The Sexopaths

by Beckham, Bruce

  ‘Don’t get above your station.’ She sounds like she’s teasing.

  He smiles. ‘Look – I know what you’re saying. All my life – school, college, work, courses, you name it – who gets to go first? Who’s the guinea pig? Muggins here.’

  So unless Xara happens to have an Aaron among her followers, his is probably the name she sees first every time she searches her contacts. Adam the one. But still why?

  ‘I shouldn’t worry about it, babes, let it run its course.’

  It’s easy for her to say that, he thinks, no dangling sword of Damocles, or at least not one held by so apparently fine a hair. He stretches back, tips his head against the cushioned wall as if to check for the blade. Should he just relax as she suggests? Give fate its head. He ponders the names theory again, then starts thinking about the girls on the website: alphabetical precedence is certainly an advantage sought by some – a preponderance of names begins with A, indeed there are Aaliyahs and Aanyas with double-As to make doubly sure, outsmarting the massed pseudonymous ranks of the Abbeys, Abbies, Abbis and Abis, pipping them to pole position. He feels strangely warmed that Xara needs no such artificial enhancement. He says:

  ‘What made you choose Jasmin?’

  There’s a hint of a smile. She swirls the wine in her tumbler, stirs up a memory. ‘When I went for my first job as a dancer. The guy who took me on said I’d need a stage-name. I had to get changed in the toilets – there was this spray, jasmine-scented. It sounded exotic.’

  ‘It’s a good choice. Nice fragrance… nice name – you don’t feel daft actually calling someone by it. It’s not so easy to strike up a conversation with a girl called Barbie or Electra… you know?’

  Jasmin-Sharon doesn’t answer. He’s perplexed by her general indifference: that she has not been more inquisitive. How had he felt, for instance, when – with surely some devilment – she casually name-dropped Xara? What are his thoughts on the new ménage-a-trois that includes Monique? She hasn’t even asked him how he got himself on Xara’s contact list in the first place.

  Has experience trained her that punters dislike the third degree, and so by force of habit she keeps her questions reined in? Or is she just fatigued after a busy night between the sheets? Thus far her only animated moments have been in response to his revelation about his status and his suggestion that they could challenge Xara with their knowledge.

  ‘What’s Xara’s real name? It’s not something really obvious like Sara, is it?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine, babes.’

  ‘And you probably wouldn’t tell me.’

  She smiles, shakes her head. He offers the wine and she takes a refill, between them they finish the bottle. He says:

  ‘Are you okay for time?’

  ‘I’m free. My phones are off.’

  Not strictly true, he thinks. He says:

  ‘I wanted to say – thanks for the other night. That was pretty hot. Monique seemed to like it.’

  She lets out a half-suppressed laugh, as though he has intentionally understated by some implausibly wide margin. And she obviously refers to Monique. She says:

  ‘You must have your hands full… keeping her satisfied… French blood and all that.’

  At first he takes it as a reference to their love life, but the incoming memory of last night’s text explodes this cosy image, its exploded fragments revealing glimpses only of Monique in hedonistic flight. Mentally he recoils, wishing to retaliate, to return fire; though not against Jasmin-Sharon, more the invasion from across the Channel of his territory. But the only ammunition he has to hand is tit-for-tat. Isn’t he the one lying right now beside a call girl in a cheap motel, the one embroiled in some depraved conspiracy? He’s no ‘regular guy’… he’s edgy, mean, cool. But he hears himself say:

  ‘You two seem to have hit it off.’

  ‘She’s a lovely person, your wife. She’s really understanding.’

  Adam notices she doesn’t use Monique’s name, as if she already has some intimate ground to protect, keeping him at bay with a polite but firm ring-fence of formality. He tries again to draw her out.

  ‘I think she quite fancies you.’

  Jasmin-Sharon wriggles and lowers herself, as if into a more comfortable position. She reaches for her cigarettes and lights one up. Then she says:

  ‘Well, I’m always available for bookings.’

  Is she brazenly suggesting she’ll see Monique solo? Then again, why not? Here she is now, alone with him, no questions asked. As he ponders this prospect, unprompted she offers him the cigarette. He takes it and inhales, holding in the smoke for maximum newly discovered effect.

  ‘Cool.’

  He can’t mean what he’s implying? His aim surely must be to terminate their little mystery tour at the earliest opportunity. In his judgement Jasmin-Sharon is hitch-hiking on the road to nowhere; but with Monique as her companion who knows what might befall them. With him in tow – one careless slip and the precipice beckons. But his heart makes a sudden thump, a rabbit-sentry warning its harem. As the fast-acting nicotine invades his nerve endings, he says:

  ‘Why do you tie your hair like that, pulled round to one side?’

  ‘So the punter gets a clear view when I’m giving him oral.’

  ‘Oh… right.’

  ‘Do you want to do some coke?’

  ***

  Adam watches gripped in equal part by dread and fascination as Monique, having imbibed more than is prudent, rather than depart on schedule accepts instead the invitation pour un petit digestif. She barely seems to notice the supporting arm about her midriff, its fingertips caressing higher than is absolutely necessary. Once inside the palatial suite, she subsides into the broad settee, her hemline rucking carelessly up her thighs, her breasts pushing against the sheer fabric of her bra, her nipples pressing points of interest through the fine silk of her dress. Now she tumbles forwards from the waist and meets her reflection in the bespoiled glass surface of the coffee table. Now she drops to her knees, turns and bows her head a second time.

  ‘No!’

  Adam speaks aloud to break the spell, and shakes his head into the wind, as if bidding the elements to cast this invasive imagery from his mind. He steps up his pace, but the hallucinations persist, and trail him like a recalcitrant beggar. He reconsiders the wisdom of eschewing the cab that would have delivered him to the office ahead of his thoughts. Yet he knows he needed this time and space.

  This morning, waking, the bed felt like an abandoned ship after a storm-tossed night. Monique’s vacant form was cold, her scattered pillows crushed by fitful dreams. Camille was sitting patiently amidst the debris, flicking through the pages of the book she’d brought for him to read. Thus the next hour saw him stumbling through the morning routine, culminating in Camille’s eventual delivery to nursery school, and his late arrival for a research debrief in the soulless outlying suburb that is Edinburgh’s oxymoronic business park. Afterward, he’d abandoned his car and boarded the commuter train to Haymarket, just a minute’s walk from the motel where he’d arranged to meet Jasmin-Sharon.

  His hopes that this showdown would shed light on Xara’s mischief had risen as he’d waited, rehearsing his soon-to-be abandoned opening line; his visitor’s candid introduction had seen to that. However, on the face of it Jasmin-Sharon appears little the wiser than he. True, she has provided additional insight into Xara’s character (consistent with her earlier account), but if she knows what her erstwhile girlfriend is really up to, she isn’t telling. Nonetheless, the encounter was preoccupying, to say the least, and hence it is only now that last night’s disturbing message finds the opportunity to slip through the palings that divide his unruly subconscious from his neatly manicured rational thoughts.

  As he reaches Princes Street the clouds are gathering, coming up behind him from the west, a daily gift from Glasgow, blackening the castle rock. He’s unnerved, sailing out from the improbable safe haven of Jasmin-Sharon’s company, by how much the little text
has assumed storm proportions, sliding swift and silent across the calm waters, unfolding its true proportions, looming, ominous, no longer held back by the high pressure of his immediate commitments. His office is up to his right, a crow’s nest high on The Mound, but he diverts left in the direction of Monique’s company HQ, into the New Town, via Frederick to George Street where he prefers the coffee bars.

  Americano and table procured, he retrieves from his wallet the note he’d made last night: the French telephone number from which the text had been despatched. He presses the mini Post-itâ onto the screen of his tablet, then Googles Monique’s name, adding AMIE, the acronym for the European Board: Agences Marketing Intégrées de l’Europe. To his surprise, there’s a photograph of her he has not seen. Its branded backcloth matches that of the other representatives’ pictures. There’s her usual engaging smile – too engaging – and too much cleavage. He doesn’t recognise either the jewellery or the top that she’s wearing, small irregularities that reinforce his sense of being distanced from this semi-private members’ club.

  But Monique is not his direct line of enquiry. He navigates efficiently away, first from her entry and then site itself, following a hyperlink that transports him from Brussels to Paris, and the CEO of a pre-eminent French advertising conglomerate. Fellow of this Royal Society and that Chartered Institute, writer, journalist and lecturer in marketing, and – of course – sitting President of AMIE; Lucien Décure. The face matches that on the AMIE website. The contact number matches that on the Post-itâ.

  Adam stares intently at his adversary’s image – it’s a more relaxed shot than the head-and-shoulders portrait on the AMIE site, capturing Lucien in a thoughtful moment, behind a broad desk in a trendy, airy office with modern art adorning the walls. His flowing locks are longer than Adam remembers, his Romanesque nose less prominent. The eyes, focused upon some distant profundity (Adam guesses a point on the wall opposite where the photographer had told him to look), are however the same bright penetrating blue that he recalls from their meeting in Mykonos. Adam had tried half-heartedly to convince himself that this guy was odd-looking, a little portly, past his prime – but he knows he’s wrong. Narcissistic, maybe, but rugged, silent, powerful… it’s an irresistible combination. No need even to add the knee-trembling French intonation.

  Does Monique hanker after this romantic caricature? Is there some innate desire, some pull of provenance? That, he could understand, rationalise: it’s not the person, but the ideal. But what if it is more base still – the raw thrill of the chase, the capture, the conquest? And is Lucien’s appeal enhanced by the likelihood that Simone has already succumbed to his charms; now he turns his subtle attentions upon her?

  Adam drops his tablet into his shoulder-bag and presses the lid onto his coffee. Right now there’s nothing to do, but doing nothing is not an option. Braving the weather is a start. At first on George Street he moves with the prevailing squall, but as he turns right into Hanover the rain seems to come at him from all directions. He pulls up his collar and ducks into the worst of it, picturing himself as a Clueso-like cartoon character, his animated thoughts spinning in a conical vortex that hovers above his head.

  He wonders, how many coincidences before there’s a connection? If that bouquet on the day of Monique’s election to the AMIE Board were more than a coincidence, it would explain why she was vague about its origins, why there was no little note of appreciation. If her new, coquettish voicemail greeting were an invitation to treat, isn’t that a connection? In her own words she’d told him – let slip, really, under duress – that Lucien had sent her an email casually thanking her for brightening up his day. At the time he’d let it pass, he felt he’d made his point already, but this minor revelation had struck home, like the tiny thorn that gets beneath the flesh and becomes a festering sore.

  And – is this his imagination, or not – has Monique lately been taking many more texts and emails on her mobile? He’s never really paid much heed, but now he can picture her all about the house, in her study, the corner of the kitchen, their bedroom – head bent over the handset, her back to him (always that guarded pose). Has the formal requirement to engage with fellow AMIE directors provided a medium for more diverse communication? What begins as a legitimate business matter buds a calculated aside here, sprouts a naïve response there… and soon branches off into a one-on-one exchange, more intimate than ever could be aired in the pubic forum.

  How did she dress today? How did she look? He’d satisfied himself that she’d brought forward her beautician’s appointment for the purposes of Saturday night, but now, that event past, he’s drawn again to attribute it to the meeting in Paris. Of course – he’d want her to go in style. But he imagines her at the boardroom table, smart beside the President, those thick nicotine-stained fingers unobtrusively stroking her newly trimmed strip of blonde pubic hair through the taut fabric of her panties. It sends at once a thrill and a chill through his body.

  Should he be surprised, however, if something is happening to Monique? During the past few weeks his own senses, emotions – values even – have been shaken, heightened, and now left suspended; he stares wide-eyed into the vertiginous void, awaiting inevitable freefall, no real comprehension of whether or not safe landing lies below. He thinks of Monique in Jurmala, how she’d returned to their bedroom barely able to contain her jubilation. Has that experience, that naked loss of virginity (irrespective of whether – erotically bared and bathed – she actually had sex with the grinning bastard) served to impel her, helpless yet empowered, through barriers hitherto perceived as impassable: sex with a woman, an extramarital tryst? Within hours of their return she’d converted a speculative conversation into a real live call girl. Has she taken similar bold steps in relation to Lucien? What was it Jasmin-Sharon just said about having his hands full, about French blood? A passing remark... or something Monique has confided, eager to reciprocate the escort’s lurid gossip with a juicy titbit of her own?

  But surely Monique would not succumb to an affair? Every minute she tells him she loves him. Right now their sex life is more furious and passionate than ever, if swept along in the crazy surf of recent events. And there’s Camille, his insurance policy – is she not eternally first in Monique’s thoughts, her well-being evaluated before any selfish act could be contemplated, never mind committed?

  But who knows what happens when chemistry and instinct and opportunity combine. What chance stands mere logic? Imprisoned within the brittle chrysalis of their marriage, has Monique’s larval hunger reconstituted itself, burst forth some sunny day and taken joyfully to the skies where others of her like float inquisitive; they meet and tumble in their airborne fertility dance, and then move on?

  The gradient steepens as Adam passes the galleries and crosses Mound Place. Black cobbles glisten, like giant scarabs laid rank upon rank. Before him loom the ten-storey stone skyscrapers that have awed Scots for centuries, home now to holiday lets and trendy agencies like his. As he presses the intercom he resolves to disembark from his unproductive train of thought, a circular line that rattles with relentless efficiency through those dark quarters where demented graffiti adorn the damaged architecture of his mind. In any event, distraction is promised as soon as he enters the office. With a sense of relief he readies himself – they might be based within spitting distance of the Heart of Midlothian, but it will be last night’s events at Easter Road that dominate today’s office banter.

  ***

  ‘Daddy, you were early today.’

  ‘That’s good isn’t it?’

  ‘But we get biscuits at the end of after-school club.’

  ‘Sorry. I can make you tea-and-a-biscuit when we get back.’

  ‘Two biscuits?’

  ‘Did you eat all your supper?’

  ‘It was chicken pasta. I ate Kate and Charlotte Greens’, too.’

  ‘You’ll grow really tall if you eat all the Greens’.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sorry – i
t was just my joke.’

  ‘Daddy. When I grow up I want to be an elf.’

  ‘An elf – why?’

  ‘So I can live forever.’

  ‘Who told you elves lived forever?’

  ‘It’s so they can work forever.’

  ‘You mean for Santa?’

  ‘Aha.’

  ‘Did you see it in a film?’

  ‘No – I just thought it in my mind.’

  ‘It’s a clever idea.’

  ‘Do Santa’s elves live forever?’

  ‘Well… a lot of things to do with Santa are secrets… we don’t always know…’

  ‘I think his elves live forever.’

  ‘You could be right – the legend will live forever.’

  ‘Will mummy be at home?’

  ‘She’s away today – she went on a plane, remember? You’ll be in bed when she gets back but she’ll come in to kiss you night-night.’

  ‘Aw.’

  ‘Do you want your songs on?’

  ‘Aha.’

  Adam reaches for the CD button and the ever-present nursery rhyme collection kicks in with Pussy’s in the Well. (Ah, well.) They drive into the autumn dusk, pink-tinged in the west as if the hinged lid of a great velvet-lined box is slowly descending to shut in the city for the night. True to form, rocked by the motion of the car and cocooned by its warmth, Camille is asleep before the end of the first track. He reflects upon the long day for one so small – breakfast club, day nursery, after-school club – hours most working folk would strike over. She’s out of gas, her small form relaxed, head upon shoulder, Maman en miniature.

  And will Maman plant that promised goodnight kiss; make curfew even? Monique had been vague about flight times, saying she would have to be flexible in case the meeting ran late – but that she ought to be home before nine. She’d sent him a text around lunchtime – ironically, while he was with Jasmin-Sharon, his phone on silent – just a few words: arrived okay, tired, meeting dull, see you later… kiss. He’d responded, but there had been no further text in return, the Board having presumably reconvened. By now she ought to be en route. He engages the hands-free and selects her number, silencing the repetitive chorus of “Ding, dong, bell”. There’s a long delay, but no ring-tone: the call diverts straight to her voicemail. Quickly he hangs up, wishing to avoid her champagne greeting.