The Sexopaths

Adam comes to staring at the LED display of their radio alarm. Symmetrically it reads zero-three-three-zero – not a combination he recognises as a time of day. Out of habit he reaches for its sleep button, then realises it isn’t what has woken him. He sits upright, he’s been lying on top of the covers, naked to the waist, jeans still on but unbuttoned. Monique heaves gently beside him, oblivious beneath a great drift of down. Her mobile burns brightly on her nightstand. As he stretches across she stirs, but gives only an appreciative ‘Aha,’ and burrows deeper into her dreams. The display shows a local landline number and the initial ‘J’ – no name. He accepts and answers in a low voice:

  ‘Hello?’

  There’s a pause; maybe the caller was expecting Monique. Then, whispering:

  ‘I fucked your ass.’

  ‘I don’t remember that bit.’

  ‘Yes you do – not tonight – a few weeks ago.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘You’re Xara’s client – the one who’s into bondage.’

  A cold dread shrouds him, as if a chilling autumn haar has crossed the town from Leith’s mean shores and infiltrated the bedroom via windows carelessly left open. What does she mean? Like in a tangled dream, her words only half make sense. He says:

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘It’s okay, babes. No need to act innocent. I shan’t spoil your little secret. Professional code of conduct.’

  ‘Right.’ Amidst his confusion denial seems futile.

  Jasmin – or should he say Sharon? – hums along to a track that’s playing in the background, seemingly in no hurry to speak. After a moment she says:

  ‘I knew when you answered the door. That fat cock inside me was just confirmation. Very nice, babes. But notice I never said anything.’

  ‘It’s, er… nearly four a.m.’

  ‘You mean Monique’s right there.’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘She’s gorgeous.’ She hums again. ‘I was phoning to say thanks for such a cool time. You’re a lovely couple, you know. Beautiful house, lovely little girl, lovely couple. I’ll see you again if you want – I’ll give you a discount – look how long I stayed tonight, hours over. I’ll drop any appointment if you want me – unless it’s an overnight – just call. And you’re okay – you’re alright – but you know, babes, I must be honest – I’m only saying all this because of Monique – she’s gorgeous – she’s the one I want to see – she’s the one I want to fuck. I’ll come again for her – I’m wired, babes.’

  ‘Who is it, my darling?’ Monique stirs.

  He presses the mobile into the duvet. ‘Jasmin… Sharon. She’s right off her face.’ He curses himself for not diverting the call. Now he realises he has no option but to connect the pair. He raises the handset to his ear.

  ‘Hi – Monique’s waking from her beauty sleep – I guess you want to talk to her?’

  ‘You can trust me, babes. You’ve got what I want. Put her on.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Sharon, my darling – we were fast asleep. You wore us out.’

  Adam rolls out of bed and feels his way cautiously to the bathroom. Once inside, the diffuse glow of orange streetlamp neon provides sufficient illumination for him to navigate. He can hear Monique speaking softly to the girl, but it’s not a conversation he wants to sit in on. He listens for a while: there’s an occasional giggle, which suggests Jasmin-Sharon is keeping true to her word. He decides to shower. Stumbling awkwardly into the cubicle he supposes he’s still drunk or drugged. Then the hot spray envelops him, shutting off external stimuli and releasing the questions that queue in his mind. Subconsciously, had he in turn recognised her? (Her smell, her taste, the way she felt?) Is she Ms Y? If so, what does she mean, he’s the client?

  ***

  Adam cautiously slurps hot black coffee and distractedly browses the Sunday newspaper, gradually adding discarded supplements to the ransacked debris of their lounge. Eyes glued to the tv, Camille sits cross-legged on the deconstructed wreckage of the settee, its two main seat cushions and one of the back ones pulled roughly onto the carpet, where after midnight cocaine-induced thrashings had spilled from the kitchen. His dressing gown lies trussed in an inverted bundle, like some prey-animal overlooked by its primitive captors. He retrieves it, on impulse holding the garment to his face to inhale its scent – it wasn’t Xara he’d subliminally recalled last night, was it?

  He’d left the girls locked in frenetic battle, with orders to retrieve Monique’s new rabbit from their bedroom. It was a mission he’d never completed. He vaguely recalls belly-flopping onto the bed – was it out of exhaustion, or more an act of surrender, ceding Monique to Jasmin-Sharon’s superior force of attraction?

  Now Monique appears, she’s wearing her towelling gown. She says, smiling brightly:

  ‘Bonjour Camille.’

  Without looking round, Camille raises a hand and waggles her fingers in acknowledgement.

  ‘Coffee, my darling?’

  ‘I’ve got one, thanks – but I’ll come through.’ He tips his head towards the sofa. ‘Looks like we’ve been burgled, eh?’

  Monique grins and shrugs. It’s not like her to pass a scene of domestic disorder without stooping to tidy. He follows and they settle in the kitchen; each sips quietly for a few moments, listening for echoes of last night. After a minute Adam says:

  ‘Who was on the phone?’

  She hesitates for just an instant, but it’s long enough to telegraph to him that she considered a different answer. ‘Our friend – Sharon.’

  ‘Again?’

  ‘She was apologising for waking us in the early hours.’

  ‘I’m surprised she can remember – you know, it was exactly three-thirty when she rang?’

  Monique nods. At least she doesn’t give the impression that she’s about to drop the cataclysmic bombshell. Perhaps he really can rely on Jasmin-Sharon’s silence? Surely if she were going to make the revelation, it would have been last night while intoxicating substances held sway of her inhibitions. And, indeed, if Monique is trying to keep a lid on anything, it seems more like simmering euphoria than some burning desire to reprimand him. As if in confirmation of his thoughts, she asks tentatively:

  ‘My darling – so what is your verdict upon last night?’

  ‘You looked fantastic.’

  ‘Ah, my darling, thank you… and so did you. I think Sharon fancies you. She told me on the phone you are very big… imagine, from a call girl, quite a compliment!’

  ‘They probably tell all their clients that.’

  ‘Except she is correct.’ She links through his arm and squeezes his hand. ‘It was amazing, yes? That girl – she is crazy!’

  ‘That’s probably because she’s a junkie.’

  ‘My darling, not a junkie.’

  ‘Monique, face it – she’s hooked – you heard what she said. I bet you she did a line of coke before she even got out of her taxi. That’s probably why she’s blown all her cash and lives with her mum.’

  ‘You don’t know that, my darling. I think she’s sweet.’

  He’s touched a nerve; there’s more than just sympathy in her defence of the girl. Right now Monique is still on her cloud, Jasmin-Sharon for company, and she’s not ready to be separated. He says:

  ‘That’s because she’s got the hots for you.’

  Monique giggles, shaking her head. ‘My darling, you were the one who screwed her. Twice!’

  ‘Monique… we agreed what would happen… I was trying to do what I thought you wanted.’

  ‘But you liked it. You were a super-stud.’

  ‘Well then you were off the scale. I think I’ve married a lesbian.’

  Monique’s throaty laugh escapes. ‘I was just doing the things I thought you’d like to see.’

  ‘It came pretty naturally to you.’

  ‘Didn’t you like it, my darling?’

  ‘No. Well… yes. It was erotic – obviously – you two looked pretty amazing. It was hard to believe it was
real.’

  ‘It was our films brought to life, just like I said it would be.’

  ‘Except you won’t convince me that the pair of you were acting.’

  She smiles, fixes him with a stare, sidesteps his charge. ‘Did you like the coke?’

  Adam winces, puts a finger to his lips. ‘Camille…’

  ‘My darling, I doubt she is listening, but I think it is okay to use that word in her presence.’

  He guesses she’s right, within reason. With exaggerated enunciation he says: ‘Coke – okay, so I prefer it to Pepsi.’

  ‘See – I said you would like it!’ There’s a purr of triumph in her voice.

  Recalling the sensation he desires it again. Not the drug for its own sake (or is he already cheating on himself there?), but the bucking ride they took in reproductive union. But coke and the girl… where does that journey lead?

  ‘It was pretty mental.’

  Monique lifts his hand and places it between her thighs. His fingers meet the warm wetness and he feels himself respond accordingly. He leans and kisses her on the lips.

  ‘I love you.’

  ‘I love you, my darling.’

  ‘That stuff must have knocked me out. I didn’t think it was supposed to do that. What time did she leave?’

  ‘About one-thirty.’

  ‘So we got two hours extra, plus complimentary coke. How come you always get the best deal?’

  She laughs and pulls him close. ‘You’re my best deal, my darling.’

  Blog by Anonymous – 4

  OMG! I think I’m in lust. The trouble is she’s happily married – at least it seems that way. I’ve just come off the phone from her and my pants are soaked. Last night I saw them – this new couple. The wife had arranged it as usual, but she sounded cute and she looked good in her photo – and was she fucking gorgeous? OMG!!! FUCK!!! (Sorry, Mr Webmaster!) What the husband’s doing messing around God only knows – but I’ll tell you about that in a minute. This girl – I have to see again – and she wants to see me – we’ve agreed to meet for a drink. I think she’s blown over by sex with a woman. I think she likes me. I think she likes Charlie. She did her duty and tried her best to keep her husband involved, but when he crashed she went absolutely mental. Possessed is the word. It’s not often I come on a job! It’s not often I come more than once! She just wouldn’t let up. I wished I’d taken my double dildo – but I shall next time. The guy – I knew from Sarah’s. He didn’t seem to recognise me – except I could tell when I mentioned Sarah’s name he was praying the ground would swallow him up! More fool him – he can screw Sarah and I’ll screw his missus! Actually he’s good looking and pretty much okay – the sort of safe easy punter you wished they were all like. I phoned them back last night – I was stoned and pissed and God knows what – but I don’t think I said anything I shouldn’t have – at least, the lady in question sounded pleased to hear from me this morning. I liked the way she was whispering. (I’d better not mention their names – you can easily find them on Google – and then my blog might get a super injunction!) Her house is like it’s from one of those tv home-designers’ programmes, and she’s got these amazing clothes – she’s got it all really – some great job or other, beautiful little girl, the perfect couple (?). I look around where I’m lying right now… where did it all go wrong? I could have been there. I was there. Now, Sarah – she’s got it made. Truth is I know where it all went wrong. And what can I do about it? Well… maybe I’ll do it soon. Meanwhile? Live for the present? That’s what they say. Life is too short. See what the day brings? I can’t wait for that drink. I can’t wait to be with that girl. I wonder if I should book an apartment? Oops! – punter phoning – must go…

  CHAPTER 5

  3rd October – Edinburgh, Scotland

  ‘All is ok? Am not hearing from you. XXX.’

  Adam stares at the short message. He’s perplexed – he’s thinking it’s from Jasmin-Sharon: she was top of mind, and the timing is characteristically unsociable. It has lured him at half-past midnight to Monique’s unlit study, across the hallway from his own. This morning he received an invitation to address an audience in Shanghai. He’d finally settled down after dinner determined to draft before dawn a skeleton for approval by his publisher. The requisite online research took him on a journey that led – as all branches of the digital superhighway seem inexorably to do right now – to Angels365. Thus Jasmin-Sharon’s web page graces his laptop.

  He holds his breath and listens. Has the tiny but potent electronic alert penetrated Monique’s dreams? With an early flight to Paris for the AMIE Board meeting, she left him with a kiss and yawning apologies at ten-fifteen. But nothing stirs in the darkened house. Not again, he’d thought, guessing it to be yet another loop in the thread that, with a spider’s persistence, Jasmin-Sharon has been spinning around Monique. To his mild annoyance – though tempered by his curiosity – Monique has done little to discourage her. On Sunday the pair chatted through the entire fifteen-minute drive to Camille’s swimming lesson, and indeterminately afterwards, whilst he was delegated the solitary role of poolside supporter.

  His eavesdropping has led him to conclude that much of their dialogue comprises innocuous girly gossip, for which Monique appears to have an insatiable appetite. He wonders if this is a currency she forfeited some years ago, when she shattered work’s glass-ceiling to land Superwoman-like in a lofty room full of pleasantly startled senior male advertising executives. So, while it’s apparent that Jasmin-Sharon makes the running as far as initiating these contacts is concerned, Monique seems only too happy to receive them.

  Of more practical interest to him are tales of Jasmin-Sharon’s latest trysts with her clients. Monique – equally fascinated, no doubt – is richly rewarded in this regard, in return for her service as newly found confidante. The most salient of revelations, however, is not so much lurid as disquieting: Jasmin-Sharon has offered to discontinue her ‘other threesome’. She has told Monique that she would feel guilty sleeping with this couple. (Adam wonders if she really used the word couple; he suspects woman is more likely.) It was not the news he was hoping to hear.

  Monique, on the other hand, was elated – perhaps confirming his suspicions about the accuracy of her report. That the girl has become fixated upon her is plain. As to why – it could be any combination of love or lust or loneliness, or none of these. Lucre, perhaps? Whichever, it matters little to him. What does concern him is the ominous degree to which Monique appears captivated.

  But should he be surprised? Fast-tracked overnight into the dark sorority, it’s small wonder she’s bewitched. She purrs entranced as she listens to Jasmin-Sharon’s erotic exploits – vicariously inhabiting her world with a capacity that he finds both unsettling and arousing.

  Since Sunday morning they’ve skirted around the subject of arranging a repeat performance with Jasmin-Sharon. That it’s going to happen seems not to be at issue, much as he would wish the matter to slip quietly off the billing. But he senses that Monique is reluctant to raise the question. The first time, she was able to position it as his treat. That she became the star attraction perhaps now demands his explicit permission for the encore. Even so, surreptitious reading of her text messages has revealed a more developed agenda than she admits. Jasmin-Sharon has proposed she bring along a ‘girlfriend’ – so they can have ‘one each’. He has to admit, his pulse raced. A raft of tempting images floated by – until the prospect of his wife and Jasmin-Sharon ‘fucking each other silly’ behind his closed bedroom door came to mind.

  So far as he could see Monique had not responded – at least not by text. Perhaps that is what this new message refers to:

  ‘All is ok? Am not hearing from you. XXX.’

  Slowly at first, then in tandem with a dawning realisation, unpleasant sensations seem to reach from the darkness progressively to attack Adam’s vital organs. A feeling of sickness grips him, and he’s forced to sink into Monique’s easy-chair. The idiosyncratic grammar is
not of Jasmin-Sharon’s making, after all. There’s no ‘J’ (there’s no name at all) and the texter’s number begins with +33… the international dialling code for France.

  For a few moments he sits, wrestling with the information. What kind of dialogue does this fragment represent? And from whom? A European Board member? Surely not a guy? Three kisses? Of course, it must be Simone? But in France it’s past one-thirty a.m. Why send a business-related text at this hour?

  While his mind procrastinates, instinct kicks in. He taps the ‘call’ option. There’s a delay, then the ponderous continental monotone sounds from afar.

  ‘Allo?’

  ‘Who’s speaking?’

  In response to his demand, the recipient hangs up. Adam tiptoes about the twilit ground floor, then calls the number again. This time the phone has been switched off. He replays the echo of the French-accented voice: male, thick with wine or tobacco or sleep, it sounded. Was it someone, like him, working late? Just home from a night out? Or lying in bed? Whichever or none of these… whoever it is is thinking about his wife.

  The ‘Allo?’ was questioning, loaded with caution rather than greeting; someone on their guard? Yet surely he’d have expected Monique – he’d just sent her a text, after all. And then why hang up? Doesn’t that indicate something to hide? Why not simply say ‘Who’s that?’ – if the exchange were inappropriately timed, but innocently made, then that fact would quickly have been established and apologies traded. Instead he switched of the phone.

  Quietly, Adam mounts the stairs and enters the master bedroom. Monique’s choice of curtains exceeds wartime blackout specifications, and he’s obliged to inch his way round the wall to her side of the bed. He can hear steady breathing, and tries to locate its source amidst the flotsam of pillows and crumpled duvet. But now what? She expressly requested not to be disturbed. Her alarm is set for five a.m. and there’s a taxi booked for the airport at a quarter past.

  ‘Monique.’

  She moves, but does not respond.