The Sexopaths

  ***

  Adam hears the sound of Monique’s key in the lock. He notices she fails in her usually unerring aim; it takes a second, then a third scraping attempt for her to find the target. He realises he must have slept: the clock reads after two a.m., and he’d slid into bed around midnight, a bottle of claret for the worse. His bedside lamp burns, his opened book, unread, lies across his chest like a psalter beneath his palms; he feels like a carved stone knight laid to rest. He tracks Monique’s movements about the house, her heels reporting her path in ascending and descending scales. Her trademark catwalk step seems steady, if antisocially noisy on their oak floors. He’s surprised she’s not being more careful about waking Camille. She moves from cloakroom to kitchen, splashes water. A glass or mug is filled, there’s silence while it’s emptied, a clunk as it’s placed imprecisely on the drainer. For a while she does something with her phone – types a text, looks at emails? – he doesn’t recognise the individual sounds, revealing as they may be to a trained ear. At some point there appears to be a reply, or maybe just a coincidental incoming message.

  A minute or so later she heads upstairs, her resonant footsteps suddenly damped as she reaches the carpeted landing. Adam decides to play possum. He listens as she checks on Camille, her murmuring voice, comforting; there’s a sleepy retort. Then she crosses to enter their room, quieter now, and stops for a moment in the doorway. He hears her inhaling, exhaling, a little breathlessly, then she rounds the bed and switches off his light, at the same time extracting his book and dropping it lightly onto the floor. The curtains are parted and a half moon now infuses the far corner of the room with its milky monochrome. Beneath the slits of his eyelids he can see she’s wearing a short tight-fitting skirt and a low-cut top that glistens in the silvery light. Again he strains to recall – was this the outfit she wore this morning? – but again he’s punished by his lack of attention at the time. She undresses, quietly, methodically, though she casts aside her outer garments with scant regard for tomorrow’s creases. Her underwear, however, a matching dark lacy set of half-cup bra, g-string briefs and hold-ups, she smoothly sheds and gathers up and carries with her into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. He hears the flush of the toilet, a tap running, the scrape of the laundry basket, her electric toothbrush. Now there’s a silence, a whole minute at least, before she suddenly emerges and with the faint exclamation of a shiver, she drops into the bed, pulling the quilt over her with one sweeping movement. Adam makes a sound that he thinks is a passable impression of stirring in one’s sleep. Monique raises herself on one elbow and leans across to kiss him on the cheek. She expires alcohol, though not of distillery proportions. She whispers:

  ‘Night, night, my darling.’

  ‘Aha.’

  She reaches out from the covers and locates his hand, and within seconds – as if his feigned condition is instantly contagious – seems to have fallen into a deep slumber, unmoving. But he can feel the pulse at her wrist, leaping well ahead of his own. He wonders what she was doing in the bathroom. And does she normally clear away her underwear? It’s another small detail he can’t confirm. Mostly she’s meticulously tidy around their home – although not at the expense of more basic needs, such as the desire to sleep… or make love. He feels alarmed by her choice of lingerie – okay, she often wears nice stuff, expensive, even for work, but tonight it was surely disproportionate, the kind she’d put on if they were staying in a fancy hotel, going out for a meal maybe, a selection made with their private after-party in mind. He can imagine her reaction if he were to challenge her – she’ll say it’s how she always dresses… but, if he were on the receiving end of such a get-up – in a contractual capacity, so to speak – he certainly wouldn’t be disappointed. Nor would he be in what riches it contained. Did someone enjoy such delights? Might she have been washing her underwear? He could go to the bathroom and surreptitiously check. He weighs pain and gain. Best not. Involuntarily he exhales, a helpless sigh that he tries to cover up as a dream breaking through. His own heartbeat has quickened, he can feel its echo in the mattress. Do they both lie awake, minds racing, their contact whittled down to the fingertips across a widening chasm?

  He wonders how she got home. Presumably she didn’t drive. Her car must be still in town. Taxi? A lift maybe? Or both – if it were Jasmin-Sharon’s friend. He pictures Monique in the black cab with Jasmin-Sharon, drunk and high and hilarious, sharing their escapade with the laughing driver, a line of coke for the journey, a last clinch outside their house. Or Monique instead leaving some plush establishment, night-porter hastening to hold the door – a call girl, surely, but so what, look at her – she exits, turns, gazes up from the pavement to blow a parting kiss to her paramour, departs. He runs the suspects through his mind. He realises the solution to his competing hypotheses lies glowing innocuously downstairs: her mobile. He could steal away now and interrogate it for himself. But how likely that she will have left a message for him to find? Has he not alerted her to his watchfulness? Anything remotely controversial she will have erased – unless, like the other night, he gets there first. He thinks again of that text:

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

  The kiss, he really doesn’t like. He wonders why the message wasn’t in French, and what he might have done himself in similar circumstances. He supposes they still see Monique as British, and conduct their business in English – so maybe that’s the reason. Yet if someone had wanted to communicate in code – partial at least – they’d be better served in a foreign language. They? Now he’s doing it. Lucien. But maybe the guy doesn’t care. If he’s having an affair – or intends so to do – perhaps he doesn’t give a hoot about the woman’s husband. About him. He’s far enough away, out of the picture, not relevant. Is this just the way the French are? If someone’s wife appears willing, reciprocates, then who is Lucien to decline an opportunity? Anyone would do the same. It is an obligation. It would be ill-mannered to refuse.

  Moreover, if he and Monique are co-conspirators, he can rely upon her to cover for him, to re-cast their communications for Adam’s consumption, and to tip him off – if, for instance, Adam were liable to put in an unscheduled appearance. Might he have followed Monique back across the Channel? They could easily have travelled together. For all he knows, they could have spent last night right here in Edinburgh; there’s even a hotel not five minutes’ walk from their house. He supposes he could investigate, find out where Lucien is tomorrow morning. By calling his office they might at least reveal whether he’s abroad on business… another coincidence if not conclusive proof.

  ‘Are you okay, my darling?’

  So she’s awake.

  ‘Mmm?’

  Guilty of spying, he feels the need to act the sleeping partner.

  ‘Do you feel okay?’

  ‘Yeah…’ he whispers, as if still half in slumber. ‘Have a good time?’

  ‘So, so… when duty calls.’ She turns towards him and puts an arm across his chest. ‘We should sleep, it’s so late.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Night, night. I love you, my darling.’

  ‘Love you.’

  Blog by Anonymous – 6

  OMG. What a dilemma! Just as things are developing very nicely with M – remember, the girl of my dreams? – and Sarah sticks her great oar in and wants me to ‘do something very important’. She says it really will be worth my while, but that I must meet her on Saturday night because she wants to talk to me about it in person. The trouble is, with Sarah, you never know – it might just be some punter who’s after something she won’t do, and I’ll walk right into it with no way of refusing. That wouldn’t be so bad, but I have an appointment with M and I really want to get there. I just hope Sarah doesn’t keep me for too long – and I’ll have to make sure I save some energy, if it is a job that’s on the agenda. I tried to put her off but she said it has to be then – thing is, she’s got something I’ll need for later, anyway, so I don’t have much of an excu
se for not putting in an appearance. I asked her how long it would be for and she was a bit cagey – she said that would depend on how I responded… she sounded a bit like she was coming on to me, though I’ve fallen for that trick before and nothing’s come of it. I guess I’ll just have to suck it and see.

  CHAPTER 7

  6th October – Edinburgh, Scotland

  ‘She ought to be here by now, don’t you think, my darling?’

  ‘I can think of a few reasons why she might be late.’

  ‘Shall I call her again?’

  Adam shrugs. ‘What did she say about timing?’

  ‘That she would come early if she could – in her usual taxi – you know? – her lady-driver friend.’

  Adam drains his glass of its last few drops, a lukewarm half-mouthful he’s been nursing with an optimistic view to pacing himself. He says:

  ‘Oh – try her, then.’

  They’re seated at the island bar in the kitchen. Adam extracts the champagne from its chromed ice-bucket and deposits a curling trail of drips as he refills their glasses. Monique rescues her mobile from its midst. Deftly she thumbs the screen and raises the handset to her ear. She stares at him, glazed, not seeing him, he guesses. Then she inhales to speak:

  ‘Sharon, hi cherie – it is Monique again. Just calling to check you are okay. The champagne is getting warm – and so are we! Hot, in fact!’ She giggles, then continues: ‘So please hurry along your driver! But do not worry – there is plenty more bubbly in the fridge! We are looking forward to seeing you any moment. A bientot!’

  ‘No answer, obviously?’

  ‘It rang a couple of times and then diverted to her voicemail.’

  ‘Let me try.’ He holds out a palm.

  ‘Wait – I shall dial since you hate this phone so much.’

  He grimaces deferentially. He does hate it (though he suffers the same model) – its too-innocent voicemail greeting, the text he wasn’t supposed to see (and others he probably hasn’t), its rings and bleeps and chimes as persons unknown interpose themselves, a conduit that he can’t control and which Monique doesn’t seem to want to seal off. But how would she know this? Is it so obvious – and if so why doesn’t she act on his feelings and take down the channel?

  ‘There you are – it is easy my darling.’

  She hands him the phone and it seems that she simply refers to his antipathy to the particular model. He listens for a few seconds, then passes it back to her. He says:

  ‘It’s just going straight through now, no rings.’

  ‘Why would she switch off?’

  ‘She could be listening to your message.’

  ‘Or maybe she has no signal.’

  ‘I guess we just drink.’ He picks up his glass. Cheers.’

  ‘Cheers, my darling. Here’s to a nice night.’

  ‘A bit more than that, I think.’

  ‘Nice good bad.’

  ‘That could be the understatement of the year.’

  ‘She is very cute, no?’

  Adam looks sideways at Monique. He’s tempted to say she certainly has ‘an arse to die for’, but he lets the moment slip past and gives a non-committal toss of the head. Thinking about the anonymous girl’s review he blows gently at one of the candles that burns before them, causing the flame to stutter. Monique is suddenly prompted, and says:

  ‘Oh – did you light the candles upstairs, my darling?’

  He slides off his barstool, then addresses his champagne flute as if it’s a yard of ale.

  ‘It’s nice if the room fills up with the scent before we go in.’

  He nods as he swallows. ‘I’ll do it now.’

  As if in frustration he bangs the glass down and spins on his heel, military fashion. They’ve not eaten and almost immediately he feels light-headed. But right now that seems okay. He walks carefully along the hallway, ascends the stairs, and crosses the landing. He stops for a moment and listens outside Camille’s room. The tiny bellows of her regular breathing is just audible from within. The door to their own bedroom is closed. He enters to find the stifling warmth almost overwhelming – Monique must have cranked up the heating. Perfect for getting naked, he figures. He locates matches in his bedside cabinet, then works his way around the room, seeking out the small candles Monique has strategically positioned. The task complete, he turns off the overhead lights to admire the effect, the chamber readied as if for a pagan ceremony. In the darkness the room has a devilish glow; the bed, its centrepiece, enfolded by a taut crimson pvc sheet, glistens red in the flickering gloom like a shining sacrificial altar. From each corner snake black straps terminating in Velcro cuffs, and not one but three semi-transparent spandex hoods lie ready for their wearers.

  He knows the hoods are partly see-through because he has tried one on. It covers the head completely; there’s a hemmed opening for the mouth, slightly obscene he’d thought. He can feel the tightness of his jeans as he steps into the ensuite and lights the candles there. In the basin bob bottles of honey-coloured massage oil. He tests the water – it’s tepid, so he empties and refills it, leaving the hot tap trickling to maintain the temperature. He opens one of the bottles and pours a few drops into the palm of his hand. The scent is striking – instantly he’s transported back to that first time with the then ‘Ms Y’. His blind helplessness, their writhing serpentine forms. So Xara buys this stuff, too.

  Last evening after dinner Monique had produced with a melodramatic flourish the ‘bondage kit’, as she described it. She’d pre-advertised it as a ‘naughty surprise’ procured for him on Jasmin-Sharon’s recommendation from an apparently long-established emporium in a street he’d never heard of down in the medieval bowels of the Old Town. He’d wondered if Jasmin-Sharon had made the purchases herself… or maybe they’d gone giggling in tandem? Certainly her revelation had added weight to the side of his hypothesis that placed the two of them in company at some time on Thursday, Edinburgh’s day for late-night shopping.

  Monique had been reluctant to discuss her company gathering the next morning, protesting tiredness and that it had been ‘the usual boring stuff, you know?’ His circumspect promptings had been restrained in part by his own wish to be wrong, and in part by the sense that she was not yet inured to such questioning, and may react with anger – dislike, even – if he continually implied misbehaviour, deceit, infidelity. He had thus failed to elicit any further clues to what had taken place. As if by unspoken mutual agreement they’d dozed on well past their alarm, with the corollary that their normally civilised morning schedule became compressed concertina-like into half the usual time. To his frustration, Monique had retreated behind a locked bathroom door, while he deputised to usher Camille through her paces. He’d hurried her outdoors with a plate of chocolate-flavoured squares of toast, she complaining that he’d not carved out her name as usual, while a harassed-looking Monique apologised to the taxi that had already clocked up a substantial waiting bill in their driveway.

  Monique had seemed distracted; he’d felt sure there was some bigger story playing across the front pages of her thoughts. After she’d departed with Camille, he’d actually checked the laundry basket in their ensuite, but found it empty. In the utility room the washing machine was rumbling away; she’d put on a load before leaving the house. That evening, after an early dinner with Camille, he’d descended cautiously to the lounge having completed his small charge’s bath and bedtime story, to find Monique already stretched before the tv. He’d insinuated himself in beside her – she didn’t object, though seemed languid and unresponsive. In any event, the opportunity to talk had passed; rising waves of tiredness washed over them, and they dozed for an hour or so until finally managing to scramble a retreat as sleep’s undertow threatened to pull them down for the night.

  And now what to do? He’s struck by the sudden conviction that Jasmin-Sharon is not going to make an appearance. If this anticlimactic hunch is correct, then they’re on their own – all dressed up and nowhere to go. Monique wears
her finest exotic underwear, and an outfit – killer heels to boot – that would grace the most prestigious of red carpets. Her make up and hair are immaculate. He, too, is showered, shaved and fragranced as if he were about to head out on a date. Not to mention the clingy satin briefs. He can’t help but draw the ironic comparison: look how they’ve got themselves up because Jasmin-Sharon is coming – yet they don’t do this at home for one another. If they were staying away at a hotel… then maybe… but for their ‘nice nights’ in, they don’t go to half the trouble. He wonders if this is something they ought formally to remedy. At this moment it might feel a bit like a wedding without the bride, but if the night is really for them, why should it make any difference if Jasmin-Sharon doesn’t show? How long can they sustain call girls and cocaine as a substitute for homespun erotica?

  Pondering this dilemma, absently rubbing the oil between his palms and inhaling the spiced essence of bergamot, a sound from their bedroom attracts his attention. He guesses Camille has woken and crept in, as is her wont. He’d better shepherd her away before she consumes embarrassing details that might be broadcast in who-knows-what forum some day henceforth. Still bearing the oil, his fingers slippery, it takes him a moment to manage the round door-handle.

  ‘Back to bed, Cam…’

  His voice tails off as he feels his jaw literally drop. Prone upon the bed, Monique’s body, naked but for her sheer and skimpy golden underwear, plus matching heels, glistens in the scarlet half-light. Her arms are outstretched as if inviting him to tie her wrists, and in each hand she balances a filled champagne flute.