The Sexopaths

  Adam affects a modest cringe. ‘On both fronts I think we’re talking about my wife.’

  ‘That’s not what the jungle drums say – I mean, not that your wife’s not successful in her field – but you’ve already had two books published? At your tender age.’

  ‘Hey – I’m probably older than you.’

  ‘Flattery will get you everywhere. But we both know you’re not.’

  Adam chuckles. ‘Well, I must discover who’s been giving me all this free PR and buy them a beer.’

  ‘I think you’ll find it’s your good lady. Donal tells me she was singing your praises at the last meeting. They had a big argument about the internet. That’s your thing, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh… yeah, she did say something about that. Though… I’m not a techie or anything clever – I couldn’t read computer language any more than I can read these Greek menus.’

  ‘So what’s your speciality?’

  ‘Well – I always find it hard to put in one word. Here’s the jargon: it’s about developing effective communication strategies for social media. There’s a lot of hype. I think common sense best describes it.’

  ‘Sounds fascinating.’

  ‘Believe me – I’ve bored all round the world on the subject.’

  ‘Maybe there’s a language barrier?’

  ‘Unfortunately they usually have interpreters – you know, the audience wear headsets? – so I can’t use that as an excuse. Did you know studies show that learning declines when the number of words in a sentence exceeds seven?’

  ‘Then you’ll have to find a shorter way of expressing that fact.’

  Again he gives an appreciative laugh. She’s sharp. But he’s conscious of the so-far one-way nature of the conversation. The dour Belgian on his left has been silently leaning in, but Adam is not really sure how much English she speaks. He’s hampered by her brooding presence – it’s hard for him to question the Irishwoman, without feeling like he’s excluding the Belgian from their circle. With what he thinks is an elegant tactic, he slides his chair back so they have mutual eye-contact, and asks:

  ‘So what do you guys do?’

  The two women glance at one another, then – to Adam’s surprise, and mild annoyance – the Belgian speaks first.

  ‘I am a housewife. My husband and I – we have what I think you call a small-holding? A little farm.’

  Adam and the Irishwoman nod vigorously.

  She continues: ‘We have some animals – goats, chickens, a sow – and we grow our own fruit and vegetables. Well sell produce at the market… and flowers, too.’

  ‘That seems idyllic.’ Adam wonders if this is going to be the nature of the conversation for the rest of the evening, in contrast to yet another burst of laughter that erupts from the far end of the table. ‘Where exactly do you live?’

  ‘In the forest, the Ardennes.’

  ‘Do you have any children?’ The Irishwoman.

  ‘We have five – two sets of twins, all girls, and an elder boy, aged seven.’

  ‘No wonder you’re here,’ quips Adam.

  She glowers at him. ‘Frankly, I come to accompany my husband. To see there is no philandering.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Adam thinks something must be lost in translation.

  She’s happy to elaborate. ‘These meetings, these trips abroad… there is temptation for a man away from his home. They dine out like this, consume a lot of alcohol. Sex is inevitable. And, yes – you are correct – I have a short break in a pleasant location.’

  Adam nods empathetically, wondering what on earth to say in response to such candour. He glances along the table. Monsieur Belgium, a short, sallow-skinned, downtrodden-looking kind of guy, is sandwiched, like a reluctant schoolboy pressed to turn out for some special valedictory occasion, between two form mistresses: the Austrian representative, a tall and glamorous pale-skinned presumably peroxide blonde who still sports her elaborate designer sunglasses; and a contrastingly dark Greek woman, apparently a local marketing journalist, who is amply filling a low-cut silver-spangled bodice. The fellow looks perfectly miserable – positively a thorn between two roses – and no surprise to Adam, having now digested the chap’s wife’s bald statement. He notices the Irishwoman, meanwhile, is watching the Belgian woman closely. He contemplates the possibility that she might be a player on this particular stage. Could that be why she attends with her brother on a regular basis? Could the Belgian’s remarks be intended to put her on notice? If so, she’s unfazed, and quick on the draw once more:

  ‘Well I’ve been trying for about a dozen meetings… and I have to say I’ve not managed to click yet.’

  The Belgian woman appears not to detect the murderous Celtic irony in the remark and prefers terrier-fashion to give the bloodied corpse of her own obsession another shake. She leans across Adam, close to him, her dress sagging open to reveal the well-suckled oversized nipples of her small breasts. It makes Adam think of her pig. Her sickly breath invades his airspace. He fights the urge to recoil. In a low voice she hisses:

  ‘It is not just the men. Simone, for instance – she is not so innocent as she seems. Now she has her designs on the President.’

  She makes it sound like there was someone else before. Adam says:

  ‘You really think so?’

  ‘There are signs, if you watch closely. See how they fawn around him.’

  Her leap to the plural stirs the murky waters of an anxiety that he thought had cleared in the aftermath of his whirlpool coupling with Monique. He wishes to cast off the sinister asexual presence of this woman. Her hypothesis that the reconvened crew has drifted beyond the horizon of normal conventions that bind behaviour rekindles the sea-sickness that has troubled him since their arrival. What would it take for Monique to be press-ganged into their midst, vows unwinding? Too much to drink, a broadside of flattery with an intent she might not recognise, her wish to impress, her urge to charm, to please, to reward; thus compliant - a planned ‘chance’ encounter in the half-darkness, a touch of the arm, a trial kiss, sex in sixty seconds.

  ‘Well – you can’t be too judgemental about these things.’ It’s the Irishwoman, throwing in a line and rescuing him from his oppressive thoughts. ‘Everyone gets a bit over-friendly and amorous on occasion, but I reckon most of it’s pretty harmless. You can’t blame people for wanting to let their hair down – it doesn’t mean their underpants have to go south as well.’

  Adam smiles. And he takes strength from her confidently assuaging common sense. She’s right – everyone likes a good time – and although he’s been to plenty of conferences where there was a desire, a will among some, it doesn’t automatically equate to Monique hopping into bed with a newly met colleague. Anyway – she isn’t like that. It’s just that she’s too generous for her own good; those little conversational intimacies that most women keep on a short leash, Monique lets loose like a puppy greeting its eagerly awaited master.

  The Belgian looks like she’s building up to disagree with the Irishwoman, maybe translating into English her intended rebuke, but further relief arrives in the form of the main course, each successive plate laid breaking a link in the chain of chatter around the table, as diners stiffen in turn to receive their meals. Robotically, the Belgian switches her attention to her souvlaki; swiftly and silently she tucks in, perhaps conditioned to snatching meals between endless nursing and nappy-changes, escaping to some inner sanctum where she is deaf to demands and disputes and discarded dummies. Gradually the noise recovers to an eating-level of polite dialogue and appreciative comment. Released from his conversational obligations, Adam takes the opportunity to cast about the table. Some people are trading forkfuls across the glinting landscape of glasses and bottles. He sees Monique offer something from her plate to the French President, then to Simone. He raises his eyebrows at Ignacio who catches his gaze and reciprocates. He counts the heads opposite – thirteen, so there must be twenty-six of them, an almost equal mix of males and females. He wonders who woul
d pair off with whom. Has? Certainly they seem to know one another surprisingly well – they’re more like a group of long-term colleagues from a single company than a disparate and occasional gathering of conference-goers and their disconnected partners. Much of the talk seems considered and ongoing, conveying time-served camaraderie, unlike his polite just-met exchanges with the Irishwoman. In Monique’s section it’s still pretty lively, and now the interposing hubbub has subsided he can snatch soundbytes – until they’re drowned by seemingly inevitable bursts of hilarity. While most shared conversations are conducted in English – and Adam has felt humbled by the ability of these Europeans to switch language to accommodate another person joining in; the versatile Dutch flit from French to German to Flemish and back to English; the Austrians, Germans, Italians, Spanish and Swiss appear almost equally competent; even the French can speak disturbingly good English when they feel so inclined – at the moment Monique’s group are still conversing in French. There’s a subtext to this that troubles him; of course, she can hold her own and more, and he has to admit he’s impressed – with him she employs only the most rudimentary of lexicons; now she sounds as though she never left the shores of Normandy. He listens. She’s making them laugh. He can’t really tell what they’re saying – he picks up something about ‘Les Anglais’ – but mainly it’s too fast and probably too colloquial. Her exaggerated laughter flows freely, too; he winces each time it’s borne to him on the warm breeze.

  While he can’t quite see Monique, opposite her the French President and Secretary Simone are clearly in view. They laugh and smile and nod, but every so often he notices one or the other of them retires from the conversation, their mind diverted as they study Monique across the table. She’s new, of course, making her mark. And they’re curious to discover what she is about. There’s an unspoken protocol – they all, including Monique, understand she’s striving to integrate, ingratiate, to be someone they’ll like to have around them, a positive addition to the Board, professionally and socially, no threat to their status; her fitness for purpose – it’s a kind of interview and screen test rolled into one. Adam knows it’s easy for her – much easier than she appreciates. Especially now champagne and chardonnay have sluiced away the irrational self-doubt that most people wouldn’t perceive, her initial reticence transformed with innocent aplomb. Now he senses her growing comfort as the group’s centre of gravity slowly shifts in her favour, and with it the subtle balance of power.

  Secretary Simone observes her with a certain feline detachment. He wonders – does she see Monique as a competitor? Not in the job stakes – of course – but there’s no question in his mind that Monique is the most attractive woman in the group, perhaps on the island. Quickly tanned, bright-eyed, alluringly blonde, she exudes charm, energy, let’s face it… sex appeal. If – as Madame Belgium claims – Simone has her designs on Monsieur le President, maybe she sees Monique as an unwelcome interloper, if only upon the catwalk. Suddenly she catches him watching her watching Monique. He grins a little sheepishly, makes a chatterbox sign with his fingers and thumb and then holds his hands up apologetically, as if to say: ‘Yes – she talks a lot – what can one do?!’ She returns his smile, a touch forced, he senses – he averts his eyes and feels he can’t now keep staring in that direction.

  ***

  For Adam, the night stumbles on. Eventually the last plates are cleared, but the gathering shows no sign of breaking up; Metaxa is called for, cigars are brandished by some, more people than he would have guessed smoke cigarettes, even the Irishwoman indulges. He is tired, over-tired, weighed down by a creeping fatigue, drained of his day’s supply of adrenaline and dulled by alcohol. He checks his watch – they’d told the girl they’d be back around midnight – it’s now ten past two; he’s reminded that Camille will probably wake in four or five hours and he’s the nanny. They’re still going strong at Monique’s end of the table, like a lock-in in the engine room of a ferry-boat, the crew sidetracked in a drunken card-game, oblivious to their course, the vessel sliding past the imploring lights of the port and steaming instead for the dawn horizon, drowsy commuters on deck resigned to this familiar fate. But Adam decides he’s had enough. He excuses himself and rounds his end of the table, slowing as he passes Ignacio and placing a hand momentarily on his shoulder. Ignacio recognises the goodnight sign and, mid conversation, raises a hand. He likes the Spaniard; in common with his compatriots the fire that burns in his eyes is of honesty and honour. Adam moves on – he has selected this circuitous route to Monique to give her time to see him coming. As he nears, once more he senses the aura of subtle hostility that emanates from those around, just perceptible, a collective body language that declines to acknowledge his approach. But Monique thwarts them – she reaches out for his hand. He leans down to her and says:

  ‘Do you think we ought to go back for the babysitter? She’s probably working on reception first thing in the morning.’

  ‘Maybe – but it is a shame to leave so early.’

  He sees the reluctance in her expression, wonders if she’s irked by his intrusion.

  ‘Monique, it’s already two o’clock. Look – I can just go – remember I have to get up with Camille in the morning – like, soon.’

  Monique is about to reply, then pauses and checks her wristwatch with mildly ostentatious incredulity; he senses it’s for the benefit of onlookers. She says:

  ‘Yes – okay – you are right, my darling – and I should not be fatigued for the final judging. We shall go together.’

  She rises and speaks quickly in French to her near neighbours – explaining about the babysitter – they protest but they can see she has made up her mind. Monique turns to kiss goodnight the Dutchman beside her – he stands and then stoops and sways to receive her au revoir. Monique then leans to the next person, and then hops to the next, as if realising she can’t kiss one and ignore another. Soon, to general amusement, she is committed to lapping the table – receiving a stiff response from the Belgian woman, a few words of congratulation (no doubt about Camille) from the smiling Irishwoman, a friendly hug from Ignacio. Adam stands rooted and invisible – he’s amazed by Monique’s nerve, to be able to do this among a crowd of erstwhile strangers – he’d find it entirely inappropriate to perform the same ostentatious farewell, drunk or not, or even to round the table merely shaking hands; many of these folk he hasn’t even spoken with. Slowly Monique nears the end of the home straight, melting as she kisses Secretary Simone into an ostentatiously wriggling embrace, eyes closed, a schoolgirl-like move that is unselfconsciously reciprocated, prompting – Adam is certain – a collective drawing of breath from those close by. Flimsy dresses seem momentarily to fall away. Monique spins dizzily from this clinch into the steadying arms of the French President who, Adam notes, already standing to receive her, places one hand – that most visible to him – upon her upper arm, while the other snakes low out of sight, perhaps around her buttock. But it’s a short moment, with none of the uninhibited body contact just exhibited. Then at last it’s over; indeed there’s a sense that the show’s over. Adam detects some relief about the table – the circle has been broken and others, too, will be free to leave. He and Monique back away, now holding hands, he nodding his farewells, firing short salvos of eye-contact to those who’ll accept, though he feels most attention follows Monique.

  He pulls her gently but firmly round and they climb the steps, enter the darkness beyond the archway; at reception the lights have been dimmed, the porter has turned in, the wind has dropped. Adam lifts his head and basks in the rays of the night: from afar a Scops owl, an invisible sentinel, sends out its penetrating submarine-like ping, regular, echoing, the beat to which other night creatures play their melodies; an insect orchestra, a cacophony of crickets, everywhere and nowhere; moths and mosquitoes, out in force, fluttering, brushing his face, eyelashes, fleeing perhaps their squeaking nemesis whose tiny note tracks about the stilled air of the courtyard, their inevitable death squeals inaudible to a
ll but bat.

  Silent by his side, Monique is close, in step, perhaps enjoying the respite, maybe possessed by some engrossing thought that is able now to grow and fill the vacuum left by their departure from the crowd. Nevertheless, Adam heaves an inward sigh of relief: she’s all his again. He’s able now to reinstate this belief. It’s his sticky reminder she can feel in her underwear, his taste on her lips; those other guys might wish to snare her, but hadn’t he stood there, magnanimous, confident, allowing her to flit from one to the next, knowing she would return home on his arm alone? He hopes he appeared thus, the discomfort he felt hidden from watchful spies. They pass the apartment where they’d coupled, and he pictures her emerging from such shadows, adjusting her g-string, returning with just a hint of awkwardness to the dining table, flashing him a reassuring smile, one other chair nearby still waiting for its occupant.

  They reach their front door. As he digs in his pocket for the key, in the flickering downlight he sees shadows cast by her nipples, erect beneath the fabric of her bra and dress. He says:

  ‘You look… very nice.’

  ‘Thank you, my darling. So do you.’

  They creep inside – for a second or two they both must share the same shocking jolt of unreality that had gripped Adam in the boutique: the room is empty. Monique skims with supernatural speed to the dividing door. Then he sees the tension in her body drain away. She turns and beckons to him. Inside the bedroom Camille slumbers peacefully; beyond her the girl is curled up on a sofa, wrapped in a quilted blanket, snoring gently. Adam notices her clothes folded in a neat pile on the tiled floor beside her, everything except the brilliant white briefs. He whispers:

  ‘I guess we leave her.’

  ‘I think so my darling.’

  They retreat, turn out the lights, tumble beneath the single topsheet. Monique reaches an arm around Adam, settling sideways against him. She says, in an already-sleepy voice, husky and low: