The Sexopaths (37 page)

‘I stay little while.’

He muses that an hour ought to be
no problem.  She opens the door for him to exit to reception –
there’s no sign that it had been locked – and she rounds the unmanned
desk to mark something in a ledger.  The gym is opposite, beyond the
corridor that leads to the lifts, and through two layers of glass he can see
Monique, working hard upon a cross-trainer, sideways on to him.  He says
to the girl:

‘Thanks – I’ll come back
soon.’

The girl bows her head as he
turns and hurries to speak with Monique.  The gym, evidently soundproofed,
swims with the urgent beat of an American pop track, while Monique, lost in its
ether, pumps her glistening limbs in time; he thinks, it’s not like her to want
to sweat out all those lovely aromatic oils.

‘You were a long time, my
darling.’

‘Was I?’  Was he?

‘I nearly looked in – just
in case there was something naughty going on!’

‘What? – you’re psychic
– I think I’ve found us a Chinese replacement for Jasmin.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well – she offered me a
sex massage – her words.’

‘What!’  Monique stops
treading, the machine’s momentum forcing her to go through its last few motions
before she is able to turn to face him.

‘I thought you might want to see
if she would… you know – like Jasmin?’  Even as he speaks, it’s
dawning on him that Monique isn’t reacting the way he’d anticipated.

‘And what did you do?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘When she offered you a sex
massage?’

‘Er… nothing.  I said
no.  Thanks.  But…’

‘But what?’

‘Well… wondered about… the Jasmin
thing.’

‘And you did not encourage her?’

‘No – I discouraged her.’

‘How?’

‘Well – she wanted to get
my shorts off – she’d said she needed to move them to massage my
backside… then she tried to take them off but I wouldn’t let her.’

Monique is staring at him intensely. 
‘And when did she ask if you wanted a sex massage?’

‘I… I’m not really sure at which
point – I mean at first she said she’d phone a friend if I wanted it
– but then later I started to think she meant herself really – she
was asking me to book an extra hour.’

‘What do you mean
later
– how much later?  Why did you not get up and walk out as soon as
she said it?’

‘Well I… she was making out as if
someone else would come – I didn’t want to offend her.’

‘What about me?  What about
offending me!’

‘Monique – it didn’t feel
like that at the time…’  He searches for the right thing to say. 
‘Look – I’ve just turned down a… sex massage.’

She looks at him nonplussed,
places her hands on her hips.  ‘My darling, I should think so!’

He gathers that he should not go
on to state how ninety-nine percent of men in his position would have accepted
the offer, and that his great will-power can only be attributable to how he
feels about her.  How quickly the tables can turn!  He says:

‘Well – it’s no so
different from that Russian massage – and, anyway, I didn’t have sex
– look I’ve come straight through here to tell you about it.’

She softens, though retorts, ‘It
is nothing like the Russian massage.’

‘That’s probably only because the
guy didn’t speak English.’

Monique refuses to show she’s
amused, if she is at all.  She says:

‘How dare she ask you –
when I was in the next room to you?’

‘I did point that out… she didn’t
seem to understand.’

‘You mean if I hadn’t have
been…?’

‘No – I was trying to say
we might consider a threesome.’

‘Oh!’  She flicks the sweat
from her brow in an angry gesture of Gallic frustration.  ‘They are
prostitutes!  Did you see the girl who I had?  The make-up –
and she had no idea how to massage!’

‘I don’t suppose it’s their fault
– I guess most people are so poor…’

‘This is supposed to be a
respectable hotel – I can’t believe you did not walk out!’

In turn he can’t quite believe
her reaction, and it seems there’s more to follow as she spots the girl moving into
view through the double windows that separate them from reception.  She
says:

‘Is that her?’

‘Yes, but…’

She launches herself past him off
the footpads of the machine and before he can stop her she’s hauling open the
heavy door of the gym.  Hampered by his too-small slip-ons, he shuffles
after her.  ‘Monique – what are you going to say?  It’s best to
leave it!’

‘I hope there’s not a reason you
say that.’

‘Of course not, but… she didn’t
do anything wrong…’

He’s too late.  Monique
marches up to the desk, he trails helplessly in her wake.  The girl flicks
the briefest of glances past Monique in his direction, then fixes her gaze
demurely upon the adversary that bears down upon her.  Monique demands:

‘Did you offer my husband a sex
massage?’

The girl shakes her head. 
‘No, madam – no sex – jus’ massage.’

‘You did – my husband told
me.  How dare you do such a thing?’

Adam hangs back, feeling rather
like a guilty schoolboy who has split on a pal.  The girl maintains her
innocent stance, saying:

‘No madam – no understand.’

‘You do understand, and you will
listen to me.’  Monique points a finger close to her face.  ‘If you
don’t tell me the truth I am going right now to the hotel manager.  Now
did you offer a sex massage.’

The girl casts down her
eyes.  ‘Only ask, madam.’

‘And then what?’

The girl looks across at Adam,
the semblance of a smile turning up the corners of her mouth.  She says:

‘Your husband good man.  He
no wan’ sex massage.  You have very good husband, madam.’

Monique visibly relaxes, the
harsh edge of her aggressive pose softens; suddenly he sees her as the girl’s
big sister.  ‘You are a bad woman.  It is not good to ask somebody’s
husband if they want sex.  You remember.’

‘Yes, madam.’

Monique turns and strides out of
the reception.  Adam gives a backward glance at the girl but she has her
eyes cast down.  They reach the lift.  Adam says, tentatively:

‘I was going to give her a tip.’

‘What!  You are not!’

‘I feel like I deprived her of
her commission.’

‘My darling, you must be crazy.’

Adam looks at her for a
second.  ‘You make me that way.’

They step into the lift and now
she embraces him, seeking out his lips for a prolonged kiss.  While they
wait to arrive their floor, his thoughts spill out into words, inadvisably, he
expects:

‘I didn’t realise you’d be so
bothered.’

‘Adam – what on earth do
you mean?  You are my husband – of course I would be bothered. 
That is to put it mildly.’

‘But – what about with
Jasmin?’

‘My darling, you know that was
different – that was for us – and we were both in control.’

He raises his head to signify his
understanding.  They reach their room and he admits them with the keycard
extracted from the pocket of his gown.  He’s feeling a bit awkward about
the tip, or potential lack of.  Monique goes straight to her phone, which
is resting on its charger.  She picks it up and flicks at the
screen.  Adam half-watches, at once disconcerted – his disquiet
renewed by the confounded device’s unremitting grip upon her; he’s back to
earth with a bump from the dubious but at least distracting sanctuary of the
past hour’s roller coaster.  Monique turns to him, offers the
handset.  She says:

‘I have something to show you.’

He takes it and looks at the
screen.  Two bubbles: a text from Monique, timed before he’d woken this
morning, and a reply, late at night in France, sent while they were upstairs at
the spa.

The outgoing:
‘Lucien –
not a good idea to text/mail or meet.  Best.  Monique.’

The incoming, curt:
‘Bye,
Monique.’

No kisses; neither outbound nor
inbound.

‘It is done.’

‘Thanks.  Just one more
request.’

‘My darling?’

‘Would you change your voicemail
greeting?’

Blog by Anonymous – 9

OMG!  Almost
ready!  It’s really exciting!  It’s like a massive weight has been
lifted from my shoulders.  Just a few things left to do.  Then I
spread my wings and fly.  It will be a shame about M, though.  I
really might have had something special there. But you know, I think if I’m
being honest with myself, for her it’s got more to do with being a bit mixed up
in her head – of trying to understand what she wants and what she needs…
and what she should settle for.  I don’t really believe it was about me.

Still, maybe
she’ll come and visit?

‘Oh, my God.’

Adam, daydreaming, recumbent on
the settee, is startled as the jagged inflection in Monique’s voice rips
suddenly into his relaxed sensibility.

‘Monique – what’s wrong?’

 There’s no reply so he
rises and crosses the hall to her study.  She kneels amidst a torn
pastiche of the past week’s mail, the accumulation of their time in
China.  Without looking up she extends to him a single-page letter. 
Quickly superseded by a suffusing guilt, his first reaction is one of relief
– that it’s not something to do with Lucien or her European Board or
Jasmin-Sharon or Xara.  Instead he sees it’s headed
‘Breast Screening
Programme’
.  He says:

‘What is it?’

‘I have to go back.’

‘What do you mean?  It’s
just for a check-up isn’t it?’

‘I have had the check-up –
this is a recall.’

Icy fingers seem to clutch at his
heart. 

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know.’  She sounds
scared.

He scans the text, stoops down
beside her, indicates a line.  ‘Look – it says about ten percent of
women are called back – and most of them are cleared after a second precautionary
check.’

‘But I have missed the
appointment.  It was last Thursday while we were away.’

‘Monique – I’m sure it’s
nothing to worry about.’

‘Perhaps they can rearrange
– if you give me the letter I shall phone them.’

He complies and she picks up her
mobile from a lamp stand.  He says:

‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

He walks thoughtfully into the
kitchen; Camille will be delivered home shortly, they have presents for her
– toys, DVDs and clothes – now it has rather rained on their
parade.  While he makes coffee he can hear Monique speaking on the
phone.  After a minute or so she comes through, her face
expressionless.  He says:

‘Any luck?’

‘The medical staff have all gone
home, and the lady who books appointments is not in until eight o’clock
tomorrow morning.’

‘Whom did you speak with just
now?’

‘It was a secretary or assistant,
I think.’

‘What did she say?’

‘Just that… they must have found
something
…’ 
Her voice breaks, a note of hysteria; she bursts into tears and launches
herself into his arms.  Now she sobs, ‘Adam, they have found
something!
’

‘Monique –
she
wouldn’t know – she’s a fucking receptionist not a consultant –
she’s just saying that.’ (How extraordinarily thoughtless, he thinks.) 
‘It means they just can’t clear everyone at the first stage – it’s far
better
if you get a second opinion – better in the long run.  It means
you’ll have had a more thorough check.’

His words must sound hollow, her
face is buried in his shoulder, she shakes her head disbelievingly.  He
takes hold of her, makes her look at him.  ‘Monique – don’t worry
– I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you.’

She smiles, but she must be
thinking
what can he do
– if there really is something… what
can
he do?

The doorbell rings and keeps
ringing – it will be Camille, let off the leash by Laura.  He
watches as instinct takes over, autopilot resumes, and Monique wipes her face,
visibly pulls herself together, strides to the front door.  There’s a
great noise of greeting, then Camille darts inside to seek him out, asking
about her presents.  The group migrates to the kitchen, where the kettle
is topped up and switched on again.  Adam excuses himself for a moment to
fetch his Mac, to show Camille some of the strange sights they saw.  He
enters his study to see Monique, so stunning in her wedding dress: his
screensaver, set to display at random his photo library after five minutes, has
kicked in.  He stares as the next image flips and enlarges, it’s Monique
on their last summer holiday, bikini-clad, posing with a Hibiscus flower in her
hair; the next, Monique, head tilted, winking mischievously, the Arc de
Triomphe for a backdrop; the next, Monique svelte in her ski gear, about to
tame
Le Face
; the next Monique, in a hospital bed, sweaty tresses
plastered across her brow, tears of joy in her eyes, baby Camille in her arms…
he can’t believe what he’s seeing, it seems shot after shot is of Monique, and
there are four-and-a-half thousand to choose from in there… he sinks down on
his knees, his own eyes welling up… silently he says a prayer, makes a pledge:
let me take it, whatever it is… not Monique, not Camille’s
maman
, not my
beautiful precious wife … give it to me.

***

Adam wakes with fear in his
heart.  He recalls seeing the digital clock register most of its small
hours, and wonders when he had time to fit in the dream.  But dream there
was, perhaps bridging periods of sleeplessness, and though forbidding, he
believes it was a dream of hope: dark, shadowy, incomplete, an
Under Milk
Wood
of a dream, where metaphors took shape and form yet never quite
revealed themselves, elusive, ephemeral; in the depths of a deep sloe-black
forest through which he travelled, unsure of his bearings, a winding path, yet
no path, icy coldness, frozen leaves that crunched like cornflakes; and some
contract, some new idea, some peculiar concept he must grasp that is known as Y
but really should be X.  This thing is the white path snaking through the
twilight of the forest.  He has to hold to the path and keep reminding
himself it’s okay to be the wrong way round.  He must stay on the
path.  But the path is like remnant frozen snow, breaking up at the
edges.  It twists and turns and narrows and crumbles and almost disappears
in places.  He must stay true to the path.  It’s okay to be the wrong
way round.