The Sexopaths

  Adam nods thoughtfully. He guesses from her statement that she’s not a parent herself.

  ‘Anyway – she seems to be having a fine time. It’s good that you could bring her on a break like this – and that you’ve got the patience to look after her.’

  Adam smiles. ‘I might have to take issue with the word break – what with making sure she stays afloat in the pool, doesn’t fall off the wall round the hotel, and then answering a question every ten seconds… but I suppose it’s a break from work.’

  ‘Did you not think about leaving her with relatives?’

  ‘It’s difficult – they all live a long way from us – Monique’s are in France. Actually we have a woman at Camille’s nursery – she was her nanny beforehand. Camille loves her, and she’s familiar with our house – so she’s normally our best bet – although we had decided anyway to bring Camille here. It’s surprisingly hard to leave them behind at her age – you feel if she were ill or something she’d really need us – and it would be terrible not to be able to get to her quickly. And even the knowledge that she’s missing you can take the gloss off a trip.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re absolutely right. Where is she just now?’

  ‘We’ve got a babysitter in the room – the girl from reception. I think she’s part of the family that runs this place.’

  ‘That’s a sensible idea. Peace of mind.’

  Adam glances at his watch. ‘Yes – actually – if you’ll excuse me – we said we’d check her every forty-five minutes or so – in case she’s playing up. It’s past my shift – I’ll just be a jiffy – they don’t seem to be in a great hurry with the food.’

  He rises and makes his way along the line of diners. He feels drawn to Monique, and wants to break into her little circle. He’s more confident now, loosened by the alcohol, displaying parity in his designer apparel. As he approaches he gathers they’re engrossed in animated French conversation. The Dutchman is telling a story, his upper body turned towards Monique, one hand lightly on her bare shoulder as he shares the tale with the quartet; Monique is laughing, sparkling, rewarding him with surely undeserved adulation. Adam pulls up on her other side, at the end of the long trestle. He bends and whispers:

  ‘I thought I’d go and see if Camille’s okay – you know how she can be with strangers – wrapping them round her little finger.’

  ‘Sure, my darling.’

  She seems only to have half an ear for his words – she turns back to the group – but then translates, her words partially unfamiliar. He wonders if he should have made the announcement aloud – but they’d continued their dialogue as he’d approached, admitting no interlopers. They chuckle at Monique’s interpretation, and as Adam passes above the French President he catches Adam’s eye and, still smiling, raises a faint but knowing eyebrow. As he steps away into the darkness beyond the fairylit awning, there’s another burst of laughter, and he’s sure they’re continuing to refer to him. Reaching the illuminated stone staircase leading from the pool and restaurant he slowly mounts, translating ponderously, but effectively enough – he realises Monique said he was going to check up on not the baby, but the babysitter. He rounds the top of the second angled flight and ducks under a bougainvillea-clad portico into a dark courtyard – exchanging the lively conversation for the hiss of cicadas, white noise that is black.

  For a moment he hesitates, disoriented, his balance unsteady – he’s more drunk than he’d appreciated – but his eyes adjust to the gloom and he strides out towards the corner of the main building, which is now gaining form. He crosses the small paved square in front of the hotel reception, and quickly covers the seventy-five yards or so of the rising driveway. On his right is a high enclosing wall of weathered limestone, to his left a short series of whitewashed igloo-like creations, each with its own mini front garden and path of stepping stones, quaint detached residences embedded into the receding contours to give spectacular views across the terraces, gardens and sea beyond. There’s access front and rear – before leaving he’d checked meticulously that the door to their sun-deck was firmly bolted, and all windows secure. The girl had arrived on time – in fact he’d been pulling on his shirt and Monique had marshalled her past him into Camille’s room, suggesting a game of matching picture cards in order to get acquainted – and that was how they’d left the pair of them safely locked away.

  He arrives and taps lightly three times with the tip of the key. He pauses for a couple of seconds before letting himself in. The door admits into a short hallway with the bathroom on the right, open wardrobes and shelves on the left; beyond is the spacious main room – dominated on the right by their king-sized bed, which faces mirrored vanity units and an offset wall-mounted tv. It’s playing quietly on a music channel. The Greek girl is lying on the bed, stretching her arms above her head; he thinks she’s probably just stirred from dozing. Her hair is a little dishevelled and her already-short skirt has rucked up high on her smooth russet thighs. In a contrast emphasized by her neat pink-painted toenails, her feet and legs seem shockingly naked. Drawn by these shapely lines to their point of convergence he catches a glimpse of the white satiny band of her narrow briefs. She seems unaware, or unperturbed, but he averts his eyes before she might feel ogled.

  ‘Sorry - I just came to check Camille.’ He says this apologetically, and indicates in the direction of her bedroom.

  The girl smiles and nods. ‘Sure. She is very good. She sleep now.’

  He creeps through the thick dark heat; the suite lacks air-conditioning. Camille’s regular breathing instantly tells him all is well. He’s half expecting the girl to follow him, in the proprietorial manner of a regular babysitter, to make sure the ham-fisted parent doesn’t undo her hard-won handiwork, or at least to demonstrate her proficiency with a sweeping gesture of the arm towards her sleeping charge; but she remains behind in silence. Adam leans over the cot that the hotel has installed (much to Camille’s exaggerated chagrin – and probable secret regressive pleasure). He strokes her hair, repositions her soft-toy and drapes her slumbering form with the light topsheet she’s kicked off. He backs out and quietly closes the door.

  The Greek girl is still prone. She has tidied the strands of hair from her face – she must be able to see her reflection – but not the skirt. He’d been struck how facially attractive she was when he first glimpsed her at reception – the full Loren-like lips, prominent cheekbones, pale penetrating eyes framed by characteristic sunstreaked Hellenic blonde-yet-unblonde shoulder-length tresses – but now her animal form eclipses such attributes: set free from its daytime enclosure of the chest-high counter and crisp censorial uniform staff blouse, its twin breasts spill, off duty, into an accommodating, revealing vest-top, narrow shoulder straps intertwining with the gossamer counterparts of her bra, accentuating the smooth curves of her shoulders with g-string-like mimicry of … well. Distractedly, Adam parts the curtains that shield the balcony door, and rattles the handle.

  ‘I am a prisoner, yes?’

  He swivels round. She’s laughing. Once more she stretches, this time he feels more brazenly as if to offer her wrists to be handcuffed to the bedstead above her head.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘It is safe. Your baby girl is safe. This island – it is very good. No problems.’

  ‘Oh… yeah. Sorry. Yes, I think so. Very nice people here. Thank you.’

  ‘You are welcome. And how is your meal? Is good?’

  ‘Great. Just how I like it.’ He pauses, wondering how to say the service is really slow and make it sound like the compliment he intends. ‘You have a top chef.’

  ‘Thank you. My uncle. I tell him.’

  ‘Look…’ He realises he doesn’t know her name. Now it feels too late to ask. Monique had made all the arrangements. ‘Have you had a drink?’

  The girl shakes her head and raises her palms as if about to protest.

  ‘You should just help yourself – I meant to say earlier, but we were a bit late for the reception. Sorry
. Let me get you something from the mini-bar. A coke, maybe?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He fishes out a chilled bottle from the refrigerated unit situated beneath the tv.

  ‘Something to go with it?’

  He refrains from saying ‘You look old enough.’ How old is she? Eighteen? Twenty-eight? He has no idea.

  ‘Sure. JD. Just a little coke.’

  She knows what she wants. And what’s available – but of course she would. Adam mixes the drink and takes it across to her.

  ‘Will you join me?’

  ‘I should go back in a moment.’

  But it would be impolite to decline her request. She settles herself approvingly and waits while he fixes his own drink. He opts without much deliberation for a vodka; watches the clear cold liquid into a tall glass and bombards it with a skim of remnant floe ice from their bucket. He wonders if she can tell his hands are shaking. Recumbent against the oversized but fashionably decorative bed-cushions, she observes him with what he detects is a mixture of faint amusement and contentment. She’s at once still and yet in motion; there’s a continuous, sinuous, slowly caressing serpentine wave that travels almost imperceptibly through her limbs until it finds its way out at her fingertips and toes, by which time another undulation has begun to follow the same mesmeric path. Adam weighs up the easy-chair angled towards the tv, but finds he is drawn instead to sink side-saddle, half-way down the bed, facing her.

  ‘Well – I’m hopeless at Greek, but I do know yasou.’ He leans forward and offers his glass.

  ‘Yasou.’

  The girl reciprocates his movement, reaching with her right hand, bending at her narrow waist. As she does so her left knee rises up and her legs part slightly, the mini-skirt now more or less redundant. Adam keeps his focus upon making sure the two glasses collide safely, but bang in his line of sight lie her exposed inner thighs. Where a minute or two earlier, amidst the forbidden shadows of her groin, her white briefs flashed an invitation to treat, no longer is there a subtly veiled advertisement. Just a neatly trimmed ‘V’ of honey-blonde pubic hair. For a moment he’s transfixed. The girl calmly drains her glass, then, keeping her eyes on him, places it with a deliberate tap on the bedside table. From inside the temporary sanctuary of the rim of his own glass, he obediently meets her pale green, now quizzically inquiring gaze.

  ‘Nice?’

  ***

  The front door amplifies the sudden sharp almost-rude double-rap and Adam finds himself answering it with the empty glass in his hand. He takes longer than is necessary with the catch and there comes another knock followed by Monique’s voice.

  ‘Adam? Ad…’

  ‘Sorry, it’s a bit stiff.’ He senses the slur in his speech. He steps back to admit her.

  ‘Is Camille okay? You were taking a while… I was worried.’ She looks pointedly at the glass.

  ‘She’s fine. She’s fast asleep. I was just getting a drink for…’ By now she has backed him into the main part of the room and he gestures towards the girl. She’s sitting demurely in the easy-chair, knees pressed together, hands clasped on her lap. There’s no trace of her drink and the top-cover of the bed is stretched taut. She hops to her feet and stands obediently to attention for Monique.

  ‘Come. See.’ She leads the trio into Camille’s room, Adam dutifully bringing up the rear, where they all crowd round the cot. Now she whispers: ‘Very good girl. She tell me when she is tired. She go to sleep herself. She is very clever. And so beautiful.’

  They retreat in silence. Adam can tell Monique is won over by the praise. She says:

  ‘Thank you Elena.’ (Elena – of course.) ‘Make yourself comfortable and help yourself to anything you need. Are you hungry? There are crisps and chocolate in the mini-bar. Cola, lemonade.’

  ‘I am okay, thank you.’

  ‘We have to go back – they are about to serve. If there is any problem with Camille, why don’t you phone the restaurant and somebody can fetch us. We should not be too late.’

  ‘Sure – is no problem. Enjoy your meal.’

  ‘Eh bien, mon cheri. On y va.’ Monique takes Adam by the hand and draws him towards the door. He wonders if the French is for his ears only.

  ‘Night… Elena.’

  ‘We shall not disturb you again. Thank you, Elena.’

  ‘You are welcome.’

  ‘She is a nice kid,’ says Monique after they’ve closed the front door and begun to walk back down the driveway.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Attractive, too?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘What do you mean, you suppose so?’

  ‘Well… not as attractive as you.’

  ‘Good answer, my darling. But not quite good enough.’ She lets go of his hand and instead pulls him sideways by his neck for a kiss. This becomes prolonged and they end up facing one another in an embrace. Over Monique’s shoulder Adam notices there’s a uniformed porter on duty outside the hotel reception, standing sentry beneath an uplighter, seemingly untroubled by a succession of kamikaze moths that make repeated sorties around his head. Does he look this way? It’s hard to tell, there’s only shadow beneath the sharp peak of his cap. But so what? Holding Monique firmly he tangos her ballroom style into the enveloping black ink that pools beneath the tall foliage cloaking their neighbouring apartment. The path jinks around the side of the small building. They halt. Immediately his hands are running over her curved surfaces, raised nipples, imparting an urgency that prompts her to reciprocate.

  ‘Mmm. Bad boy. You carry a gun.’

  He spins her round one-hundred-and-eighty degrees and in a single smooth upward then downward movement hoists her dress and lowers her panties. She places her palms flat against the wall to brace herself, curves her back, and on tiptoes tilts her hips, stiletto heels straining to leave the ground. She grunts as she receives him and rocks in time with his rapidly quickening rhythm. She calls out again as he comes, more loudly, making no attempt to stifle the cry, primeval satisfaction that has been signalled into the night down throughout the centuries. Then quickly she detaches herself, turns and kneels to suck him for a moment or two.

  ‘Bad boy.’ She stands, simultaneously drawing up her briefs, then kisses him, hands at her hips, simultaneously wriggling to straighten the undergarment. ‘I love you.’

  ‘I love you, too, bad girl. What about a tissue?’

  ‘You are so practical,’ she purrs amusedly. ‘It’s okay – I have tampons in my bag. I shall go to the bathroom beside the restaurant.’

  They gather themselves and step out into the lamplit driveway, arms around waists, their individual inebriated surges largely cancelling one another out. They’ve been missing from the driveway for barely a minute, an interval so improbably short that they feel able guiltlessly to saunter past the bellhop, greeting his inquisitive glance with Greek hellos, surreptitiously pinching mutually.

  ‘I think you were a little titivated by our pretty babysitter.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ He gives her another nip.

  ‘She is very beautiful.’

  ‘I only fancy you.’

  ‘Another good answer. But you must admit she is nice. I saw her looking at you at reception. I think she has eyes for you. Sexy eyes.’

  ‘Leave off – you sound like you fancy her.’

  Monique giggles. ‘I’m just testing you.’

  But the giggle develops into a laugh, and there’s something in her undertone that jerks at his memory: it was there too in that scream of abandon, the voice of the alter ego, the bright chameleon that so adeptly merged into the darkness, quick and willing to serve the moment.

  ‘Moni, how sober are you?

  ‘Enough to know what I am saying! Et tu, mon cheri?’

  ‘Pretty pissed, probably. I just had this hallucination that I had sex with a beautiful stranger.’

  This time she gives him a bump of the hip. They’re almost there, carefully watching their step as they descend poolside. The n
oise level is still boisterous and the crowd at Monique’s end of the table make some friendly teasing comments and jeers, a mixture of English and French. ‘Elle se trouve!’ ‘It is not bedtime!’ Adam wonders if they’re aware he speaks enough French to understand at least some of what passes. But he accepts the mickey-taking with mock innocence, happy to be a minor centre of attention at last. He releases Monique to them as though at the end of their dance, fingertips last to separate, arms at full stretch. The tall Dutchman hops to his feet and with a flourish pulls out Monique’s seat, while Adam sees that the French guy, the President, reclining casually, red wine in hand, a languid observer of their approach, has his other arm across the back of Secretary Simone’s chair, into which she has relaxed with apparent comfort. He returns to his place.

  ‘How is she?’ The Irishwoman sounds a little concerned.

  ‘Oh she’s fine. Sleeping like a baby.’ As he bends to sit, Adam notices there’s a dark stain on the paler fabric of his trousers and flicks his napkin across the offending area.

  ‘We were wondering, since you were gone a wee while.’

  ‘Have I missed much?’

  ‘Not any food, to be sure.’

  At this remark of the Irishwoman’s, the Franco-Belgian woman gives a nasal snort. Adam is not sure if it’s in supportive complaint or indignant contradiction. He says:

  ‘It has its compensations, Greek service.’

  ‘Are you regulars out here?’

  ‘A few holidays down the years – Corfu, Peloponnese, Athens. Neither of us has worked in Greece before.’

  ‘You don’t work together, do you?’

  ‘No – no, not really – not at all, I suppose. Just occasionally our firms might both find themselves on different aspects of a project for a large client – so we can end up in the same meetings. That’s how we first met, a client bash – in Dublin, actually. What a great place.’

  She declines the opportunity to deviate from her present tack. ‘I hear you’re a bit of star in your line – must be where the wee one gets her creative sparkle from.’