‘Go out of the door and turn left and you’re on the Champs-Élysées, turn right and there’s the Eiffel Tower.’
It transpires that this is where the meeting will take place. Oh, he adds as I walk into the lift, Laura has also taken care of my other work arrangements and my appointments diary has been cleared till Wednesday afternoon.
I go back to my office and take a few minutes to gather my thoughts. There’s no way of escaping it, my make or break time has arrived. I pick up the phone and ring Chiara to arrange dog care for Wispa. Bad news, she’s going to Italy on Sunday and won’t be back until next Saturday. I’ll have to beg Bell for help and, if she can’t do it, drive Wispa to Norfolk and leave her with Kate. I call Bell and she answers on the first ring, still high from jet lag.
I explain the situation, crossing my fingers she won’t say no. I really don’t feel like driving to Norfolk this weekend.
‘That’s no problem, hon,’ she says to my relief. ‘In fact, it’ll work out rather well. I’ve found this wonderful Polish handyman and I want him to do a bit of decorating before Candice arrives. He’ll be painting the whole flat from Monday, so I might as well move to yours instead of sitting in the stink of emulsion. When are you back?’
‘On Wednesday, but you can stay at mine as long as you want.’
‘No, it’s fine, I think he’ll be done by Wednesday.’
I put down the phone, grateful to Bell for providing such an easy solution. I’m also impressed by her sudden burst of home improvements. She’s been talking about decorating her place for years. It’s amazing what a new relationship can do to you. I pick up my phone again and call Ray. I texted him last night thanking him for delivering my car and for the rose, but he hasn’t texted back. The call goes to his voicemail and I leave him a message, thanking him once more and saying that I hope we’ll see each other again. As soon as I disconnect I kick myself for sounding too keen. But it’s too late to erase the message. Oh well, I’ll just have to live with it – hopefully he won’t use it against me. I leave work late, drive home, take Wispa for a short spin round the block and go straight to bed. I have a lot of brainwork to do this weekend.
The Day
Saturday disappears in a flurry of work. I go through all the documents Julian has given me, marking the passages that are particularly complicated, memorizing the main points, listing all the potential pitfalls. I’m not convinced by his vision, but who am I to disagree? I’ll have to be convinced enough by Tuesday, when the most important session takes place, to try to bait the company sharks with it. I stop working only to take Wispa for a walk. It’s a hot day, ‘a mini heatwave’ as the papers call it, caused by an unusually hot stream of air coming from Spain. Wispa seems to be limping badly, which may be caused by the heat, but worries me. I check her paw and there’s nothing obviously wrong with it, no cuts or thorns, no broken toenails. I hope it’s nothing serious, otherwise I’ll have to ask Bell to take her to the vet on Monday, a kerfuffle I’d rather spare her.
By the time I’ve gone through everything, it’s late in the evening. My head is throbbing with all the information; I feel cranky and restless. I need to go for a run. Wispa looks at me putting my running gear on and limps back to her bed. It’s clear she doesn’t want to come with me. She must be in a lot of pain to miss her evening run. I stop at the front door, go back and rummage in the hallway cupboard, looking for a pepper spray I brought from the States a few years ago. I’m not sure it’s still working, but I tuck it into the pocket of my shorts, just in case.
Dusk is settling on the Heath, making trees and grass lose their colour. The shapes become blurred and unreal, all detail suddenly gone. The sky is dimming its brightness and the first stars and planets appear above the horizon. There is a handful of people about, mostly carrying their blankets and baskets in the direction of a few cars still parked in Merton Lane. I run up the hill at full speed and realize how unfit I’ve become lately. I can hear my heart pounding in my head, my breath quick and shallow. Once I reach the top I slow down. I don’t turn right into the woods because it’s too dark there already. I run down across the meadow, which is still getting enough light from the sky, then turn sharply left, making a loop. I reach the main path again and decide to cross it and continue in the direction of the Ladies’ Pond. I hear footsteps behind me, regular and strong, another runner making the best of the twilight hour. I run across the South Meadow at a steady pace. The sound of footsteps is still behind me. There’s no one else left on the Heath now. I try not to panic, thinking that whoever it is will change their direction soon. But the sound of trainers pounding the ground persists, going exactly at my speed, not trying to overtake me and not slowing down. I quickly glance back and see the dark silhouette of a man, about twenty paces behind me. I think of stopping and letting him pass me, but fear is pushing me forward, my muscles locked in the mechanical movement of my limbs. I try to breathe steadily, not to break my rhythm, not to show that I’m afraid. I turn right onto a path and he does the same. I check my pepper spray, still tucked safely in the pocket of my shorts. At least I have something to defend myself with, if he attacks me. But for now my flight or fight response is limited to flight. The Ladies’ Pond, I think, maybe one of the guards is still there. I change direction and run towards the back gate of the pond. I pick up speed, hoping I’ll shake him off, and for a moment I think I’m winning, his footsteps no longer audible behind me. I see the wrought-iron fence, the sign that says WOMEN ONLY, MEN NOT ALLOWED BEYOND THIS POINT, and for a split second I hope it’ll stop him, but I know it won’t. I reach the gate and it’s locked, a huge chain and padlock in place. I think I hear the footsteps behind me again and I grab the top of the gate and leap over it, half-climbing, half-vaulting. I’m on the narrow, overgrown path that runs behind the toilets and the guards’ house. I slip in the mud, then keep running, reach the main path and turn left towards the swimmers’ platform. I enter the square of concrete in front of the bathrooms and look hopefully at the guards’ house. The door is locked and it’s dark, there is no one here. I turn to keep running and there he is, standing on the path, blocking my escape route. I take a step back, my heart pounding, my hand on the spray. He moves forward, coming out of the shadow of the building into the moonlight, and I recognize him. It’s the Dior Man. My fear gives way to relief, to be instantly replaced by more fear. What is he doing here? How come he always manages to find me on the Heath? What does he want this time?
He takes a step forward and I instinctively move back towards the edge of the pond. I can always jump into the water and swim round to the meadow, try to get out on the other side, I think frantically, trying to anticipate his next move. I slide the pepper spray out from my shorts’ pocket and hold it hidden in my hand. If it doesn’t work, I can still hit him with it, it’s better than trying to fight with bare hands. Slowly, he raises his arms and pulls his sweat-drenched T-shirt off. I watch him as he drops the T-shirt on the ground, unsure what to do, my heart thumping. His wet bare chest shines in the moonlight. Then he moves his arms down and unbuttons his shorts. His shorts drop to the ground and he bends over to take off his running shoes. I watch him as he straightens up and stands before me, completely naked, unashamed and beautiful in the blue light of the full moon. He takes a step towards me and I gasp, my fear mixed with awe. And then he is in full motion, running towards me, and I cry out, teetering on the edge of the concrete platform. He passes me, his beautiful body stretches above the water and he’s in, swimming with large strokes out towards the middle of the pond.
My fear suddenly replaced by lust, I drop the pepper spray to the ground and rip my clothes off, oblivious to everything, my body screaming for him. Naked, I dive in, bracing myself for a cold shock, but the water is surprisingly warm. I resurface and look around, trying to locate him. Ducks, scared by the disturbance, flap their wings by the shore, but he’s nowhere to be seen. I try to find the bottom of the pond with my feet, but it’s too deep, so I stay on the surface, pad
dling with my arms. The commotion dies down and it becomes very quiet. I float on the water, inhaling the fresh, watermelon smell of the pond. The moonlight shimmers on the surface, framed by the impenetrable darkness of the bushes surrounding it.
And then he’s right behind me. I feel his hands on my breasts, his cold body next to mine, his erect penis nudging my back. He grabs my waist and turns me round to face him and my legs float up, embracing him. He feels solid, anchored, as if he’s standing on something on the bottom of the pond, his back against the swimming platform. Still holding my waist, he guides me onto him. My heart racing, I want to laugh and cry at the same time, the sensation so strong it overwhelms me. We begin to move rhythmically and the water moves gently around us, holding us afloat, caressing our bodies. Our rhythm changes, it’s faster now, more erratic, and I tighten my legs round his waist, digging my fingernails deep into his skin. And then I come and I know I’ve never come like this before, the orgasm so complete and overpowering I feel paralysed. All I’m able to do is to hold on to him in order not to drown. He comes right after me and lets out a moan, the first sound he’s uttered tonight. We remain motionless in the water and everything around us becomes still, an occasional cry of a bird breaking the silence.
The Day After
I don’t quite know how I got back last night, all I remember is standing under a stream of hot water at home, a mixture of mud and bits of water plants at the bottom of the shower. I must’ve gone to bed straight after that and slept like a log till Wispa woke me up this morning, demanding her walk. Her leg is better, thankfully, she’s not limping any more, one thing less to worry about for Bell when she stays here next week.
I’m having my morning coffee at the kitchen table, thinking about yesterday. Flashes of images and feelings I had last night have given way to more rational thoughts. I am unsettled by my encounter with the Dior Man, but not because it was sex with a stranger in a public place. Of course I’d be naive not to acknowledge that there might be a connection between him and the Heath attacks, but somehow this part of the experience, the danger and the taboo nature of it, doesn’t bother me now. Yes, it was furtive and illicit, but it was also sexy as hell, probably one of the most satisfying sexual experiences of my entire life. What worries me is that it felt different last night, it wasn’t a rough and selfish fuck like I’d experienced with the Dior Man before. There was a new emotional intensity to it, new tenderness, a hint of affection. The Dior Man didn’t seem like a stranger any more, my body recognized a certain familiarity in him and responded to it with an urgency that took me by surprise. Yes, he did give me a fright, chasing me across the park, but wasn’t it part of the game we had invented together? I have to face the truth: I’m falling for him. I caught myself, as I lay in bed this morning, wondering who he is. I no longer want him to remain anonymous. I want to know his name, hear his voice, see him smile. I want him to know my name. Why does it worry me, I think, as I refill my coffee cup? Because I know I can’t let it go on any longer. Without me noticing it, a casual experience has morphed into an addiction. I can’t let it go on because it will lead to my own undoing. I feel a sense of loss, disappointment, regret, but I know I have to break the spell now, before it’s too late.
Bell calls me to arrange the time she’ll arrive at my place tonight. I tell her to come for dinner and then I start packing. Luckily all my uber-business-bitch clothes have just been dry-cleaned, so there isn’t much to think about. I check the weather in Paris and it’s more or less the same as London, just a couple of degrees warmer, which makes it even easier. By the time Bell arrives I’m packed and ready to go. Laura, Julian’s efficient guardian angel, has booked my cab for the ungodly time of 5.45 a.m., so I’ll need to go to bed early. I relax for the evening, listening to Bell’s Vancouver stories.
Two Days Later
The cab takes me along Euston Road towards St Pancras. We pass by the uninspiring new building of the British Library and then the grand facade of the St Pancras Renaissance Hotel, one of the most romantic and stylish buildings in London. The architectural brilliance of the hotel contrasts with the Victorian functionality of the train station, but somehow the two facades work well together.
‘Thank goodness they’ve finished renovating it at last,’ I say to the cab driver and he turns out to be an expert on everything London, telling me the story of George Gilbert Scott’s architectural masterpiece.
‘They had to close the Midland Grand fifty-nine years after it opened in 1876. And you know why? Because it had only eight bathrooms for three hundred rooms. Imagine dealing with that, if you’re in a bit of a hurry. They only invented the toilet six years after it was finished, so the hotel was, pardon my French, in deep shit from the start.’ But he reassures me the bathrooms are plentiful there now, all marble and glass, raving about the new place as if he owned it himself.
I check in at the entry gate with my iPhone and have enough time to grab a quick coffee and a croissant in the Business Lounge. The train boards on time and soon I’m in my Club 2 seat, spreading the Guardian. A train journey puts me straight away in a holiday mood and although this is far from being a holiday trip, I can’t resist indulging in the leisurely activity of reading a newspaper from start to finish. But the news in the paper quickly spoils my holiday mood. A woman politician received a deluge of hostile tweets, including threats to rape and kill her, simply because she tweeted something the trolls didn’t like. I find a series of articles on Twitter abuse of women by cyberbullies and the devastating effect it can have on the victims. A psychologist explains the term ‘disinhibition’, the anonymity of the web that tempts people to behave in a way they wouldn’t face-to-face. I’m not on Twitter, but the articles make me think of my recent experiences. Would a visit from Tom’s wife classify as some form of stalking? Could her request to leave her husband alone classify as the normal behaviour of a worried wife, or was it excessive jealousy, straight from the Jeremy Kyle Show? Then I remember that Samantha is privy to my secret, one that may make me look reckless or predatory in her eyes. Then another possible version of events occurs to me: perhaps she’s told Tom about my visit to the clinic and now she’s worried he’ll develop an interest in me as a result of her indiscretion?
The clinking of the breakfast trolley interrupts my chain of thoughts and I have my second coffee and croissant of the day. As we enter the tunnel I amuse myself by watching my fellow passengers. They are mostly British businessmen, going to Paris for the day, catching up on their emails and polishing spreadsheets on their laptops. I’m sure the morning train from Paris is full of their French counterparts. The man sitting opposite me, whose incessant phone calls in French have been mercifully interrupted by our entry to the tunnel, stares at my legs appreciatively. But there is something so insistent about his look that it makes me uncomfortable. It’s not a compliment any more, it’s an intrusion. But we are in the civilized and safe environment of the Eurostar and I ignore it, closing my eyes and instantly falling asleep. I wake up just in time to see the stunning skyline of Paris on my left, and then we enter graffiti-covered suburbia and the train manager announces first in French, then in English that still sounds like French, that we’ll be arriving in Gare du Nord in a few minutes.
The noise and smell of the station hit me as soon as I leave the train. There is a handful of people waiting for passengers at the exit from the platform. A few young guys mill around looking for punters for their Moto Taxis. I spot my driver holding up a card with my name. He grabs my suitcase and leads me to the car. He sets off, fast and efficient, and I enjoy the ride along the straight, wide boulevards with their cafes and shops, the Haussmann buildings flanking them gracefully. Soon we’re in the heart of Paris, on tree-lined Avenue Montaigne, the driver is passing on my suitcase to the hotel porter and I’m welcomed inside like a long-lost friend. My deluxe room at the Plaza Athénée is an Art Deco-style extravagance overlooking Avenue Montaigne. It’s so huge you could get lost on the way to the bathroom.
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br /> I have a business lunch with other participants of the meeting in the courtyard restaurant. I know most of them from various company gatherings I’ve attended over the years. The loud Americans, laid-back Scandinavians, precise Germans, hyperactive Italians, irritable French and solemn Slavs. In the afternoon I manage to negotiate a couple of hours to myself and head to Institute Dior for a massage. The irony of my choice doesn’t escape me. A full hour of bliss and then the official dinner at the overindulgent Alain Ducasse Michelin-starred restaurant, which lasts past midnight. I think I’m doing a good job preparing the ground for the presentation of Julian’s vision tomorrow morning. I get back to my room, check the time, and as it’s one hour behind in the UK I decide it’s not too late to ring Bell. Her voicemail kicks in and I leave her a message, asking how she’s settled in my house and how Wispa’s paw is. I tell her briefly about the extravagant hotel I’m staying at, promising the whole story when I get back.
Three Days Later
The meeting, which starts at 9 a.m. sharp, is a nerve-wracking affair. I’m no stranger to being a speaker at that level, but being someone else’s envoy is a different matter. Part of me suspects some hidden agenda on Julian’s part, some Machiavellian twist I’m not aware of, and it’s making me nervous. But my presentation goes well and the response to Julian’s vision is positive on the whole. I’m relieved once my solo performance is over and I’m able to take the back seat. Others take over and the subject of restructuring resurfaces at the top of the agenda. It seems it causes similar problems in most of the EMEA countries. Acronyms abound as we learn that restructuring is proceeding well in all the other regions. After the French-wine-fuelled lunch the meeting rambles on for a couple more hours and wraps up well before dinner. To clear my head I decide to go to my favourite part of Paris, Montmartre. I quickly change into casual clothes and leave the hotel.
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