The Sexopaths

  ‘Monique.’ He reaches and shakes her gently. ‘Monique.’

  ‘Aha.’ Her subdued response lacks any note of inquiry. It sounds more like an acknowledgement from within a dream, believing it’s just him coming to bed.

  ‘You’ve had a text. From some foreign guy.’

  Does he feel an infinitesimal stiffening beneath his palm? He says:

  ‘Monique, what’s going on?’

  Now she replies, in barely a whisper. ‘Come to bed, my darling. I need to sleep.’

  ‘Why is someone texting you in the middle of the night?’

  Her breathing slows, as if her consciousness ebbs.

  Adam persists: ‘Monique?’

  She inhales, as if summoning up the last vestiges of her strength to haul an answer from sleep’s deep well. ‘I had to send some data before the Board meeting. It never came through in time. They are probably chasing it. Come to bed. You are waking me.’

  He relaxes his grip of her shoulder. The explanation seems too specific to have been fashioned in her drowsy state. Despite the obvious facts – the timing of the text and the throaty male voice of its sender – his misgivings are allayed, for the moment at least. He rises and tidies the coverlet in an act of partial contrition. He whispers:

  ‘Sorry. I thought it might have been important.’

  She doesn’t respond, but burrows deeper into the duvet. Then there’s a sleepy ‘Mmm,’ perhaps a delayed agreement. He undresses and slips in beside her. Already her breathing has recovered its slow rhythm. He edges closer. She’s facing away from him, a smooth concoction of cool silk and hot flesh. He curls himself against her body and snakes a tentative arm around her waist. She doesn’t stir.

  ***

  ‘So, do you want sex?’

  Her words slide easily from between the curves of a smile; but in the pale eyes a wounded subservience belies her confidence. He’s the client; he might want sex.

  ‘I want to talk with you.’ He notices he’s answered a different question.

  They embrace – it feels a necessary formality before he admits her across the narrow threshold, but once in her arms he’s drawn to linger. He yields to the gentle thrust of her body, and has a sudden yearning to suffocate amidst the fur and the heady perfume with all its licentious associations. The same scent still clung this morning to his bathrobe, a reminder he’s loath to purge.

  ‘I might be offended.’

  She presses forwards just a touch, enough to engage their hip bones, and he returns the pressure. Then she laughs, a nervous cackle, and steps past him into the motel room.

  ‘No need to be – you’re very attractive.’

  He wonders if she can sense he doesn’t actually find her all that attractive. He accepts her coat, casts about for somewhere to drape it, finds a crooked hook on the back of the door; it may not take the strain, but he chances it. He says:

  ‘Feel free to smoke. It’s not as though I’m sleeping here. I’ll get you a drink.’ He holds up a screw-capped bottle of Chardonnay, its label damp with condensation. ‘From the corner store.’

  As if out of habit – or perhaps because the only alternative is an upholstered stool beneath the vanity unit – Jasmin-Sharon hops onto the double bed. She arranges the meagre polyester pillows for a modicum of comfort. Today she’s wearing plain stretch-denim jeans (off-duty attire, he wonders?) and her customary four-inch heels, these pink. Her top is a tight matching woollen cardigan with a plunging neckline that reveals a black-and-pink half-cut bra and a good deal of her breasts. She rummages in her bag – this one courtesy of a different designer – and extracts cigarettes and a lighter.

  ‘For you?’

  ‘No thanks. I don’t smoke.’

  ‘You don’t take drugs, either, do you?’

  ‘I guess I’m easily led.’

  ‘Me too – that’s my trouble.’

  There’s a tremor in her voice and he wonders how she’s feeling. Nervous? Or maybe en route she visited her bag in the ladies’ washroom?

  ‘Sorry about the ropey surroundings.’

  He hands her a plastic tumbler filled with the white wine, then takes one himself and leans back against the windowsill.

  ‘It’s okay. It’s anonymous – pay for the room up-front and clear out when you’re done. I work here most weeks. I was here yesterday. He was a well-off punter, too – like you.’

  Adam visualises her on all fours, a business-suited male, standing, flies asunder, impaling her, possibly right here, in this room, she on this bed, in front of this conveniently placed mirror. He reaches into his back pocket. ‘Sorry – I meant to give you this straight away. Thanks for coming, anyway.’

  ‘You’re paying, why shouldn’t I?’

  She shrugs, accepts the crisp fold of notes, fresh from the cash dispenser in the foyer. Adam had mused at how much of its output went straight into the transient clutches of girls like Jasmin-Sharon, thence laundered through designer stores and designer-clad dealers.

  ‘Thank you.’ Making no attempt to check the amount, she pushes the money into her handbag. ‘I would have met you for a coffee, you know – FOC? That’s why I asked… coming here, you paying me… I thought you might really want to have sex.’

  ‘I feel better this way. Your time is money.’ Again he notices he doesn’t negate the idea. She’d do it. But would she tell Monique? And will she tell her about this meeting?

  ‘Well – at least you know I’m not a clock-watcher.’

  ‘At least you know I’m not some psycho.’

  ‘I don’t actually… but I do trust you, babes.’

  ‘So who don’t you trust?’

  ‘Oh – most of the time, punters are fine, like I said the other night. What I won’t do is go to a private address unless I’m absolutely sure – even at your place I was worried when it wasn’t Monique that answered the door.’

  ‘Sorry to disappoint you.’

  ‘I don’t mean that – you’re okay, you’re nice looking – but I’m talking about what’s waiting inside.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Punter books an outcall – you go to the flat (it’s never going to be a house) – he’s all smiles… then you find his mates waiting and it’s too late to get out.’

  ‘Does that happen?’

  ‘Of course – a few lads get back from clubbing, off their heads, didn’t score with the girls, get the bright idea to pool their cash and hire a hooker.’

  ‘So what do you do?’

  ‘Now? I stick to hotels.’

  ‘You mean you didn’t?’

  ‘Just the once – I learned my lesson.’

  She takes a draw on her cigarette, exhales, and ruefully watches the smoke rising. Adam realises he’s going to reek of the stuff and will have to remember to change later. He wonders if the memory is too painful, but she continues, quite matter-of-factly:

  ‘Can’t recall how many there were, gang-banged me, fucked me in the ass, the mouth, roasted me, three on one… came in my hair… you name it.’

  ‘Jesus, Sharon…’ He feels compelled to use her real name.

  She shrugs a cliché in his direction. ‘You live and learn.’

  ‘I know, but… did you call the police?’

  She gives him an old-fashioned look. ‘A call girl complaining about being screwed?’

  ‘Oh… duh.’

  ‘Anyway, I wasn’t really hurt – just pissed off that I never got paid what I deserved. These days I have a kind of sixth sense.’

  ‘I admire your guts.’

  He takes a sip of wine to create a respectable pause, then asks:

  ‘What does your sixth sense tell you about me?’

  ‘You’re pretty straight. A regular guy.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound much of a compliment.’

  She blows a stream of smoke invitingly towards him and pats the bed, indicating he should join her. Carrying his tumbler he gingerly apes her reclined pose, leaving a small gap between them on the unforgiving
divan. She surveys him via the wall-mounted mirror beyond their feet.

  ‘It is. Despite the fact you screw working girls behind your wife’s back. But I’d be out of a job without regular guys like you.’

  ‘Wait a minute – this business with Xara – it’s not what you think.’

  ‘They all say that.’ She says it with generosity.

  ‘Look – I love Monique – I’m mad about her – I couldn’t live without her.’

  ‘That, too.’

  ‘Listen – honestly, this is what I want to talk to you about. Xara told me you were the client.’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘Honestly.’

  He puts down his wine on the bedside cabinet so he can appeal with his hands, and turns to face her. Slowly she reciprocates, as if engaging with him too soon will deprive her of valuable thinking time. As her slow gaze falls first upon his imploring fingers, he says:

  ‘She said she’d got this female client who wanted to experience a threesome with her and a guy, and that I fitted the bill. She told me I wasn’t to see the woman’s face, or to talk to her, and just do as directed. Try not to come… until I got the red light, so to speak.’

  At this a fleeting smile creases her sealed lips; her features otherwise ghoulishly implacable. In the low sunlight that slants weakly through the grimy glass she looks old. He understands her reluctance to swallow his story. Naturally she thinks he’s trying to win her silence in relation to Monique – of course she’d be sceptical. But would he invent some improbable explanation that she could easily cross-check with Xara?

  She seems to be playing eeny-meeny-miny-mo with the cigarette; then she says:

  ‘Did you pay?’

  Now he detects only curiosity in her tone, as if she has accepted his account. He says:

  ‘Kind of the opposite. I was to consider the experience as payment in kind.’

  She grins, licks irony onto lipstick. He wonders if she’s wishing to say more than she reveals. He asks:

  ‘What did she tell you about me?’

  ‘That you’re a punter. You’re into bondage, blindfolds, stranger-sex.’

  ‘And you were the stranger.’ He dares to pat her thigh. ‘Since I’m supposed to be the punter… does that mean you got paid?’

  She considers awhile. ‘About the same deal as yours.’

  He nods. ‘You know – you two were pretty amazing. Totally fucking amazing, actually. I did wonder how she – I mean you – Ms Y, Xara called her – could be so switched on to the whole thing.’

  ‘I told you, we were screwing each other’s brains out. That wasn’t acting.’

  ‘It’s been driving me crazy trying to work out who Ms Y is. Who would want to hide their identity. I’ve been imagining cover girls, celebrities… colleagues!’

  ‘Sorry to burst your bubble, babes.’

  ‘I even considered the idea of it being Monique.’

  He realises he’s missed the chance to gainsay her modesty. He affects preoccupation. He says:

  ‘The thing is, I don’t get it.’ He shakes his head slowly. ‘Okay – Xara playing make-believe that you’re her client, to trick me into coming along, I can buy that… but why did she tell you I was the client? Why not let you in on the plan?’

  Jasmin-Sharon gestures indifferently, distancing cigarette from wine. The conundrum doesn’t appear to trouble her greatly. She says:

  ‘Maybe it was meant to be a surprise.’

  ‘For you? But still she never told you. Until a minute ago you thought I was the client. How long is it since you two split up?’

  She stares vaguely at the ceiling. He senses she doesn’t want to give a categorical answer. Eventually she says:

  ‘I went back to my mum’s last month, I can’t really remember what the date was.’

  ‘Well – anyway – the point is she had plenty of time to tell you, and didn’t.’

  ‘Xara moves in mysterious ways.’ She sounds accustomed to such ways.

  ‘So, what about last time – just you and me on the bed – what was that all about?’

  Like the scudding shadow of a passing cloud, confusion momentarily crosses her features. She looks away, takes a slow drink and opts to meet his gaze through the filtering medium of the mirror. After some deliberation, she says:

  ‘I can’t really tell you everything…’

  A mobile rings and curtails her reply, if there were to be more. Her handbag is beside her on the bed. She pulls out a phone – it’s the wrong one. She delves again, and produces another. She squints at the display, hesitates for a second and then diverts the call. Methodically she switches off both phones, finds a third and – checking its display – leaves it active and returns the trio to the bag’s capacious depths. Adam, intrigued by the mini-arsenal, says:

  ‘Why do you have so many?’

  ‘I’m on other websites.’

  He inclines his head to signal his understanding. He says, with exaggerated levity in his voice:

  ‘If that had been Monique, would you have put me on the line?’

  She looks at him; there’s a stern glaze to her eyes. ‘Like I told you – client confidentiality is paramount.’

  It sounds to Adam like a recital from a training manual.

  ‘So this conversation goes no further?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And anything between you and Monique?’

  ‘Stays there.’

  ‘Fair enough, I suppose.’

  ‘I’ve got my standards.’

  There’s a note of pathos in her tone that educes his sympathy. She’s like a long-suffering animal, one day maltreated and the next cherished, at once reluctant and hopeful, willing to be coaxed cringing from its den by a few kindly morsels, yet always expecting the sharp crack of a stick. He can imagine how Monique would naturally draw her out, befriend her, and inadvertently imprint herself upon the girl as lover-mother. But not he; his gender and her cruel experience preclude such trust.

  He asks:

  ‘So without breaking any confidences, what do you think Xara is up to?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

  ‘But you were her… partner. You must know her better than most people. Is she doing it for the entertainment – for the… sex?’

  ‘With you!’

  ‘Oh… I didn’t mean…’

  She holds the cigarette between her lips and touches his hand. ‘Only joking, babes. You did okay.’ Now she narrows her eyes, turns her head to one side, but the smoke follows in the wake of her cheek. ‘You and I – we’re just pawns.’

  ‘So what’s her game?’

  ‘She uses people. It’s what she does. There might not be a reason.’

  ‘You mean control? You think she gets a kick out of controlling people?’

  ‘I know she does – I’ve been there, babes – and I’m just a woman.’

  ‘I’ve noticed.’

  Jasmin-Sharon smiles and hands him her empty tumbler. He rises, brings the wine down from the windowsill and pours new measures. They sip in silence for a few moments. Then he says:

  ‘What if I get the summons again?’

  ‘Just do it. You like it, don’t you?’

  ‘But shouldn’t we tell her we know?’

  ‘No way.’ Her answer is swift, as if it were fully formed on her lips all along, an embryo about to burst forth from its film of saliva. But then she retreats a little, as if aware the premature response revealed some underlying motive. ‘You might get the wrong reaction. She could make trouble for you.’

  He notices she’s talking exclusively about him. Evidently standing up to Xara is not on her agenda. He wonders just how much of an ex-couple they really are; it seems unlikely in their professional microcosm that total mutual excommunication would occur. He asks:

  ‘What kind of trouble?’

  ‘Toil and trouble.’ She gulps theatrically on her wine. ‘I don’t know. But you should be careful. She likes to get her own way.’

&n
bsp; ‘I can’t just become her slave. What if I simply don’t reply? Go under the radar. Change my mobile number.’

  ‘It might work… it might not. You can’t stop her contacting your wife… your work.’

  Would Xara resort to blackmail? Is Jasmin-Sharon playing the emissary? He says:

  ‘Do you think she knows who I am?’

  ‘She’ll know enough.’

  ‘Please don’t take offence… but have you said anything to her – since the weekend?’

  She makes him wait through another slowly considered sip of wine before she replies. He wonders if that’s to give her time to compose a diplomatic answer. Eventually she says:

  ‘I don’t really speak much to her. Like I said – we’re finished as a couple.’

  ‘But you still have some contacts, being… co-workers?’

  ‘It’s worth my while.’

  ‘Why do you think she chose me?’

  He detects a languid sizing up of his masculinity. Then her reply disappoints. ‘Maybe you did something to especially piss her off.’

  ‘But how? I hadn’t seen her… ’

  ‘You don’t have to lie to me, babes.’

  He eschews the opportunity to reorient her opinion – there’s no need: she navigates without moral compass in her chosen field. He says:

  ‘But it’s crazy. Like something you’d read in a cheap novel. No one would believe it if the story came out.’ Monique excepted.

  ‘Every man’s dream come true, I’d have thought. Stuff even punters can’t buy.’

  Adam nods, shrugs, sighs. He can’t argue with her logic. ‘I know, I know… but I can’t help wondering why me?’

  ‘You’re top of her list?’ She sounds disinterested, the suggestion is hollow.

  ‘What – her hit list?’

  ‘I mean her mobile contacts. Who comes up first on your phone?’

  ‘Alcoholics Anonymous.’

  ‘So you get the idea.’ She retrieves the active phone from her bag and shows him the display. ‘Look – you haven’t seen this, right?’ She clicks on contacts and he reads names: Ben old nice… Ben young CIM… Colin rich A…

  She removes the phone before he can see too much, drops it back into the bag. She says:

  ‘Where would you be?’

  ‘You’ve sidetracked me into thinking what would I be!’