The Exchange (Mischief Books)

by Williams, Carrie

  But then Konrad slipped his fingers out of me and, turning me around, made me stand against the wall with my hands flat and arms flexed, so that I could push my arse out at him. Fumbling with his flies, he undid his jeans and liberated his cock, plunging it into me, spreading my buttocks with his hands and placing his thumb against my sphincter. I, meanwhile, continued the pressure on my clit from the front, casting surreptitious sideways glances at the girls. They were still smiling, delighted with the free show. They were hot chicks, and I felt even more keenly the joy of having someone like Konrad fall for me.

  When Konrad felt me start to come, he eased his finger into my arsehole and with that and my finger on my clit and his cock inside me, I came so hard I couldn’t help but shout and swear.

  ‘Oh my fucking Christ. Jesus fucking Christ. Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck …’

  Konrad was coming now too, and his moans of ecstasy in my ear kept my orgasm coming, until I thought I couldn’t stand it any more. Then we collapsed forwards onto the wall, his body close up against me, his laboured breath in my ear, warm on my neck. I turned my head and the girls were clapping silently, grinning. Then, holding their thumbs up and calling ‘You go, girl,' they turned and scampered away. I like to think I made their day, or gave them something to talk about.

  On the way back to Rochelle’s apartment, hand in hand, Konrad and I chatted like old friends, filling each other in on salient points of our life stories. Konrad was honest with me about some of the wilder episodes of his modelling and party days – including a threesome in a hot tub with two of the world’s best-known supermodels – and that in turn led me to confess to my night with Lisette and the Russians in the château.

  ‘Ah Lisette,’ said Konrad. ‘That doesn’t surprise me.’

  I looked at him. ‘Was there ever anything between you two?’ I asked. ‘Not that it would matter, really, but …’

  ‘Nothing. She’s really not my type. And I don’t think I’m hers. I’m just not kinky enough.’

  ‘Me neither,’ I said. ‘But I have become fascinated by exhibitionists and how they get off on people watching them. Whether it’s the dancers at the club or the people at the château.’

  ‘Well, if I’m not mistaken, you got pretty turned on by those girls watching us at the Mur des Je t’aime.’

  I blushed, and he squeezed my hand. ‘I did too,’ he said. ‘Fucking you is gorgeous, and it just feels delirious knowing other people are getting pleasure from watching what we do to each other.’

  ‘So you’d want to do it again?’

  ‘I wouldn’t rule it out. But only if you were up for it too.’

  I hesitated. ‘I wouldn’t rule it out too,’ I said. ‘What I did in the château, and what we did just now – they did make me horny. But I don’t want it to be just about that. I want you to myself, most of the time. I want this to be about you and me.’

  He squeezed my hand again. ‘We want the same things. So how about we take things as they come, and if the opportunity arises, we can see how we feel?’

  ‘Sure, I’m happy with that.’

  ‘But there is one thing I was going to suggest.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Well, now that you’ve discovered this thing about showing yourself off, I was thinking you could give it a go at the club?’

  ‘What?!’

  ‘You say you’re fascinated by the girls at the club. And you’ve done all those wonderful images of them, trying to get inside their heads, under their skins. But it strikes me the only way you can really do that is to dance yourself.’

  ‘Me? Dance?’

  It seemed like a ludicrous thought, and yet the more I thought about it the more I suspected he might be right. How could I ever really claim to know these girls unless I had done what they did? I was certain that it would add a new dimension to my work and to the book I was doing with Camille if I experienced their work first hand. And then I also had to admit to myself that the thought of showing my body off was suddenly alluring. My experiences at the château had freed me of all inhibitions.

  When we got back to the apartment, I called up Lisette. I hadn’t seen her since the night at the château, and I felt a little nervous.

  As soon as she picked up, all my apprehension evaporated. We talked as we always had, warmly and openly, and I felt no embarrassment at what we’d done to each other’s body and what we’d seen each other doing. That night at the château had assumed the status of a dream, and real life now held sway again.

  When I explained what I wanted to do, she seemed thrilled and said she’d be very interested in coaching me and even devising a routine that she and I could perform together – she felt that would be an easier initiation for me.

  I left it in her hands and we agreed to meet at the club the next day to begin rehearsals. When I put the phone down I had butterflies in my tummy but a smile on my face.

  Chapter 18: Rochelle

  I sat on Eurostar, looking out of the window at the rain-sodden fields of Kent. Konrad’s call had totally knocked me for six. The thought of him coming out to see me in London was the only thing that had been keeping me going after that night with the girl in Bloomsbury and my realisation that I urgently needed to change.

  Of course, my problems with Konrad remained. But beyond our sexual problems, we had been soul mates for so long that the prospect of seeing him and having a familiar presence for a few days made me feel better. I felt rootless and lost, and his being there would anchor me, at least for a few days. And who knows? – perhaps our not having been together in a while would mean the sex would be better. Perhaps that would finally click.

  When he said he wasn’t coming and told me why, I freaked out. I’d never felt so alone in my life. My first thought was to go out and get fucked royally – it didn’t matter by whom. But for the first time in my life I kept my promise to myself. I stayed home with a couple of bottles of wine, climbing into bed in a borrowed set of flannelled pyjamas I’d found in one of Rachel’s’ drawers and crying myself silly watching some old movies. After a fitful night’s sleep, I packed up my stuff and took a cab to St Pancras for a train to Paris.

  Once in my home city, I wasn’t sure what to do. I’d given Rachel no notice of my return, so I could hardly turn up at my apartment with all my bags and just announce that I was taking it back. I’d need to speak to her first and give her at least a few days to get packed up and book a ticket home. I wondered how she’d take it. For all I knew, she might even welcome it. Having met Kyle and lived in her apartment, I couldn’t help but think that she must have hated Pigalle.

  I decided to head for the club and ask one of the girls if I could crash on her sofa for a few nights until I’d sorted things out with Rachel. It was early afternoon by now, and I knew a few of them would be around, practising new routines.

  As I climbed out of the cab in front of the all-too-familiar building, I felt weird. I had loved this place so dearly – loved my work, loved the people. I’d made brilliant friends here – friendships that would count among the most important of my life. And I’d discovered so much about myself while working here.

  And yet as I walked in, I knew it was over. I may be back in Paris, but I wouldn’t work here again. I needed to reinvent myself, to learn to make myself truly happy rather than experiencing the illusory self-love that comes from seeing yourself refracted through other people’s admiring gazes. I needed to find a way of validating myself in my own eyes.

  I pushed open the door and walked into the main space. There weren’t many people around – mainly just a couple of cleaners sweeping the floor and wiping the tables. But there was movement on the stage, and I moved instinctively towards it.

  When I got a little further, I stopped dead in my tracks. Lisette was dancing, and a girl standing beside her, dressed in an identical bunny girl outfit, was copying her moves. I recognised her from her Facebook profile: it was Rachel.

  I sat down, stunned. Lisette was teaching Rachel a r
outine. How had this come about? I crossed my arms and stared. I was far back from the stage, in a shadowy corner, so I knew they wouldn’t see me.

  Rachel, I quickly noticed, was good. She picked things up quickly and moved fluidly and sexily. I was quite surprised, knowing what I did of her and having both met Kyle and lived in her somewhat ascetic apartment. I wondered if living in Paris had changed her in some ways. And I wondered if she had serious ambitions about dancing in the club or if she was just larking about.

  But there was something else too. Lisette and Rachel seemed to have genuine affection for each other, which piqued jealousy in me. And if I wasn’t mistaken, there was even an element of flirtation to their rapport. Of course, that was often an aspect of a two-girl act – the intimation of some girl-on-girl action being a big turn-on for the punters. But to my trained eye it looked a little more genuine than that. Lisette wasn’t a lesbian, I knew that. And nor was Rachel. But I wondered if something had happened between them regardless.

  I watched them for a long time, with Lisette demonstrating the moves and Rachel copying them, more than competently if not as well as the seasoned professional that Lisette was. Every once in a while they’d go back over previous moves, running them together so that I began to get a better idea of their show. It was to be a classic bunny girl routine with plenty of shimmying and wiggling of pert bums embellished by pompom tails. Both were wearing bunny ears, stockings and suspenders, and basques overlaid by vintage fur stoles – they must have raided the club wardrobe for a laugh, as it wasn’t normal to dress up when rehearsing, at least not at this level. I was certain from the care and effort they were putting into the routine that they intended to perform it for real at the club.

  They broke off, walked to the edge of the stage and sat down, legs dangling over the edge, chatting to a figure I hadn’t noticed before, sitting just to the right of the stage, at the front. For a moment I stared at the back of the head, and then it just clicked and I realised it was Konrad they were talking to. He was making appreciative gestures and to me it seemed clear that he was praising and encouraging Rachel.

  My blood boiled. Rachel, I realised, had taken the life-swap all too literally. She had taken over my life – she had my apartment, and she was also moving in on my career. And from the attention she and Konrad were giving each other, she had taken my boyfriend too.

  I nearly flipped, my first instinct being to stalk over and slap both Rachel and Konrad round the face. But I took a few deep breaths and forced myself to look at the situation more calmly. Konrad and I weren’t meant for each other – I had long known that. For a while, during our party days, we had been soul mates, but there was something more brother and sisterly than sexual about our relationship. He didn’t do it for me and never would, and we should never have become lovers. In finishing with me, he had done the honest thing, and in doing so he had set me free to meet someone who could satisfy me. There were plenty of people who could do that, physically; my challenge now was to find someone who could also satisfy me emotionally.

  And as for the club, I was over that too. It had been fun while it lasted, but now I had to move on to a new phase of my life, one in which I found fulfilment in things other than being looked at or being some kind of exotic, wanton, up-for-it creature that people used to spice up their sex lives. I had no idea where I would find this fulfilment, but it was to become my life’s quest.

  I slunk out of the club, grabbing my bags in the foyer. Rachel and Konrad would never know that I had been there.

  Outside, I jumped into a taxi and asked him to take me back to the Gare du Nord. I had no idea what I would do once I got back to London, but I couldn’t face confronting Rachel and asking her to give me back my apartment. And I couldn’t face sleeping on someone’s floor either, while I sorted things out. Running away again seemed to be my only option.

  ***

  Back in Rachel’s flat in Bayswater, I was calmer. I didn’t want to dance any more, and I didn’t want to carry on with Konrad. It struck me that I should be grateful to Rachel rather than angry with her: in venturing further into the idea of a ‘life-swap’ than either of us had imagined, she had put me in a place of no return. Now I just had to figure out what that place might be.

  After unpacking my bags, I called up the music academy and made a firm appointment to go and talk to someone about signing up for their songwriting course. I also printed out some flyers offering dance tutoring, to earn the money for my course. I had a talent, and it made no sense not to generate income from it by sharing it with others. Then I called up Kyle.

  A woman’s voice answered, catching me off guard. She sounded sleepy, as if I’d woken her up. I remembered his date with the actress and wondered if this was she, if they were still seeing each other.

  ‘Who’s calling?’ she said, and her voice was a little mistrustful, suspicious.

  ‘It’s Rochelle,’ I said.

  ‘Hang on a sec.’

  ‘Hey, Rochelle,’ came Kyle’s voice after a few minutes. ‘It’s been a while. How are things?’

  ‘Good,’ I said. ‘Well, I’ve had a few wobbles but I’m definitely going to look round the college and make a decision about the music course. And I’m going to fund it by teaching dancing. So first I wanted to let you know in case you have any networks you could share my details with, or ideas for where to promote myself. And secondly I’m still looking for someone who might sell me a decent guitar at a sensible price.’

  ‘I’m sure I can help out,’ said Kyle, and I felt instantly soothed by his tone. I sensed that he would have been a great, calming influence in my life, if only I’d been able to reach out to him. And now he was taken. I was an idiot.

  He happened to be on a break from touring and free that night, so we arranged to meet up for dinner. There was a new place in Covent Garden he wanted to try out, he said.

  I spent the afternoon making plans, fired up by enthusiasm for my new life. For the first time in ages I had a sense of conviction about what I was doing and some real hopes for the future.

  I dressed soberly that evening. I’d been thinking a lot over the past couple of days, and I’d realised that I was exhausted by believing I always had to make some kind of impact. It was so long since I’d been me; for years I’d been hiding behind masks and costumes, even when I was semi-naked. Even fully naked with Konrad, or with other lovers, I’d kept up the party-girl façade. I thought of the old song ‘Tears of a Clown’ and of how it applied to my life.

  I wore a little light foundation, a flick of mascara and a dab of lip gloss. I put on a demure little black dress that I found in the back of Rachel’s wardrobe and some nude pumps. I’d already washed my hair and let it dry naturally, so that it hung in soft waves around my face. Looking in the mirror, I barely recognised myself. It wasn’t such a bad feeling after all.

  We met in the restaurant of a new hotel in Covent Garden. Kyle had just come from a meeting at the Opera House, he told me; he was flushed with pleasure at having just got a new gig with them. He was also tanned and healthy looking from his recent tour abroad. His eyes sparkled as we clinked cocktail glasses, his enthusiasm for life renewing my own feeling of rebirth.

  At some point – I don’t even know how it happened or who initiated it – we found ourselves holding hands across the table. Our eyes were locked on each other. I had butterflies in my stomach and yet felt strangely calm and strong, endowed with a sense of fate and inevitability. Kyle wasn’t Konrad, but that was surely the point. Konrad’s physical perfection had left me semi-frigid. Konrad had never been real to me. Kyle was very real indeed.

  For my peace of mind, I had to ask about the woman who had answered the phone at his flat, but when I did Kyle laughed gently.

  ‘My moody sister Carla,’ he said. ‘She’s staying at mine while she buys a new flat. She’s a little uncouth, I’m afraid. I’m sorry if she offended you.’

  Again, as if by some unspoken accord, we found ourselves at the hotel recept
ion, checking in, and then in the lift, making our way up to our room, hand in hand.

  Kyle had paid for a corner suite with two walls of windows overlooking Covent Garden and a vast Italian mirror leaning against the wall.

  We drew it out, with Kyle stripping and taking a bath in the freestanding tub while I watched. Then I helped him towel himself dry and led him back into the bedroom with its vast bed.

  He lay back on it, and though he was hard for me, he continued to hold off, putting his hands behind his head so that he couldn’t even get relief by playing with himself.

  ‘Dance for me,’ he said, and I began to strip, in silence, eyes fixed on his, loving the joy I saw in them, suddenly empowered by the knowledge that performing in private, for an audience of one, can feel more daring and titillating than showing oneself off.

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