The Exchange (Mischief Books)

by Williams, Carrie

  ‘Listen to this,’ she said, her finger tracing the words on the page as she read me a few moving paragraphs from the book. The sparseness of the prose and the bleakness of the subject matter hit a nerve, and I found myself wanting to cry for the first time in ages. I grabbed my tea and held it in front of my face like a mask.

  ‘So … Are you really a stripper?’ the girl said, and I was glad to return to the normalcy of surface conversation, of banter.

  ‘Kind of.’

  ‘What’s it like?’ She was looking at me intensely, and I realised that, once again, I represented something to this girl. She wasn’t interested in me for myself but as some kind of prize specimen, an exotic butterfly to be pinned down and studied. I made up my mind then and there that if she asked to see me again, I’d refuse.

  ‘There’s good stuff, and there’s bad stuff,’ I said.

  ‘Start with the bad.’

  ‘Well, I guess it’s mainly that when people have seen you naked, or nearly naked, they think they have rights over you. I don’t like feeling like an object, but I have to be one. If I show any feelings or real humanity, the barrier between us breaks down. And that’s a big no no.’

  ‘And the good?’

  ‘The other girls, at the club.’

  ‘You fuck any of them?’

  I gazed back at her. She was trying to be hard, but there was a background flicker of jealousy in her eyes, like a storm approaching. I was disappointed. Why did it always have to be about ownership?

  ‘Not so far,’ I said.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Just none that I really fancy.’ I eyed her squarely. ‘And the other thing,’ I said, ‘that I like about it, is that it turns me on. I love dancing, I love my body.’

  ‘You see those guys in the park?’ she said.

  I nodded. ‘You too, huh?’

  ‘It feels good, doesn’t it?’

  I nodded.

  She put her mug down, brought her face close to mine. ‘Then how about we invite some people round?’ she said. ‘Some guys? I know a couple of hot ones down the hall who would go crazy to see you and me in action.’

  She was doing her lopsided half-smile. I smiled back.

  ‘How can I resist?’ I said, and she jumped on me and stuck her tongue down my throat, then got up and rushed from the room.

  Chapter 15: Rachel

  We hung out together a lot, Camille and I. It was great to find someone with the same interests and obsessions as me and to feel that my voyeurism was, if not normal, then something that was part of many people’s make-up. Like me, Camille was fascinated with the underbelly of things – with the seedy and the marginal. Together we haunted the dressing rooms of the club, chatting to the girls, photographing them. Camille wrote about them – aperçus, life histories, vignettes. Where I thought of myself as a modern-day Brassaï, she fetishised the works of Zola and Colette. We’d meet in cafés and I’d find her nose-deep in Nana, Zola’s novel about a prostitute who becomes a cabaret star who destroys every man who pursues her. It was, raved Camille, a literary soap opera with heaps of sex and death. Or else she was reading La Vagabonde, Colette’s semi-autobiographical novel about a divorcée who becomes a music-hall dancer.

  We decided we’d collaborate on a book documenting life behind the scenes of an anonymous club. Camille had resigned from the chorus line the very day we’d talked at the Crillon – she knew it didn’t make sense when it was making her miserable, and I pointed out to her that just being there wasn’t getting her anywhere with research for her novel. It would be much better, now that she knew me, to just hang out backstage and glean her insights that way.

  ‘We can’t get in, really in,’ I’d explained to her, and she’d frowned but nodded.

  ‘It’s the artist’s curse,’ she said. ‘We’re observers, outsiders. We can never really be involved, if we want to faithfully record.’

  ‘Does it bother you?’

  ‘Sometimes, yes. There’s a part of me that loves being an artist, but there’s another part of me that would just love to let go – stop watching and start doing. Don’t you agree?’

  ‘For sure.’

  I was going to carry on but I fell silent. It was unusual for me to open up, and I wasn’t sure I was ready, although it felt so good to have a like-minded friend who experienced life the same way I did. I wondered if she too had problems getting close to other people. She’d mentioned that she wasn’t currently having sex, which meant she didn’t have a partner. Did she, like me, step away from intimacy? Did she hold back when people offered you their hearts, as Kyle had me? Did she too have an annoying habit of picking feelings apart and analysing them just as you do photographs or paintings or books, and in doing so, kill them?

  She was looking at me curiously, and I realised I had tears in my eyes. Sensing that I didn’t want to open up, she began to talk again.

  ‘I think there are people who can do both,’ she said. ‘Look at Victorine Meurent, Manet’s model in Olympia and several other of his paintings. She was a singer in café-concerts, but also a painter in her own right.’

  I nodded. The danger of crying had now passed. ‘There are exceptions,’ I agreed. ‘But I do think they often burn out from the pressure of being both inside and outside. It’s not something you can take for long. Or you can only take it with the help of drugs and booze – and you end up dying young.’

  ‘You may well have a point,’ she said thoughtfully, picking up her book from the café-table. ‘OK, I’m off to the Pompidou Centre library for a bit. See you at the club later?’

  ‘Great. See you later.’

  Remaining alone at the table, I ordered another café crème, thinking about people who are fully inside life. Konrad was one of those. Konrad wasn’t unintelligent, but he seemed to actively avoid deep thought. And perhaps he was right – why not just enjoy life, especially when one has youth and beauty, and money to burn? Why angst or analyse when you could be out having fun? But then, could that go on forever, and if not, what came afterwards? Or did Konrad and his ilk avoid thinking about the future too? Did they assume it would never come?

  I suppressed a shudder. I’d encountered plenty of addicts in my time, on specific photographic projects in London, and though I knew Konrad and his crowd were very different from the dispossessed boys and girls I’d got to know around King’s Cross, the very thought of drugs and excess booze and where they could lead you frightened me. Again, I was aware that part of this was bound up with my own psyche and my fears of letting go. But I simply couldn’t see where a lifestyle like Konrad’s could lead, if not into deep trouble. Even drinking the amount I had since I arrived in Paris worried me.

  I stirred my coffee and watched it swirl. I should have nothing to do with Konrad, I thought. He was bad news, if not in himself then in what he represented. I would continue to turn down invitations to go out with them again, I’d refuse. Lisette would understand, and I could still see her. And then I had my new buddy Camille as well. I was doing just fine.

  ***

  Later, at the club, I realised that I’d completely forgotten that I’d agreed to go the party hosted by Lisette’s boyfriend, Aleksei, and meet his art dealer friend Kir. I really didn’t feel like it, but Lisette pleaded with me, and as soon as she was done with her numbers, we jumped in a taxi. She’d changed but not into her normal jeans and sweater – she was wearing a slinky gold lamé dress and she still had all her make-up on, which she retouched as we drove through a sublime, twinkling Paris.

  The club was in the 7th district, close to the Eiffel Tower. A queue had formed on a red carpet leading up to the door but as soon as we spilled out of the taxi, a doorman spotted Lisette and ushered us in and through the door. I felt underdressed in black jeans and a vest top and biker boots, but then I reasoned that even if I had remembered about the party, I had little of interest to wear. This was me, take me or leave me.

  The interior of the club was kitsch, with deep banquettes in scarlet velve
t and mirror balls dangling from the ceiling and mirrored walls. Handsome topless waiters with six-packs stood about the room, holding aloft trays with flutes of champagne. Lisette took two and handed one to me, then, spotting a stocky man waving to her from the end of the bar, led me over.

  ‘Rachel, Aleksei,’ she said, gesturing between us.

  ‘Enchanted,’ said the man in a thick Slavic accent, and I noticed that he had immediately slung his arm around Lisette’s waist and was holding her in a possessive manner.

  ‘So Rachel is the photographer I told you about,’ said Lisette.

  ‘Ah, of course,’ said Aleksei. ‘Then you must meet my friend Kir. He is very interested in talking to you. Come.’

  He led us off to a table that was cordoned off from the rest. Ice buckets with bottles of champagne were dotted around it. We sat down and he hailed a waiter to refresh our glasses, then waved energetically at a man further along the bar.

  ‘Kir! Come!’ he shouted.

  The man raised his glass and bowed slightly, then began to walk over, giving me the chance to study him. Like Aleksei, he was stocky, but where Aleksei was dark and swarthy, Kir was quite fair. There was something of the Daniel Craig about him – a sort of cruelty that made me uneasy. I could understand that Daniel Craig was objectively attractive, but the undertone of violence meant that I could never fancy him.

  I sighed. It would probably have been good for me, to meet someone I liked. It would take my mind off Konrad, and god knows I was long overdue for a good shag. Why did I make it so hard for myself by making these snap judgements, both about other people and about my own desires?

  I could sense Lisette’s eyes on me, and when I turned my head to meet her gaze, I could tell that she was urging me to give it more time. Not that she necessarily wanted us to go to bed together, but I think she was afraid that I would blow any professional leads I might get out of meeting Kir if I didn’t show more interest.

  He was in front of the table, and this time he bowed fully. ‘Lovely to see you, Lisette,’ he said in flawless but accented English. ‘You are looking as ravishing as ever.’ Then he turned to me.

  ‘And you must be the famous …’

  ‘Rachel,’ I interrupted. ‘But I’m not famous.’

  ‘Not yet,’ he replied, flashing his smile at me. Two or three gold teeth glittered out at me. ‘But all that may change.’

  ‘Oh, Rachel’s incredibly talented,’ said Lisette. ‘You should see the pictures she’s done backstage at Club GaGa.’

  ‘When can I see them?’ said Kir, and suddenly his tone was businesslike. At once I relaxed. This didn’t have to be about sex, I told myself. This guy could genuinely help me. On the other hand, I didn’t feel comfortable inviting him around to the flat, or going to his place.

  ‘Perhaps – perhaps you could come to the club one night, and then look at them there?’

  ‘That would be fine. Are you free tomorrow?’

  ‘Sure.’

  People had flooded into the club now, and around us all the tables were occupied. Some people had already strayed onto the dance floor, and with the music getting louder it became impossible to talk properly. Lisette and I finished our champagne and then we headed off to the loos together to check in.

  ‘So, what do you think?’ she said as we came out of our separate cubicles and stood in front of the mirror. With a deft hand she began to reapply her lipstick and refresh her eye make-up. I watched her, thinking how much prettier she looked au naturel. I wondered what she saw in Aleksei. He didn’t seem her type at all. Surely it wasn’t all about his money? Or did she just enjoy glitzy nights out at other people’s expense? Then I had a flashback of her flashing a wicked smile and talking about ‘a pure fucking thing … and a looking thing’, and a tremor of fear and excitement ran through me.

  I forced a smile to hide my agitation. ‘He seems all right,’ I said.

  ‘Just all right?’ She pulled a face at me in the mirror.

  ‘So you were setting me up on a date after all?’

  ‘Oh Rachel, you don’t have to take it all so seriously. No, I was not setting you up on a date. I genuinely want to help your career. But perhaps I was kind of hoping …’

  ‘Kind of hoping I would give my career an extra boost by sleeping with your boyfriend’s best mate, is that it? Killing two birds with one stone …’

  She blew a raspberry at me. ‘Oh be like that then,’ she said. ‘Why do you always have to be so uptight? Why don’t you ever let go every once in a while?’

  I turned and walked out. Her words had hit the mark and I felt myself close to tears for the second time that day. I went to sit down at our table, where Aleksei and Kir were deep in conversation in Russian. After a few minutes I saw Lisette come out of the loo. She started walking towards us, not looking at me, but then halfway across the room she stopped and starting moving with the others on the dance floor. As soon as she did so, other dancers started to move back a little to give her more space and so that they could watch her. She was bumping and grinding to Jennifer Lopez’s ‘Dance Again feat. Pitbull’ in her tight gold dress, hands on her hips, a cheeky half-smile on her face, not meeting anyone’s gaze but clearly aware of the many eyes on her.

  Aleksei and Kir were now looking over at her too, and Aleksei’s tone had grown gloating, as if he was boasting to the other man about what Lisette was like in bed. From her dancing, I knew she must be great in the sack. Her body was sinuous as a cat’s, flowing, with spectacular proportions. Aleksei’s eyes positively glowed with the knowledge of what awaited him later. Every man in the room must have wanted Lisette at that moment.

  I looked at Kir. He too was watching Lisette intently, but he must have felt my eyes on him for he turned to look at me.

  ‘Not dancing?’ he mouthed, gesturing with his head towards Lisette, then holding his own hand out to me.

  I hesitated. Yes, I did want to dance, but beside Lisette I would feel clumsy and stupid.

  I shook my head and reached towards an ice bucket. Pre-empting me, Kir grabbed the neck of a bottle of champagne and refreshed my glass, then his own.

  ‘Cheers,’ he said, and we clinked glasses. ‘To new friendships.’

  I drank the champagne, and a couple more after that, and the evening began to blur pleasantly. For all my disdain for and fear of excess, I was growing worryingly fond of the softening effects of alcohol.

  I didn’t get up the courage to dance, but I felt less self-conscious and I chatted with the others for a while, and with some of their friends who had joined us around the table, and I persuaded myself that I was having fun.

  It was past four when we left, Lisette with the Russians and a group of hangers-on and me on my own in a taxi, pre-paid by Kir on his insistence. They’d invited me back with them all to Aleksei’s apartment, but I’d known to draw the line there. I was curious, and I knew that it might even be fun, but I had already come out of my comfort zone, and anything more was too much. And so home to bed.

  ***

  The next morning, consumed by curiosity, I texted Lisette. She didn’t reply. Meeting Camille for lunch, I told her about the evening and we had our own vicarious fun imagining how it might have panned out. Then we sighed simultaneously and looked at each other.

  ‘We really ought to let ourselves go more,’ said Camille. ‘Lisette is right. It’s just dumb.’

  ‘I have a feeling,’ I confessed for the first time – and only really acknowledging it to myself for the first time too – ‘that I will only develop as an artist if I do start to let myself go. For all I said about not being able to do both, about burning out, I’m starting to wonder if I’m going to hit a brick wall soon. There’s only so far you can go, as an observer, surely? I’m starting to get frightened that my work will lack depth unless I open myself up more. Look at Henry Miller, for example. And Anaïs Nin too. They lived and then they wrote. They wrote what they lived.’

  Camille was silent for a moment. ‘You may have a point,
’ she said finally. ‘But what to do about it?’

  ‘I’m meeting them again tonight,’ I said. ‘They’re coming to the club. Ostensibly it’s so Kir can look at some of the work I’ve done there. If he likes it, he said he will help me with some introductions that might help me get an exhibition.’

  ‘Wow, sounds promising.’

  ‘Sure. But what if it is something else? I mean, I’ve Googled him and I know he’s who he says he is, so I’m sure he will help me, if he gets my work. But what if there is more to it? What if they talk about going elsewhere with them?’

  ‘Why don’t you talk to Lisette about it? I’m sure she’ll tell you what they got up to last night.’

  ‘Well, that’s just it. She’s ignoring my texts.’

  ‘Or more likely, she’s still asleep. If it was 4 a.m. when you left …’

  ‘That’s true. But what if there’s – I don’t know – something dodgy?’

  ‘You’re talking yourself out of it again.’ She reached a hand across the table. ‘Look, Rachel, I know where you’re at. We’re sisters in that respect. So I’m the last person to talk you into going off with them on some mad adventure of whatever kind. If you don’t want to party, then so be it. But it seems to me you do want to do it, but that you keep talking yourself out of it. It strikes me you’ve got to stop listening to that internal voice you’ve got going on.’

  ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘You’re right. I should either do it, or shut up about it. But hey – why don’t you come along? I was a bit pissed last night, but Kir is an interesting guy. Who knows, he might make an interesting contact for you too?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m not making excuses,’ she laughed, ‘but I’ve promised myself I’ll stay in and work on my novel tonight. I’ve been so busy on stuff for this book you and I are doing that I’ve made absolutely no headway.’

  She stood up. ‘Speaking of which, I’d best get off to the library. But listen, you have fun tonight. If the little voice starts up again, just pretend you’re someone else and you can’t hear it.’ She smiled. ‘I used to be afraid of flying, and one useful technique I learnt is to act “as if”.’