The Sexopaths

  He finds himself a little disconcerted by how much detail she already knows. He asks: ‘But how about Brussels?’

  ‘Oh, it is just a half-day Board meeting. The Greece trip is a special meeting to judge the European awards – that is why it is longer, the Board meeting starts on the Thursday evening, then we do the judging next day. Adam, we can go out on the Thursday and transfer via Athens – it is just a thirty-minute hop to the island… or we can take a hydrofoil.’

  ‘What’ll you do for Brussels – just catch same-day flights?’

  ‘I suppose so – I need to check all the timings.’

  He notices she’s vague about this, when a moment before she was able to be specific. Absently, distracted by the thought, he holds his glass up to the angled sunlight and swirls the pale liquid. To his alarm, he observes through the film of condensation that his wedding band is on the ring finger of his right hand. The glinting movement is attracting Monique’s gaze. He quickly takes a sip, places his glass on the aluminium patio-table, and then drops his hands self-consciously out of sight. Now his disquiet over Brussels will have to wait.

  ‘Do you fancy Chinese tonight?’

  ‘Oh – well, I put out some steaks this morning to defrost… but they will do for tomorrow if you would prefer a takeaway.’

  ‘Save you the hassle of cooking?’

  ‘I love cooking – especially for you my darling.’

  ‘I know, I know – that’s really sweet… but…’

  ‘You prefer Chinese to my cooking.’ She says it teasingly, like she’s offended.

  ‘No – you’re a brilliant cook. Look, it’s a lovely evening – we should enjoy the extra time out here. I’ll put Camille to bed and you can take it easy.’

  ‘We can have a nice night?’

  It’s their private euphemism. He forces a smile but senses only a simper manifests itself.

  ‘Ah – my hard-working darling. It can be all your turn for a massage.’

  ‘My lucky day. I’ll get the menu.’

  He rises and ducks his right shoulder away from her. Once out of her line of sight, he wrenches at the slim gold band, but it won’t budge over what must be the thicker knuckle of his dominant side. Passing through the kitchen a headily fragrant waft strikes him with the notion that the lilies would be a fitting congratulatory gift on the day Monique had been elevated to the European Board. (And he still hasn’t said well done.) He continues along the hall to the downstairs cloakroom. Leaving the door ajar he waits a few moments before flushing the toilet. Then he turns to the wash-basin and squeezes a dash of Monique’s hand-cream onto the recalcitrant ring. To his relief it yields and he’s able to slip it back in its customary place. Now he crosses the wide hall, strides swiftly through the utility room and opens a further door giving on to the double garage, where they keep a wine-fridge from which he hooks out a bottle of champagne, retraces his steps, picks up the raffle-ticket-pink Chinese takeaway menu from the telephone table, plus the cordless handset, and finally creeps into the playroom. In extravagant mime he beckons Camille to follow him. Recognising the prospect of some apparent surprise, she obediently hops to her feet and tiptoes with him into the kitchen, Adam reaches down a pair of flutes from a cabinet, and arranges the items softly on a tray. He whispers a brief to Camille, wondering if she can be reliably entrusted with Monique’s best crystal. She performs her task with gusto, predictably in her enthusiasm nearly tipping the whole lot into her mother’s lap.

  ‘Felicitations, Maman!’

  ***

  Ten a.m. at his desk and it’s the first chance Adam has had to get online. He swivels his laptop such that anyone who comes up directly to talk with him can’t easily see the screen; as an extra precaution he opens his inbox so he can switch windows at will. His pulse rate is rising and it’s hurting his head. Right now he’s questioning his strategy of the previous night: at his insistence they’d uncorked successive – three… no, was it four? – bottles of champagne, the last of which (almost empty) had subsequently booby-trapped his drunken route to the ensuite. Revisiting the memory he rubs his bruised coccyx. At the time it had seemed the lesser of two evils – that is, to get Monique so paralytic that she passed out before they could make love. It had worked; she’d even slept through his nocturnal floorshow, crash bang cursing and all. But with hindsight perhaps he should have yielded to her offer of a massage: prior to her abrupt descent into rag-dollesque oblivion she’d enfolded him like a warm tide, irresistibly invasive, his caution, his self-imposed arms-length exile seemingly superfluous. The additional cost had been the requirement to match her glass for glass, its corollary an obstinate hangover that extra-strong aspirin has thus far abjectly failed to shift. Maybe she’d been higher on the news of her election than he’d allowed for – certainly she hadn’t needed any persuading when it came to the bubbly. Then, she’s always had a soft spot for champagne. He recalls discovering some years ago this reliable short cut to her invariably skimpy undergarments (presumably with a degree of discrimination over who gained access still exercised on her part). In the fashion of Pavlov’s bell, the ring of a champagne glass steals her attention; its fizzy rush a skeleton key that opens the door labelled ‘inhibitions’. He remembers the first time they had sex – inside a tiny toilet cubicle in a trendy restaurant, gone bust now – that was in Leith. Their brakes had failed riding a runaway lunchtime binge and he’d trailed her to the door of the ladies’ and pushed her inside. As he’d wrestled clumsily with the clasp of her bra, she’d been far more efficient with his belt and zip. She’d manhandled him down onto the seat, wrenched aside her sheer panties, straddled him, slid smoothly onto him, and with her free hand made herself come with an urgency that was breathtaking. He’d been impressed by that; her innocent Gallic façade belying some recessive Viking ruthlessness. A blonde, of course – nothing recessive there.

  Angels365.com – like him, sluggish this morning – opens at last and his thoughts jerk back to yesterday. To Ms X. And to Ms Y. The former he knows well enough, albeit by her trading name of ‘Xara’ – a brand name, even, if the slavishly drooling punters’ reviews linked to her web pages are anything to go by. Ms Y however remains anonymous. As pre-warned, he was permitted no introduction beyond the carnal.

  On screen now is ‘Xara’. ‘Elite Latina’ – apparently her webmaster’s grading. Adam wonders if she pays a higher site-rent for the privilege. Others go under more baldly vulgar bylines, ‘Hot busty’, ‘Naughty adventurous’, ‘Pin-up babe’. He scrolls through her semi-naked portfolio, face blurred, toned assets in sharp relief, their contours accentuated by minimalist, sheer and lacy lingerie. He clicks on ‘reviews’ and begins to work his way through the extensive litany of confessions, cruising for clues. Most of these so-called ‘field reports’ he’s read before. Some reflect his own experience, disconcertingly accurate in their detail; others drip with transparent hyperbole and abysmal English (“… she lied back and came out loud”) (‘lied’ – yes, dickhead) and self-deluded sign-offs, love-letter-like personal notes to Xara herself (“… until we make music again babe lol”). There are acronyms and abbreviations for those in the know – BBBJ, CIM, GFE, MISH, OWO – and clearly some girls faking it, their self-submitted reports sporting unimaginatively repetitive pen-names and eulogies, crude congratulations that rise hydra-like from one exaggerated episode to the next.

  Occasionally on the site he’s come across a review of a working girl by a female client. He’s sure there’s one for Xara, posted a year or more ago, which he now rediscovers. However, albeit authored by a girl, her male partner was obviously present too: she praises Xara for her caring sensitivity, before reporting that the re-energised happy couple have hitherto been at it hammer and tongs.

  But there’s nothing he can find in Xara’s public history that points to Ms Y and her identity. His gaze drifts and he stares through rain-washed glass across the indistinct cityscape, its grey slate Georgian rooftops draped in a fine Scotch mist that merges seamless
ly skywards into matching stratus, a scene of stark yet imprecise contrast to yesterday’s vivid if half-imagined brightness. She’s out there somewhere, beneath that drizzly smog of secrecy, maybe closer that he can guess. Did he see blonde hair? Or did he imagine it? It was gathered unusually to one side, its tail softly tickling at times, that much he’d felt, a clue to who did what. Should he suspect every matching hairstyle he might meet in a bar or pass in the street?

  But how stupid was he? It could have been anyone. What if he’s been recognised? Why did he agree to it? He purses his lips thoughtfully against his fingertips, then glances at his mobile lying on the desk beside the laptop. Although he has deleted Xara’s text, his memory is clear:

  ‘Hi can u call me pls?’

  On reflection he considers this initial summons was quite thoughtfully composed – the wrong person finding it (let’s say a wife) should have few suspicions. At first he’d no idea whom it was from, neither recognising the number nor having it stored in his phone memory. He’d been about to dismiss the short message as a stray from cyberspace, when some determined comic-book Numskull working overtime in the deepest recesses of his Memory Department must have cried ‘Wait!’ and on an apparent whim, but with growing conviction in his hunch, he’d checked the Angels365 website. Sure enough – an involuntary bump of his heart – there was her number, identical. He’d vacillated for… well – a couple of hours. After all, she probably had hundreds of guys’ contacts, and could easily have sent him the text in error. She probably had half a dozen Adams.

  Except he was the one she wanted. And in due course he’d obliged, drawn inexorably into her clutches by his own inability to resist. He’d called her from his car so as to be sure to be undisturbed. Now he replays their dialogue, analysing its content for some hint as to the identity of Ms Y in the fresh light of yesterday’s encounter.

  ‘Hi – it’s Adam. I got your text.’

  ‘Hello you. Long time no see.’

  ‘It feels like last week.’ He wasn’t sure whether to sound apologetic.

  ‘That’s nice to know. I guess you’re free to talk for a moment?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘It’s to ask a favour.’

  ‘A favour?’ He’d begun to anticipate a pitch for business.

  ‘Well, to come straight to the point, can I tempt you with an assignment?’

  ‘With you?’ Did she mean an assignation?

  ‘Well – with me, yes… but someone else, too.’

  ‘Ah.’ He was tongued-tied.

  ‘It’s a female, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘A client. She’d like a threesome, including a guy.’

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘I’ve got lots of girlfriends – in the business – but this is a bit unusual.’

  ‘Why me? Aren’t there… professionals?’

  ‘Probably there are, but… well… let’s just say you meet all the important requirements. What do you say?’

  Her warm velvety voice was intoxicating, invading his veins like a creamy cocktail that masked its strength beneath its smooth surface. And too many partly formed questions had disoriented his thoughts, dulling his wits. The best he could manage was a sharp intake of breath and a mumbled ‘Right-ho’ in an intonation that implied consideration, but in an octave that patently screamed submission.

  ‘So you’ll come. Haha!’ A transparently triumphant close, wasting no time; a suggestively loaded giggle at the double-entendre.

  Once he’d yielded to the pressure of the sale, he’d felt more relaxed. He’d asked:

  ‘When were you thinking of?’

  ‘Next week, Wednesday – just after lunch.’

  ‘And… do I pay?’ Was this an indelicate question, or good manners?

  ‘No. It’s just for fun. Lucky you, eh?’

  ‘Sure. Erm… what’s she like? I mean – ’ Adam had hastily corrected himself. ‘Rather – who is she?’ He knew even this wasn’t the right thing to ask, and got the reply he’d expected:

  ‘She wants to remain anonymous – that’s normal, you appreciate that. Just think of her as Ms X.’

  ‘Isn’t that you?’

  ‘Good point. Let’s say Ms Y.’

  ‘Should I call her that?’

  ‘You probably shan’t need to say anything.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘She just fancies a hot time. She’s very attractive. But you’ll need to be blindfolded. I’ll tell you what to do. We’ll probably tie you up. Gag you. Does that sound okay?’

  He thinks he’d said yes. Right now his head is pleading for painkillers as the memory stokes his pulse. As he reaches distractedly for the can of caffeine drink beside his desk a voice overly close-to jolts him from his daydream:

  ‘Adam? Sorry, sweetie – didn’t mean to make you jump. May I bother you about this proposal I’m doing for Natalie?’

  It’s one of his three business partners, Stephanie, a tall gothic brunette with naturally pale skin, long wavy hair and full sensuous lips, purple today to complement her overall colour scheme. The carpeted floor has enabled her silently to infiltrate his workspace with her amply curved presence and envelop him in the tentacled coils of her heady perfume. Impressive violet talons have come to rest lightly upon his shoulders. Thus subjugated, he’s unable to react before she sees the revealing display.

  ‘Naughty, naughty.’ She says it softly, as if louder might attract unwanted attention to their little shared intimacy.

  Though her discovery can be no more than superficial – and her tone sounds most definitely teasing – from his perspective it’s as if she has suddenly become privy to his thoughts unlimited, a lavish banquet spread before her, its sweet ripe temptations and oozing rare flesh demanding to be gorged in all its shocking excess. He feels himself flushing red, his ears burning. He closes the on-screen window with a flamboyant impresario-like click and his inbox re-emerges from beneath.

  ‘Ahem – research for Bill’s dating site.’ He says this in jocular fashion, but as if it might also be true. ‘Obviously I’d be castrated if I got caught doing this at home. Don’t shop me to the missus.’

  ‘No need to make excuses to me, dearie. We’ve all read the surveys that say Creatives spend the most time surfing girlie websites. You have to live up to your image, you know.’

  Quite naturally, she appears to have got the innocent end of the stick. She doesn’t even ask who Bill is. He relaxes, encouraged by her unfazed complicity. But she’s pressed up close behind him, taking advantage of her discovery. Weakly, he reaches for a diversionary tactic.

  ‘You don’t have any painkillers do you?’ Theatrically he raises his arms and presses the heels of his hands to his temples.

  ‘Boys’ night out?’ In affected sympathy she kneads his trapezius muscles.

  ‘Wife night in, actually.’ He rotates his head in response to her ministrations. ‘Monique’s been elected to some European agency Board – AMIE it’s called – and I guess we overdid the celebrations.’

  ‘Sounds impressive – and lucrative?’

  ‘I think it’s entirely voluntary. The main perk seems to be a bunch of meetings in mildly exotic places. Evidently it’s Mykonos in September.’

  ‘I adore Mykonos – don’t tell me you get to go, too?’

  ‘Apparently so – seems only fair, though – I’ve managed to get her included in the deal for my next few conferences.’

  ‘Do you need a travelling nanny? I’m very cheap.’

  ‘I think I’ve probably drawn that particular short straw.’

  ‘Aw – don’t. She’s so cute!’ There’s a photo of Camille on Adam’s work-station.

  ‘That’s easily said, until she’s bouncing on your head at five in the morning demanding a story and chocolate-spread sandwiches.’

  ‘Well - we’re gonna be heartbroken if you keep going away like this.’

  ‘You’ll be glad of the peace more like.’

  ‘
Just be sure to nab the best contacts – you’re the international superstar, remember – they’ll be climbing over the sunbeds to get to you working on their business.’

  ‘I like the image – but I can’t compete with Monique in the charm stakes.’

  ‘Stay sober, spike her drinks.’

  ‘I have a feeling I tried that last night; now look at me.’

  ‘Hmm. Maybe I should give you some practice. But right now, I’ll donate you the last of my precious super-duper pills. But I warn you – they’re addictive.’

  ***

  It’s a little after one p.m. and Adam seeks essential elements: salt and fat and sugar. The drizzle has dissipated and the blanket of cloud is dissolving into patches of misty blue sky with an invigorating morning-like promise earlier than the real time, as if the day had stalled, frozen like a great orchestral pause, and is now diligently working its way affretando through its backlog of movements and melodies. In contrast, the timpani of his hangover are beating diminuendo, a distant and departing marching band. With brightening spirits, only faintly tarnished by the small beginnings of a gnawing anxiety, he topples off the 26 bus amidst a small posse of blinking passengers. He has travelled the ten minutes from Princes Street to Roseburn’s tenemented environs: Edinburgh’s centre is unsullied by real cafés. As he waits for a gap in the traffic, eschewing the nearby crossing, a waspish tickle against his thigh signals an incoming text. He draws the phone like a novice gunslinger, all haste and little speed. It comes out upside down – but he sees immediately it’s from ‘Ms X’. Her message is as economical as the one before:

  ‘Thnx 4 hlp. C u soon. X.’

  Now his thoughts become sidetracked. It’s signed off with a kiss. No – probably it’s an X for Xara. A kiss would be a lower-case x. Or would it? And what about thnx? He always types texts longhand, so hers seems intentionally coded by his standards. But wait a minute – what is he looking for? Affection? Attraction? Infatuation? That either or both of these females have come to want him in some way? Working girls routinely spray intimacies like cheap scent upon complete strangers, yet if anything Xara is discouragingly circumspect in conveying such favours. And as for the mystery client… he was kept literally in the dark as to her reaction towards him.