The Exchange (Mischief Books)

by Williams, Carrie

When he came back in, towel around his waist, Konrad would sit on the end of the bed and encircle one of my ankles with his strong hand.

  ‘That was great,’ he’d say, invariably, and I’d nod and smile.

  As I say, I liked Konrad. I liked him a lot. I wouldn’t be fucking him if I didn’t, especially given the no-orgasm issue. But I did wonder about him sometimes. He was so totally on the surface that I often questioned whether there was anything at all underneath. He never seemed to read books or look at art, and he was a political ignoramus. He was all parties and champagne and coke and staying out all night. Which was fair enough – he was twenty-four and he had money to burn. But how long could that go on for, and what then? What happened when the money ran out, when youth was over and beauty was gone?

  Listening to him talk on the telephone now, confirming that he’d transferred the money to my account on his laptop, I realised I did miss him and thought that maybe, when I was back in Paris, I’d do more about the sex issue. I’d point out to him that I never came, and together we could work on ways to resolve the situation to our mutual advantage. I loved vibrators, especially rabbits, and thought that maybe I could get him interested in using one on me. I thought about asking him to tie me up while he did so – I’d tried that a few times with a previous lover and it did get me horny. I’d also ask him to take me up the arse while I used the rabbit on my clit – just the thought of that had me growing wet in my pants beneath the Vivienne Westwood dress.

  I explained to him about Park Lane, about how it was home to many of London’s five-star hotels where the A-listers stayed or drank. About how I’d dreamed about this street for almost all my life.

  He laughed. ‘Isn’t that where Boris Becker got a model pregnant in a broom cupboard?’ he said.

  ‘Um, something like that,’ I said. ‘And … and Courtney Love ran naked up here. And Dodi Al Fayed had a penthouse here. And Liz Taylor and Richard Burton honeymooned here, and the Playboy Club was here, and …’

  I ran out of breath, I was so excited.

  ‘The Playboy Club is back,’ said Konrad. ‘Didn’t you know? Reopened a couple of years ago.’

  I nearly screamed. ‘Oh my god,’ I said. ‘Are you sure? How did I not know about this?’

  ‘Well, quite,’ said Konrad laconically.

  ‘I have to go,’ I said. ‘I can’t not.’

  ‘It’ll be a members-only affair,’ said Konrad. ‘Anyway, who are you out on the town with?’

  ‘Oh,’ I sighed. ‘These super-rich people I met at Rachel’s friend’s house. A couple – he’s an opera singer, she’s a dancer – a proper dancer, you know, a ballerina. Or used to be. She’s semi-retired.’

  ‘They sound a bit square for the Playboy Club.’

  I sighed again. ‘You’re probably right.’

  ‘But you could always try to get a job there. They’d love someone with a sexy little French accent.’

  ‘I could try,’ I said. ‘And I will, if there’s no other way. But I don’t really want to see it from the inside, like at Club GaGa. I want to see it from the point of view of a guest, splashing money around, drinking the champagne, playing poker. I want to live the life, if only for a night.’

  ‘I’ll ask around,’ said Konrad. ‘I’m sure I must know someone who has membership who’ll take you on a date there.’

  I thought about of the sex between us and wondered if Konrad cared at all about me or if I was just good for a buddy-fuck whenever he couldn’t get it elsewhere or was too lazy to go looking. But then I thought of my drunken fuck with Morgan at Kyle’s house the night before and I thought that maybe I didn’t deserve someone as gorgeous as Konrad and maybe that’s why I couldn’t come when I was with him – because I knew that he was too good for me. Dirty sex with strangers in toilets was all I was good for. I hoped that I’d get another filthy anonymous shag that night. I hoped some pig-ugly businessman would take me up to his room and fuck me senseless on the bed without even bothering to ask my name.

  ‘Speaking of Rachel,’ said Konrad, interrupting my dark thoughts, ‘we took her out last night.’

  ‘Oh right,’ I said distractedly, shaking my head, trying to get rid of the unsavoury mental images I’d been conjuring up. ‘You and who?’

  ‘The usual crowd – Lisette, Fabrice, Jean-Claude … you know.’

  ‘What’s she like?’

  ‘A bit quiet. Nice, but not a party girl.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘We just went to the Amour, for drinks.’

  ‘Nothing after?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What, an early night? I can hardly believe it, Konrad.’

  ‘Seriously. We had drinks and then everyone headed off.’

  I kept my mouth shut, but I didn’t believe him. Konrad never went home early – there was always a new bar to go on to, a party to sniff out, people to meet. I’d go so far as to say that he just wouldn’t know what to do with himself if he stayed at home or came home early.

  There was something he wasn’t telling me but I shrugged it off. ‘Look, I’d better get myself out of this dress and home to get ready or I’ll miss out on whatever tonight has in store. But thanks so much, K. You know I really appreciate it. I’ll pay you back as soon as I can.’

  ‘Sure, honey. But no hurry. Just enjoy yourself, huh? I hope it lives up to expectations.’

  ‘Thanks, K.’ I went to say I loved him but something stopped me. It always did. And he never told me either.

  ***

  I went back to Rachel’s flat, put some Goldfrapp on Spotify, and danced around the place as I got dressed, sipping ice-cold champagne from a half-bottle through a straw. It would take me forever to pay Konrad back for this evening’s extravagances; I just hoped it was going to be worth it.

  When I was done, I stood back and admired myself in the mirror. I looked out of this world. My slicked-back white-blonde hair made my spidery-lashed pale-blue eyes look even bigger, while nude, glossed lips emphasised the rosy apples of shimmering pink liquid blusher with which I’d embellished my cheeks. The dress was a sensation, but it was the shoes – mountainous wedges with a Perspex toe-less vamp and then silver ankle ties – that really brought the look together. I felt utterly myself in it, and yet at the same time I felt like a different person – someone brave and destined for great things. This night, I felt, would transform me. Gone were all thoughts of seedy encounters in hotel rooms with anonymous men. Tonight I would shine.

  Looking at my silver antique watch – a family heirloom – I realised I was running late and, grabbing my clutch bag, rushed out of the flat. It was only a few minutes’ walk across Hyde Park, and the evening was soft and mild. My spirits were high and I almost skipped along the footpaths. Men and women alike looked at me, and it felt as if I was being caressed by their eyes. It was good to feel powerful, to have some kind of hold over people, even if it was only visual. I imagined them keeping this vision of me in their mind’s eye, returning to it over and over. The thought of making a lasting impression, even on people I would never see again, was seductive.

  For a moment I missed Club GaGa – not only my friends there but the actual performing. I couldn’t deny that it gave me a high, having so many pairs of eyes on me. Of course, I knew that, deep down, I was a piece of flesh to these guys – and sometimes girls too. I knew that they didn’t care who I really was, what I wanted, or what was going to happen to me. But in a hectic world of so many distractions, just holding them in thrall for a half-hour or so, through my face and body, felt like an achievement.

  And my dancing was an art – of that there was no doubt. I didn’t do pole dancing or lap-dancing – neither was my thing. But GaGa wasn’t that kind of club anyway. GaGa was basically a burlesque club doing quite old-fashioned cabaret-style routines in the grand Parisian style. In my latest act I’d been a 1950s cheesecake pin-up in a Merry Widow black strapless basque, long lace gloves, stockings and stilettos, shimmying and kitten-pouting for all I was wor
th, with lots of classic tease. It was an act, and an outfit, perfect for me – I’m super-slim but have quite big boobs.

  Tonight I was on display again, but it was a different kind of display. Tonight it was all about me, even if, to some degree, I was still playing a role. Tonight something hung in the balance, even if I couldn’t say what that thing might be.

  As I left Hyde Park by one of the smaller gates, I looked up and down Park Lane. I was opposite The Grosvenor, and to my right I could see the glittering Dorchester complete with fairy-lit plane tree on its forecourt. The very sight of it gave me a head rush. How long had I waited for this moment – and how stupid had I been to resist it when I first arrived in London? It wasn’t as if I couldn’t just go and have a drink in one of the bars. On the other hand, I would have had to go alone, and I would have felt like a call-girl. Being invited to a proper social gathering where I’d be introduced to people was far preferable.

  Tatiana had arranged to meet me for pre-party drinks in the top-floor bar of The Hilton. I crossed the road towards The Grosvenor, then walked down Park Lane towards The Hilton. At twenty-eight floors, it stood out from the crowd, although the building itself wasn’t as attractive as most of those around it. Still, there was a certain cheesy 1970s appeal to it. As I approached, lights were going on all over its façade but the greatest concentration was on the column of balconies running up the front of the building.

  I headed in through the revolving door and made for the lift, conscious of several pairs of eyes following my movement. I knew that staff would be on the look-out for call-girls, but I knew that I looked too odd, too exotic, to be one of those. Inside the lift, similarly, I could feel people looking at me furtively as we whooshed to the top of the building. My heart was fluttering and I felt a little sick with nerves, but I hoped it didn’t show. I was used to keeping my feelings inside me. I was, after all, a performer.

  As I stepped out, my knees wobbled coltishly. All around, from floor-to-ceiling windows, London unfurled deliciously. I crossed the small lobby separating the restaurant from the bar, Windows, and looked around. A waiter appeared and offered to show me to a table, but I had spotted Tatiana waving to me from one of the stools at the bar. Beside her sat Morgan. I plastered a fake smile on my face and strode purposefully over to them. Don’t blow it, don’t blow it, I kept muttering under my breath, through clenched teeth.

  ‘Roch!’ exclaimed Tatiana as I grew near, and I blanched at the nickname. How dare she assume close friendship after just two meetings?

  Again through clenched teeth, I greeted her and Morgan.

  ‘Lovely to see you again,’ said Morgan, meeting my gaze. He wasn’t in the slightest bit sheepish about the night before, that much was clear. I just hoped he wasn’t counting on a repeat performance. I didn’t find him attractive and the only reason I’d let him near me was to show that it wasn’t that easy to take me – that if anyone was going to do any ‘taking’, it would be me.

  Tatiana moved to another stool and patted the one she’d vacated, so that I could be in between them. Obeying her, I grabbed the cocktail menu, resolving to choose the most expensive one on the assumption they’d be paying. As I read, I could feel them both watching me.

  When I finally looked up, Tatiana placed her hand on my bare knee. ‘Roch, you do look absolutely divine,’ she purred. ‘Morgan, don’t you think she’s just edible?’

  Blood rushed to my head as I thought of Morgan’s mouth on my pussy the previous night, and I looked down at my knees, unsure whether to scream or laugh hysterically, before fleeing the bar never to see this strange pair again.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ drawled Morgan. ‘Very tasty.’

  I nearly gagged. I couldn’t stand the way they had started talking about me in the third person, or the way Tatiana’s hand had remained on my knee. I stared at it. It was like a claw – well-manicured and slender, but a claw nonetheless. Tatiana, I thought, might be all respectable on the surface, but something much darker lurked within. Something rapacious.

  Now Morgan placed a hand lightly on my shoulder, leaned in towards me and asked: ‘Did you choose yourself a drink?’

  I pointed one out, trying to shrug off his hand. It stayed put. Suddenly I felt dizzy, as if the walls were closing in on me. I tried to focus on the bartender mixing the daiquiri that Morgan had ordered for me – on the way he blended the fresh strawberries with lemon and lime juice and fine sugar, followed by light rum, finishing it off with crushed ice. My mouth watered as I watched – the drink would be delicious and he was too. He reminded me a little of Konrad. I wished Tatiana and Morgan would fuck off.

  As the bartender placed my drink before me on a coaster, our eyes met and I wondered what he was thinking about me, sitting here between this couple, quite clearly caught in some kind of trap. And in the space of that glance, I also imagined just sitting here all night, watching him work, muscles flexing as he moved around behind the bar, mixing his magic potions. I’d sit and drink as I watched, growing happier and happier, and then at the end of the shift we’d take off together. Perhaps, as an employee, he’d get us access to Whisky Mist, the hotel’s members-only nightclub, famed for its celebrity clientele. There we’d dance ourselves into a rapture before I dragged him back to my lair and fucked his brains out on Rachel’s bed.

  ‘… don’t you think so, Roch?’

  Tatiana’s voice jerked me from my reverie. Her voice had changed from a purring caress to a shard of glass. I looked at her. She was glaring at me. I downed my drink in one and smiled brightly.

  ‘Is it time to move on?’ I said, looking pointedly at their own empty glasses.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ said Tatiana, now glaring at the bartender.

  Inwardly I seethed. I resented this attitude of ownership of me that she and Morgan had assumed. For the rest of the evening, I’d insist on paying my way. That might at least help me cast off this sense of being, in some sense, their child.

  We headed out of the bar, towards the lift, Tatiana leading the way. I watched her as she walked, with a dancer’s elegance. Of mid-height, she was slender but not as fragile as me. She was wearing a pale-blue linen shift dress and white leather pumps, and had a white cashmere cardigan slung over her shoulders. Her platinum-blonde hair swung loose, mane-like, down her back, in direct contrast to my severe style that evening. It wasn’t my favourite style, but you couldn’t deny that she was a very attractive woman.

  As we stepped into the lift, the two of them now in front of me, I studied Morgan in turn. Like the previous night, and like Tatiana, he was smart if conservative, in a pale green-grey suit. Beside them I must look ridiculous. I wondered what kind of crowd there would be at the party, but I told myself there had to be some interesting people at a hotel launch on Park Lane. There’d be business people and bankers, of course, but there’d also be models, fashionistas, journalists, and perhaps even rock stars.

  The rum had gone to my head and for a moment I thought a little ruefully of the bartender, and then by association of Konrad. Though I wanted this night for myself, no matter what it might bring, part of me wished he was here with me. We always had such a great time when we were out together, and that in part kept us together in spite of the problems with sex. People gravitated to us, formed an entourage who followed in our wake. Where separately we might be charismatic, together, it seemed, we were on fire.

  We exited the hotel, turning right in the direction in which I’d come. Within a few steps, a red carpet and a barrier suggested that we’d arrived at our destination. Tatiana fished in her clutch bag for the invitations and flashed them at the doorman, who waved us through.

  Inside the lobby it was all scarlet velvet armchairs and clubby leather sofas, polished dark-wood furniture and vast chandeliers – impressive but not to my taste. A few photographers were loitering with intent and I wondered if I might get my picture on the party pages of Vogue, but no one seemed interested in us.

  We made our way through to the bar, which was enlivened
by colourful and surprisingly quirky artworks. A reasonably sized crowd had already gathered, and Tatiana and Morgan began to make their way through it with much air-kissing and waving across the room. I followed them, glancing around for kindred spirits, but most people looked much like Tatiana and Morgan – moneyed but essentially dull. At the bar I grabbed a flute of champagne and downed it in one before reaching for another.

  Tatiana called someone’s name and gestured, and suddenly we were sucked into a group of about eight people, all of whom seemed to know each other. A few of them shot me curious glances, but no one introduced me. All at once I felt ludicrous in my haute couture and my space-cadet shoes. Suddenly I wanted to run home through the night and cast it all off and just lie on my bed and cry. The evening was going to be a disaster – a trashing of my longest-held dream. Petulantly, I told myself that I hated London and everyone in it. I wanted to be home, partying in Pigalle with Konrad. Not that we didn’t go to the hip places there, but even those had a loucheness to them, like Le Lautrec Café. And then afterwards we’d go to somewhere properly sleazy too. ‘The rough and the smooth,’ as Konrad would often say, nibbling my earlobe in the corner of some dingy basement venue reeking of sex. Sometimes we’d end up in one of the old-school porn cinemas on the boulevard de Clichy. This was for a laugh more than anything else, although usually I’d end up jerking him off while we watched, and a couple of times I even sat astride him and fucked him. Once, we both masturbated to orgasm as we sat there, holding hands. I wouldn’t swear on it, but it may be the only time Konrad had actually been present as I’d climaxed.

  I was brought back to the present when a guy next to me introduced himself and asked my name. I hadn’t noticed him a few minutes before and wondered if he’d just stepped into the circle.

  His name was Jeremy, and he was, he told me, a conductor. Hence his being friends with Morgan.

  ‘What about you?’ he said. ‘How do you know them?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t really.’ I shrugged. ‘I’m new in town, and a friend of a friend introduced us just last night.’