an exaggerated
off-the-peg giggle that he recognises as part of her positive stroking
repertoire.  ‘You see – I’ve always said you’d make a great
copywriter.  I’ll suggest it to my client.’

‘It’s okay – I’m not
serious.  Though it would be a neat PR stunt.’ 

He wonders if between them an
unspoken pact is taking shape: that whenever they near the precipitous
cliff-edge that is the subject of Lucien, they slow, tread warily, then link
hands and retrace their steps, not ready to risk the mutual destruction of the
lover’s leap.  She must be cognisant of his distress, and assume he
guesses this.  So they back away from the danger.  Yet they do not
speak of its presence; and it is her reluctance to address his apprehension
that most disturbs him.  Why not take him firmly by the hand, haul him to
the edge and show him that the abyss is a trick of geology, an optical
illusion?  A
mis
apprehension.  If that is not how the land
lies then why not race across together, feeling only springy turf beneath their
feet?  Why circumvent a figment of his imagination?  Fine – be
elusive with clients, associates, even friends for the sake of diplomacy… but
aren’t they too close for such obfuscation?

Or is he just reading it all
wrong?  There is simply nothing going on with Lucien and hence – in
turn – there is simply nothing going on in her pretty little head. 
His knee-jerk tics and twitches at each mention of the Frenchman don’t register
any more than if he were the invisible man.  She can’t allay his fears
because she doesn’t detect them in the first place.  As if to confirm this
version, she chirrups:

‘Anyway, my darling – China
is going to be
very
exciting.  We shall do lots of
amazing
things.  You are so
clever
to get us this trip.’

Adam nods thoughtfully.  A
little abashed, he says:

‘Are you absolutely sure you’re
okay about leaving Camille?’

‘Of course, my darling –
she will be fine.  You know she asks for Laura all the time – we are
lucky the way things have turned out.  I do not believe if my parents came
to stay she would feel as comfortable.  And it is great that Laura can
just live here; she knows where everything is in the house, how to get to the
play-park and the health club – Camille will have more fun than if she
comes with us!’

‘You’re probably right. 
When I was bringing her home the other night she said she wants to have two
mums – you as her real mum and Laura as her stepmother.’

Monique giggles.  ‘So
– in that case would you get two wives, my darling?’

‘Is Laura available?’

‘You are supposed to say you only
think of me.’

‘I’m sure that’s what I meant.’

‘Well, watch out, Monsieur.’

‘I shall – but you know
what?  I’ve asked Camille, and she can’t remember that Laura was actually
her nanny.’

‘That is odd.  When Laura
started her job at the nursery, Camille recognised her instantly – she
charged like a little bull across the playground into her arms.’

‘I guess we bond without knowing
it.’

They’re silent for a
moment.  Adam wonders if they’re both thinking the same thing. 
Suddenly, and he doesn’t know why – except that inside him he understands
there’s a seething miasma of thoughts and feelings, questions and hypotheses,
and every so often one such fragment breaks free – he says:

‘Actually, I was looking forward
to the coke bit tonight.’

‘Mmm.  So was I, my
darling.’

Again there’s a silence, before
Monique says:

‘I could meet Sharon for a
coffee.  I am sure she would sell me some of hers.’

‘Shit – Monique – you
can’t just do that.’

‘Adam – what do you mean?’

‘Well – it’s like… it’s
drug dealing.’  His instinctive reaction, he knows, is not driven by
propriety, but he hides behind this contention.

‘What is the difference?  We
took some here – we gave her money?’

‘Yes, but… I mean – say the
police had turned up – I know it’s improbable – but at least we
couldn’t have been blamed if she’d brought drugs into our house without our
knowledge.’

‘It is just as illegal to take
them, my darling.’

Adam gropes for a line of reasoning. 
‘But… what if the drugs squad are keeping an eye on her?  Imagine you
getting caught buying coke in a café – it could ruin your career.’

Monique looks a little
crestfallen, though he wonders if it’s because of his reaction rather than his
logic.  Then she brightens and says:

‘There must be a way –
maybe if she came here?  I could ask her round for a girlie tête-à-tête
one morning.  I feel it would be nice for her to have someone to talk to
– I don’t think she has many friends outside of the other working girls…
and with the news of her grandfather...’

Adam senses that this idea is one
she has harboured anyway – if they haven’t already met for coffee and
chat.  He’s unsure whether to acquiesce, though he has scant reason to
object.  He says:

‘What – leave you pair
alone with a stash of coke?  I’ve got a feeling I know what would happen!’

‘Adam – you are bad. 
You know I only want it to be us together.’

He’s minded to ask her to qualify
the meaning of ‘us’, but instead finds the answer another way:

‘Well maybe I’d need to take the
morning off, too, in that case.’

‘That is fine with me, my
darling.  Though you might find the chat a little tedious.’

He smiles ruefully.  ‘There
is one thing, Moni.  We can’t go making a habit of cocaine… I mean just
you and I, every time we…’

‘It would be once in a while, my
darling.’

‘Would it, though?  Listen
to us now – we’re saying it’s wrong, illegal… and we both know it
wouldn’t be good to rely on it, just like it wouldn’t be good to rely on her…
in the next sentence we’re hatching plots for how we’re going to pull it
off.’  He opens his palms in a gesture of resting his case.  Monique
says:

‘My darling, it is getting late
and we are tired.  We don’t have to decide anything right now.  In a
few days’ time we might feel differently about things.  And like you say
– Shanghai will make a space for us.’

‘Yeah – it’ll be good, I
hope.’

‘Do you have a great deal to
prepare?’

‘Not a lot – it’s pretty
much the same content as my speech in Jurmala.  The frustrating thing is
that there’s the Chinese edition of my book – it would seem a shame not
to make reference to it.  The trouble is – obviously – it’s
all mumbo jumbo to me.  And the translation could be hopeless for all I
know.’

‘Why don’t you ask someone
Chinese to read it?’

‘It’s crossed my mind – but
to be honest I’ve no idea what kind of Chinese the book’s written in –
and there are two editions – one for Taiwan, I think.  The publisher
tells me less than nothing.  Anyway, the only Chinaman I know is Sicheun from
the Hong Kong Garden.’

Monique looks at him
engagingly.  ‘I could find someone to read it for you – we are
flying out prototypes of the soft toys on Monday or Tuesday – there is
sure to be a person connected to the company who will be interested.  People
seem so keen to learn, wherever we go.’

It feels rather like she’s
offering him an elegant sword, precisely the implement he needs – except
it comes blade first; should he accept, he can anticipate the sharp sting that
is the opportunity for her to liaise with Lucien.  Yet there is another
still-deeper subplot that appeals to him.  Monique will be seen to be
acting overtly to assist her spouse, in whose achievements she is proud. 
And through her good offices he will be elevated to a status that is not merely
European, but worldwide, a star in his field, in demand around the globe. 
Moreover, she has chosen to accompany him to Shanghai, rather than let him make
a flying visit alone; meanwhile she will miss a meeting of AMIE in
Brussels.  With the cat away, the mouse could have played to its heart’s
content.  That decision must surely count for something.  Okay,
there’s only one first-class trip to China and there’ll be lots of European
Boards (and for all he knows Lucien may already have given notice of not being
able to make the next meeting), but… he cautiously accepts:

‘Well – if you can… I mean,
ideally someone in Shanghai whom we could meet for a chat.  I suppose I
could prepare a list of points I’d like them to check out.  The thing I’m
always wondering when I lecture abroad is whether people’s minds work the same
way as ours…’

‘I thought you said they did, and
that’s why you get such a good response?’

‘I reckon so, in Europe –
and the States and Latin America.  But China seems so distant, a different
culture, decades of isolation, a political climate that probably discouraged
conversation, gossip even.  Oh, I’m probably talking nonsense.  I
think I need to sleep, Moni.’

‘Let us leave the table until the
morning.  These things can wait.’

‘Cool.’

They rise and separate in a drift
of smoke from the extinguished candles.  He lingers downstairs to draw
glasses of water from the kitchen tap.  Crossing the landing a few moments
later he spots Monique silently untangling Camille from her bedclothes amidst
the flickering shadows of a rotating nightlight.  In the master bedroom
the red pvc sheet is still in situ, creased by their exertions.  Quickly
he pulls it free and crumples it away into a drawer, reinstates their pillows
and duvet, strips and slides into the cool sanctuary from where sleep beckons.

***

Adam is dreaming about
Jasmin-Sharon… and now he realises he’s listening to Monique speaking to
her.  But – of course – she’s on the telephone
somewhere.  It’s daylight and bright bars of slanting morning sunshine are
suspended across the room, their form suggested by myriad swirling motes. 
As the remnants of his disturbed dream subside beneath the interface between
conscious and subconscious, Monique’s words begin to make sense, where a moment
before they heaped confusion upon his mind’s already befuddled ramblings.

‘Look – you are bound to
feel this way.  It is only natural.’

‘Yes, it is a terrible shock
– even when you know someone is unwell.’

‘That’s right – she will
appreciate that.’

‘Of course we are not, no –
not at all.  Like I said last night, you should not be worrying about us
at a time like this.’

‘It is okay – it is no
problem, honestly.’

‘Of course we do – we
will.’

‘Look – you should not try
to hurry back to work.’

‘I see that – but why not
take some time off?  Get some rest.’

‘It is okay – and there is
nothing to make up to us – we had a nice evening – of course we
missed you, but… you have given us lots of ideas.’

‘I’m sure it will keep for next
time!’

‘That’s right… yes, of course.’

‘Honestly.’

‘I shall text you when we get
home from China.’

‘Yes – it is about ten days
in all.’

Adam rolls out of bed, still
feeling dazed, and pads to the door.  It sounds as if Monique is sitting
at the bottom of the stairs.  Camille’s door is open, but there’s no sign
of her – probably she’s watching kids’ tv in the playroom.  He
retreats to the ensuite and turns on the shower, cranking up the heat so that a
cocoon of steam gradually envelops him in a luxurious limbo.  He stands
for five, maybe ten minutes, until the flow begins to run cool and forces him
out.  He thinks maybe Monique has already had a bath, but when he
re-enters the bedroom he finds her back beneath the covers wearing a pink satin
dressing-gown, flicking through a magazine.  There’s fresh coffee at
either side of the bed.

‘Good morning, sleepy head.’

‘I was only pretending.’

‘You pretend very well, my
darling.’

He wonders if there’s a hint of
irony worming beneath the smoothly unequivocal surface of her remark.  He
says:

‘Actually, I was kind of part-awake-part-dreaming
– and your conversation was in it.  We were in Shanghai, it was
night, the streets were dark and packed with thousands of Chinese, and we
couldn’t find the girl who’d read my book – you were on the phone to her
and she was nearby, giving directions – and we were in some kind of
danger – like the whole conference invitation was a trick to get us out
from the UK – and they wanted to separate us and take you away –
and you were being really nice to the girl – but I kind of knew she was
double-crossing you and trying to lead you to where they could abduct you
– and I was trying to follow, but it was almost impossible to keep up in
the crowds – other people were trying to distract me – eventually I
couldn’t see you – I could just hear your voice getting fainter…’

‘That’s horrible – we must
stay close together all the time we are there.’

‘It was only a dream.’

He notes his economy of detail
about the distraction: only weakly resisting he was being funnelled away from
the throng by a pair of hired seductresses towards a neon-signed alleyway
leading to some kind of sex-club.  And neither has he said that the girl
on the phone to Monique was not in fact the Chinese reviewer of his book, but
Jasmin-Sharon.  Surely Monique would have known that, however much the
latter had tried to disguise her voice?  But now he realises he’s
beginning to confuse dream and reality, and sinks down onto the bed beside
Monique.  She says: