The Exchange (Mischief Books)

by Williams, Carrie

  I closed my magazine, switched off the TV. I wondered about Skypeing Konrad or Lisette but held off, thinking it might only make me more homesick. I needed to give London a chance.

  Instead I called Kyle, on the off-chance that he was in town.

  ‘Hi, Rochelle,’ he said when he heard my voice. He sounded genuinely pleased to hear from me but also a bit sheepish.

  ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I’m really sorry I never got back to you about getting you set up with a guitar. I did ask around but I didn’t hear back from anyone and then I had a trip and it was all very hectic. I’ve not long been back.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ I said. ‘It’s really no big deal.’

  ‘Did you find one?’

  ‘No, but I kind of – oh, I don’t know. I just went off the idea I guess.’

  ‘Oh, OK. So what have you been doing with yourself?’

  ‘Well … nothing much, to be honest. Just hanging around.’

  ‘Who with? Have you been making friends?’

  I didn’t want to tell him about seeing Tatiana and Morgan. Even if I didn’t tell him what we’d been doing, it felt like a betrayal, going out with his friends. And anyway, I really didn’t want to even think about them.

  ‘Not really. I’ve mainly been staying in. You know, just chilling out.’

  ‘Well I guess that’s fine if that’s what you’re in the mood for.’ His voice was dubious, but I could tell that he was restraining himself from asking to see me.

  I wanted so much to reach out to him, to ask him to take me out for dinner. I liked him so much, but I knew that it was unfair to give him any hope that we could be together. I think that at heart he knew that he wasn’t my type, but it’s not so easy to accept that when you’re sitting across the table from your object of desire and just want to reach over and take their hand, kiss it, lead them away to bed.

  ‘It is,’ I said. ‘I don’t want you to worry about me. I’ll get out and about, make the most of London. I just – I just need some time. My life in Paris is manic. I’m a bit burnt out, to be honest.’

  ‘I understand,’ he replied. ‘I feel like that after a concert tour. There’s just so much socialising, and so little privacy and time for yourself. I often feel the need to retreat into myself when I get back to London. Just for a week or two.’

  I wondered then, about his life on the road. Like me, he was a performer. Did he have the kind of camaraderie, with his fellow musicians, that I had with the girls at the club, or was it different when there were men and women together? Was the closeness I felt with my colleagues heightened by our wandering around naked in front of each other?

  Did Kyle get close to the other musicians? Did he sleep with any of them? It must get lonely on the road, being away from lovers, family, friends. Did unlikely bonds form, accidental alliances? It was human nature – some of them must fall into bed together, just for the companionship, especially if alcohol was involved.

  I didn’t ask him. It was none of my business. Perhaps if we spent more time together, we’d become close friends and it might be the kind of thing he’d divulge to me. I regretted that we couldn’t, but like I said, the last thing I wanted was to lead him on. I liked him too much for that.

  We chatted for a while longer and then he told me that he had to get ready to go out. He was going to the cinema with an actress friend, he told me. As soon as he said that, I felt a stab of jealousy. Which actress? I wondered. Was she famous? Was she beautiful? Was it a date, or were they just friends?

  I knew, deep down, that it wasn’t really jealousy so much as self-pity. My life felt desolate, and anyone whose didn’t merited my envy.

  I put the phone down and went straight to the clothes hanger, where I picked off my red 1950s cocktail dress and slipped it on. Then I sat in front of the mirror and did my make-up: black flicks of kohl, lashings of mascara, and plum Cupid’s bow lips. I pinned my hair then finished the look off with seamed stockings and black stilettos, and then a soft black stole around my shoulders and a black clutch.

  I left the flat not really knowing where I was going. My shoes made it impossible for me to walk anywhere, so I hailed a taxi – to hell with the cost – and when the driver asked me where to, replied, more or less at random, ‘Soho.’ Then I leaned back in my seat and watched London go past my window in a blur, noting along the way Selfridges with its marvellous classical façade and brilliant window displays, and the equally gorgeous Liberty with its mock Tudor façade. I scolded myself for not seeing more of London. There was so much to see and do, why was I moping about? Why could I only motivate myself when I sniffed trouble? What was so wrong with ordinary life?

  Once the driver had dropped me off, I walked around for as long as I could stand it in my heels, and then I waited until I spotted some likeminded-looking souls – two girls walking along chatting, one with a severe black bob, pale face and carmine lips, wearing a 1960s Mary Quant-style mini-dress, black with white polka dots, topped by a suede jacket, and the other in a violet-grey suit, nipped at the waist, and fishnet stockings, her hair pinned up 1950s-starlet type like mine.

  I followed them as far as the Crystal Carrington Rooms, realising from both the name and the queue on the street that it was a lesbian bar. So be it, I thought. I didn’t really care what happened tonight, so long as something happened. It was the refrain of my life – I was the girl who was constantly asking, ‘What’s happening?’ Always looking for the next party.

  The queue vanished quickly, and soon I was inside. I’d lost sight of the girls I’d followed, but it didn’t matter – they had just been a way in, an entry into a scene. I wouldn’t have minded falling in with them and hopefully getting in with whatever crowd they were hooking up with, but glancing around me I knew there was plenty of scope for fun. Already, lots of girls were looking at me, one eyebrow raised or a twinkle in their eye. I could have my pick. But I told myself to bide my time, to wait for the right one – or ones.

  I sidled up to the bar, ordered myself a G&T, then stood facing the room, sipping demurely, careful not to catch anyone’s eye. A few girls stood out, had me curious. But I held myself back every time, enjoying the sweet torture of anticipation.

  The soundtrack was pure 80s that night, and soon the dance floor was packed with pretty young lesbians or bi-curious girls, many of them embellished with butterfly or other tattoos. Most wore make-up. It was a dressed-up, lipstick scene and I guessed that many of the women were here to experiment and wouldn’t ever fully commit to the lifestyle. Most would end up married with kids.

  And what about me? I pondered as I ordered myself a second G&T. What did life have in store for me? Would I ever settle down? It was a question I’d never really asked myself, but now that I did I felt a swirl of anguish. So far I’d floated through life, never really making any attachments, or certainly none that were long-term. I never thought about the future, or made plans. That was why I was here now, alone in a lesbian bar in a city I didn’t know, where I didn’t know anyone and no one knew me. Tatiana and the others didn’t count. Even Kyle didn’t count.

  But what about Paris? Was there anyone who really knew me there? Konrad certainly didn’t – his inability to pleasure me, or ignorance of the fact that he didn’t, was a symptom of that. For all our affectionate companionship, none of the girls at the club knew me, and I didn’t know them. Lisette was my closest friend, but even there I wasn’t sure that we ever really went below the surface.

  No – there was no one who knew me, and that was in part why I found myself here, seeking something that I couldn’t define. All my adult life, it suddenly struck me, I’d been looking for something in the lovers I’d had. I’d thought it had been excitement, but now I wondered if it wasn’t love, pure and simple. And that was something I’d never found anywhere.

  I looked around, alert but knowing that my senses were affected by alcohol. Did love wait here? I asked myself. Was there someone here I could fall in love with? Surely of the couple of hundred women
here was one who had what it took not just in bed but out of it too?

  Suddenly I was fearful. It was as if at the very word ‘love’ I got the heebie jeebies. I wanted it and yet I ran from it. There were times in my life, I reminded myself, when I had felt its flickering – in myself or in another, or in both – and I’d bolted like a spooked horse. Love, I’d believed, meant giving up. But was that necessarily the case?

  I finished my second drink and thought it was perhaps best to just go home and get an early night. I wasn’t in the best state, mentally, and I knew from past experience that when I got into this frame of mind I could get myself into hot water.

  As soon as I’d made up my mind, I felt a pair of eyes on me, insistent. I raised mine to meet the gaze and was blown away by a tall redhead watching me from across the room. As our eyes met, my pussy throbbed violently and I knew that she would register that in my gaze.

  There was no point wasting any time. I placed my empty glass on the bar and turned back towards her. She was already on her way over. Our gazes locked again. I thought back to those nights in the dorm with Aileen, biting on my clenched fist or on her fingers crammed into my mouth, to keep myself from screaming out in ecstasy. There’d been other girls since then, but you rarely find someone who makes you burn so hard as the one who showed you what your body can bring you.

  As we stepped up to each other, it struck me that this girl reminded me of Aileen, in many ways. She had the same long, athletic limbs, the same trailing copper-red tresses, the same startling hazel eyes flecked with gold. The strong similarities heightened my anticipation.

  ‘Hey,’ she said, with a sideways smile.

  ‘Hey.’

  ‘You want another drink, or shall we shoot?’

  ‘No, I’m done.’

  She turned and I followed her up the steps and out onto the Soho Street. There she pulled her bomber jacket up around her and hunched into it to light a cigarette. Then she gestured with her head.

  ‘Come,’ she said, and I obeyed. She passed her cigarette to me and we shared it as we walked up Charing Cross Road, past the instrument shops and bookstores.

  ‘I have a room, this way,’ she said, ‘in Bloomsbury. I’m a student. What about you?’

  ‘I’m a stripper,’ I said, ‘in Paris.’

  She turned her incandescent hazel gaze on me, and her beautiful full lips pushed out in a pout. She was amused, I could tell, and curious.

  ‘Well, maybe not a stripper, exactly. I keep some things on. I’m a burlesque dancer, really.’

  ‘What do you keep on?’

  ‘A thong, nipple tassels. Sometimes more. Depends on the act.’

  She did her stomach-flipping sideways smile again.

  ‘Will you dance for me?’ she said.

  I shrugged. ‘Maybe,’ I said, suddenly self-conscious. I wasn’t usually so forthcoming about my job when first meeting people. Not because I was ashamed of what I did, but because I found that it gave people certain expectations of you. I must have been trying to impress her, but it had backfired on me. She thought she’d got lucky. I felt acutely the pressure of living up to her standards.

  ‘I’m over there,’ she said, pointing across the leafy square we’d just entered. But she led me into the grassy square itself. It was a mild night and the sky overhead was clear.

  ‘Mmm,’ she said, running and throwing herself on the grass, then rolling over onto her back and flinging her arms wide on either side of her.

  ‘I’ve just realised, I don’t even know your name,’ I said sitting down beside her and looking into her face.

  She reached up and put one hand on my cheek. ‘You’re fucking gorgeous,’ she said. ‘Names don’t matter. Wank for me.’

  I knew then this girl – whoever she was – wasn’t the one. The love one. The settling-down one. The one who would lead me out of my life of chaos and into some kind of normality, even if it would be a normality that didn’t exactly conform with society’s expectations. In saying that names didn’t matter, she had quashed any hopes that this might be anything more than a one-night stand. And if I was a little disappointed deep down inside, I was also worldly enough to appreciate its liberating aspects.

  I kissed her hard on the lips, then I stood up and slowly, gyrating, humming the classic stripping tune, unzipped my dress and stepped out of it. As I revealed my breasts in their half-cup bustier, my eyes flickered up and I saw that we were not alone in this garden square – across from our patch of grass sat three guys on a bench. They were staring right at us. They looked a little afraid. I guessed they were students – young students not long away from home, revelling in their freedom but not yet sure quite what to do with it. They’d been to a club or a bar, and now, slightly the worse for wear, they were having a last cigarette beneath the stars before going back to their halls. They’d failed to pick up any girls, but at the last minute they’d lucked out, stumbling upon two girls making out in front of them.

  Well, let them watch, I thought. The additional pairs of eyes only turned me on more, and I started hamming it up a bit – slowing down, caressing my limbs as I divested myself, drawing it out a bit more.

  I didn’t look at them but kept my eyes trained on those of the girl lying on the grass below me. She was writhing around, hands on her breasts, little moans escaping from her lips. I knew she would find it hard not to wank herself to climax as she watched, but I wasn’t going to let her. She could watch me, and then we would fuck, right here on the grass, and I would keep bringing her to the brink and then holding back at the last moment, until she was crying, begging, promising me anything. When she did come, it would be like a million stars had exploded into being. She’d never forget this night, or me.

  I peeled off my panties and touched my clit gently, almost tenderly, with two fingers, watching the girl’s eyes. It was as if she couldn’t get enough. With my free hand I squeezed my breast, brushing the nipple with my thumb. I was so aroused, I felt as if I could take off and float into the night sky. This was what it was all about, I thought to myself. It wasn’t about love and settling down, or settling at all. It was about moments like this, and making them happen.

  As I’d suspected, the girl started unzipping her satinesque skinnies and tried to shove her hand down her panties, whimpering. I reached down and yanked her hand out, then lunging to the side grabbed the belt from my dress, whipped it away and, pulling the girls’ wrists together, bound them securely. She half laughed, half mewled.

  ‘You fucking bitch,’ she breathed.

  ‘You fucking love it,’ I said.

  I sat back on my heels, shot one last glance across the square to make sure the male contingent was still watching, then arching my spine I leaned back, letting my head fall and my chest thrust up, and opened my knees. I knew they were all staring at my pussy between my parted legs, longing for it, though I kept my eyes shut as I brought myself to a climax. Then I fell back onto the grass.

  The girl had struggled to her knees now, hands still tied. Crawling over to where I lay, for a few moments she lapped at my puss and the juices it spilled forth. I was still too numb from my orgasm for her to be able to give me any true pleasure, so I reached down and pulled her up to me instead, tugging down her skinny trousers and panties and then bringing my face to her cunt. It was sweet and peachy. I purred like a cat who’d got the cream, lapping at it with my tongue, flickering the tip of it in and out of her hole. I pushed my hands up and inside her vest top as I did and squeezed her nipples playfully. She gasped appreciatively, so I intensified the pressure and soon I knew she was on the verge of coming.

  ‘Fuck me with your fingers,’ I said, and my voice sounded almost obscenely loud in the darkness. For all I knew there could be others in the park watching us, or even people who had heard us from the pavements around and stopped to find out what was going on inside the square. The thought that we were being watched by not just three but perhaps many pairs of eyes made my second orgasm, when it came – almost simultan
eously with the girl’s – super-intense.

  When we sat up, the boys were nowhere to be seen. The girl straightened out her clothes and I put mine back on, then we walked across the rest of the square and into her hall of residence.

  Her room was spartan, decorated only by black and white postcards with photographs of women writers – Colette, Jean Rhys, Edna O’Brien. While the girl boiled a kettle and poured water over two tea-bags in separate mugs, I perused her bookshelves. The same writers featured prominently.

  Seeing me look, she said, ‘You ever read Jean Rhys?’ She placed the cup on the floor in front of the rug I was sitting on.

  I shook my head. ‘Is she a bit like our Françoise Sagan? You must know Bonjour Tristesse.’

  ‘Sure, but no, they’re very dissimilar, except that they’re women and write short novels. Jean Rhys is much more melancholy, while Sagan is funny, albeit in an acidic way. Rhys spent much of her time here in Bloomsbury. I’m a bit obsessed with her, to be honest. I spend a lot of time walking around revisiting her haunts.’

  She walked towards the bookshelf. ‘Here,’ she said, tossing me a copy of a book. ‘I’ve got two copies of this. Keep it.’

  I looked at it. It was an old orange-spined Penguin with a black and white drawing of a melancholy-looking woman on the cover. ‘After Leaving Mr Mackenzie,’ I read.

  ‘It’s much less well known than Wide Sargasso Sea,’ she said, ‘but I think it’s better, in many ways. It’s just so gorgeously written, and so heartbreaking. What I love about Rhys are her rootless, dispossessed women – the main character Julia is far from sympathetic and yet you feel for her so hard. She rebels against what is expected of her and – well, let’s just say she pays for that.’

  I looked down at the book, hardly daring to meet the girl’s eyes. I didn’t even know her name and yet it seemed she had seen into my very soul. Was it that we had fucked, and shared our bodies? Had that given her some insight into who I was and my inner workings? Did she sense my sadness and guess where it came from? Could it be that I had finally found my soul mate?