The Sexopaths (8 page)

‘Well – you can’t be too
judgemental about these things.’  It’s the Irishwoman, throwing in a line
and rescuing him from his oppressive thoughts.  ‘Everyone gets a bit
over-friendly and amorous on occasion, but I reckon most of it’s pretty
harmless.  You can’t blame people for wanting to let their hair down
– it doesn’t mean their underpants have to go south as well.’

Adam smiles.  And he takes strength
from her confidently assuaging common sense.  She’s right – everyone
likes a good time – and although he’s been to plenty of conferences where
there was a desire, a will among some, it doesn’t automatically equate to
Monique hopping into bed with a newly met colleague.  Anyway – she
isn’t like that.  It’s just that she’s too generous for her own good;
those little conversational intimacies that most women keep on a short leash,
Monique lets loose like a puppy greeting its eagerly awaited master.

The Belgian looks like she’s
building up to disagree with the Irishwoman, maybe translating into English her
intended rebuke, but further relief arrives in the form of the main course,
each successive plate laid breaking a link in the chain of chatter around the
table, as diners stiffen in turn to receive their meals.  Robotically, the
Belgian switches her attention to her souvlaki; swiftly and silently she tucks
in, perhaps conditioned to snatching meals between endless nursing and
nappy-changes, escaping to some inner sanctum where she is deaf to demands and
disputes and discarded dummies.  Gradually the noise recovers to an
eating-level of polite dialogue and appreciative comment.  Released from
his conversational obligations, Adam takes the opportunity to cast about the
table.  Some people are trading forkfuls across the glinting landscape of
glasses and bottles.  He sees Monique offer something from her plate to
the French President, then to Simone.  He raises his eyebrows at Ignacio
who catches his gaze and reciprocates.  He counts the heads opposite
– thirteen, so there must be twenty-six of them, an almost equal mix of
males and females.  He wonders who would pair off with whom. 
Has?  Certainly they seem to know one another surprisingly well –
they’re more like a group of long-term colleagues from a single company than a
disparate and occasional gathering of conference-goers and their disconnected
partners.  Much of the talk seems considered and ongoing, conveying
time-served camaraderie, unlike his polite just-met exchanges with the
Irishwoman.  In Monique’s section it’s still pretty lively, and now the
interposing hubbub has subsided he can snatch soundbytes – until they’re
drowned by seemingly inevitable bursts of hilarity.  While most shared
conversations are conducted in English – and Adam has felt humbled by the
ability of these Europeans to switch language to accommodate another person
joining in; the versatile Dutch flit from French to German to Flemish and back
to English; the Austrians, Germans, Italians, Spanish and Swiss appear almost
equally competent; even the French can speak disturbingly good English when
they feel so inclined – at the moment Monique’s group are still
conversing in French.  There’s a subtext to this that troubles him; of course,
she can hold her own and more, and he has to admit he’s impressed – with
him she employs only the most rudimentary of lexicons; now she sounds as though
she never left the shores of Normandy.  He listens.  She’s making
them laugh.  He can’t really tell what they’re saying – he picks up
something about ‘Les Anglais’ – but mainly it’s too fast and probably too
colloquial.  Her exaggerated laughter flows freely, too; he winces each
time it’s borne to him on the warm breeze.

While he can’t quite see Monique,
opposite her the French President and Secretary Simone are clearly in
view.  They laugh and smile and nod, but every so often he notices one or
the other of them retires from the conversation, their mind diverted as they
study Monique across the table.  She’s new, of course, making her
mark.  And they’re curious to discover what she is about.  There’s an
unspoken protocol – they all, including Monique, understand she’s
striving to integrate, ingratiate, to be someone they’ll like to have around
them, a positive addition to the Board, professionally and socially, no threat
to their status; her fitness for purpose – it’s a kind of interview and
screen test rolled into one.  Adam knows it’s easy for her – much
easier than she appreciates.  Especially now champagne and chardonnay have
sluiced away the irrational self-doubt that most people wouldn’t perceive, her
initial reticence transformed with innocent aplomb.  Now he senses her
growing comfort as the group’s centre of gravity slowly shifts in her favour, and
with it the subtle balance of power.

Secretary Simone observes her
with a certain feline detachment.  He wonders – does she see Monique
as a competitor?  Not in the job stakes – of course – but
there’s no question in his mind that Monique is the most attractive woman in
the group, perhaps on the island.  Quickly tanned, bright-eyed, alluringly
blonde, she exudes charm, energy, let’s face it… sex appeal.  If –
as Madame Belgium claims – Simone has her designs on Monsieur le President,
maybe she sees Monique as an unwelcome interloper, if only upon the
catwalk.  Suddenly she catches him watching her watching Monique.  He
grins a little sheepishly, makes a chatterbox sign with his fingers and thumb
and then holds his hands up apologetically, as if to say:  ‘Yes –
she talks a lot – what can one do?!’  She returns his smile, a touch
forced, he senses – he averts his eyes and feels he can’t now keep
staring in that direction.

***

For Adam, the night stumbles
on.  Eventually the last plates are cleared, but the gathering shows no
sign of breaking up; Metaxa is called for, cigars are brandished by some, more
people than he would have guessed smoke cigarettes, even the Irishwoman
indulges.  He is tired, over-tired, weighed down by a creeping fatigue,
drained of his day’s supply of adrenaline and dulled by alcohol.  He
checks his watch – they’d told the girl they’d be back around midnight
– it’s now ten past two; he’s reminded that Camille will probably wake in
four or five hours and he’s the nanny.  They’re still going strong at
Monique’s end of the table, like a lock-in in the engine room of a ferry-boat,
the crew sidetracked in a drunken card-game, oblivious to their course, the
vessel sliding past the imploring lights of the port and steaming instead for
the dawn horizon, drowsy commuters on deck resigned to this familiar
fate.  But Adam decides he’s had enough.  He excuses himself and
rounds his end of the table, slowing as he passes Ignacio and placing a hand
momentarily on his shoulder.  Ignacio recognises the goodnight sign and,
mid conversation, raises a hand.  He likes the Spaniard; in common with
his compatriots the fire that burns in his eyes is of honesty and honour. 
Adam moves on – he has selected this circuitous route to Monique to give
her time to see him coming.  As he nears, once more he senses the aura of
subtle hostility that emanates from those around, just perceptible, a
collective body language that declines to acknowledge his approach.  But
Monique thwarts them – she reaches out for his hand.  He leans down
to her and says:

‘Do you think we ought to go back
for the babysitter?  She’s probably working on reception first thing in
the morning.’

‘Maybe – but it is a shame
to leave so early.’

He sees the reluctance in her
expression, wonders if she’s irked by his intrusion.

‘Monique, it’s already two
o’clock.  Look – I can just go – remember I have to get up
with Camille in the morning – like, soon.’

Monique is about to reply, then
pauses and checks her wristwatch with mildly ostentatious incredulity; he
senses it’s for the benefit of onlookers.  She says:

‘Yes – okay – you are
right, my darling – and I should not be fatigued for the final
judging.  We shall go together.’

She rises and speaks quickly in
French to her near neighbours – explaining about the babysitter –
they protest but they can see she has made up her mind. Monique turns to kiss
goodnight the Dutchman beside her – he stands and then stoops and sways
to receive her au revoir.  Monique then leans to the next person, and then
hops to the next, as if realising she can’t kiss one and ignore another. 
Soon, to general amusement, she is committed to lapping the table –
receiving a stiff response from the Belgian woman, a few words of
congratulation (no doubt about Camille) from the smiling Irishwoman, a friendly
hug from Ignacio.  Adam stands rooted and invisible – he’s amazed by
Monique’s nerve, to be able to do this among a crowd of erstwhile strangers
– he’d find it entirely inappropriate to perform the same ostentatious farewell,
drunk or not, or even to round the table merely shaking hands; many of these
folk he hasn’t even spoken with.  Slowly Monique nears the end of the home
straight, melting as she kisses Secretary Simone into an ostentatiously
wriggling embrace, eyes closed, a schoolgirl-like move that is
unselfconsciously reciprocated, prompting – Adam is certain – a
collective drawing of breath from those close by.  Flimsy dresses seem
momentarily to fall away.  Monique spins dizzily from this clinch into the
steadying arms of the French President who, Adam notes, already standing to
receive her, places one hand – that most visible to him – upon her
upper arm, while the other snakes low out of sight, perhaps around her
buttock.  But it’s a short moment, with none of the uninhibited body
contact just exhibited.  Then at last it’s over; indeed there’s a sense
that the show’s over.  Adam detects some relief about the table –
the circle has been broken and others, too, will be free to leave.  He and
Monique back away, now holding hands, he nodding his farewells, firing short
salvos of eye-contact to those who’ll accept, though he feels most attention
follows Monique.

He pulls her gently but firmly
round and they climb the steps, enter the darkness beyond the archway; at
reception the lights have been dimmed, the porter has turned in, the wind has
dropped.  Adam lifts his head and basks in the rays of the night: from
afar a Scops owl, an invisible sentinel, sends out its penetrating
submarine-like ping, regular, echoing, the beat to which other night creatures
play their melodies; an insect orchestra, a cacophony of crickets, everywhere
and nowhere; moths and mosquitoes, out in force, fluttering, brushing his face,
eyelashes, fleeing perhaps their squeaking nemesis whose tiny note tracks about
the stilled air of the courtyard, their inevitable death squeals inaudible to
all but bat.

Silent by his side, Monique is
close, in step, perhaps enjoying the respite, maybe possessed by some
engrossing thought that is able now to grow and fill the vacuum left by their
departure from the crowd.  Nevertheless, Adam heaves an inward sigh of
relief: she’s all his again.  He’s able now to reinstate this
belief.  It’s his sticky reminder she can feel in her underwear, his taste
on her lips; those other guys might wish to snare her, but hadn’t he stood
there, magnanimous, confident, allowing her to flit from one to the next,
knowing she would return home on his arm alone?  He hopes he appeared
thus, the discomfort he felt hidden from watchful spies.  They pass the
apartment where they’d coupled, and he pictures her emerging from such shadows,
adjusting her g-string, returning with just a hint of awkwardness to the dining
table, flashing him a reassuring smile, one other chair nearby still waiting
for its occupant.

They reach their front
door.  As he digs in his pocket for the key, in the flickering downlight
he sees shadows cast by her nipples, erect beneath the fabric of her bra and
dress.  He says:

‘You look… very nice.’

‘Thank you, my darling.  So
do you.’

They creep inside – for a
second or two they both must share the same shocking jolt of unreality that had
gripped Adam in the boutique: the room is empty.  Monique skims with
supernatural speed to the dividing door.  Then he sees the tension in her
body drain away.  She turns and beckons to him.  Inside the bedroom
Camille slumbers peacefully; beyond her the girl is curled up on a sofa,
wrapped in a quilted blanket, snoring gently.  Adam notices her clothes
folded in a neat pile on the tiled floor beside her, everything except the
brilliant white briefs.  He whispers:

‘I guess we leave her.’

‘I think so my darling.’

They retreat, turn out the
lights, tumble beneath the single topsheet.  Monique reaches an arm around
Adam, settling sideways against him.  She says, in an already-sleepy
voice, husky and low:

‘Imagine she had put herself to
bed in here – what should we have done?’

‘Like Goldilocks?’

‘Before… I thought you were maybe
a long time with her – did you kiss her?’

‘Steady on.’  Adam is ready
for this.  ‘You’ve just snogged everyone round the dinner table.’

‘That was saying goodnight
– we’re on the continent, remember… that’s what we do.’

‘Yeah, yeah – but I had to
stand and watch.  It’s not my favourite thing.  I want to punch
people who lay a finger on you.’

‘Aah… my darling.  But not
the girls?’

‘You have my permission to snog
them as much as you like... you almost did with Simone.’

Monique giggles.  ‘So… you
think she’s nice?’

‘Simone?’

‘Sleepy Elena.  Should we
wake her?’

‘You’re crazy.’

‘When we walked up, I was
imagining I came into the room and she was giving you a blow-job.’

‘And what did you do?’

‘You were both killed.’

‘A good way to go.’

‘Or maybe I joined in – I
haven’t decided.’

‘You’re really pissed.’

‘Maybe.  Maybe crazy.’ 
She yawns and stretches and turns over half onto him, burying her head down
into the pillow.  ‘We shall see.’