The Sexopaths

  ‘I suppose you’ve got the added advantage of the language?’

  ‘Well – he doesn’t handle it himself, of course – Lucien. Our production manager is liaising with his counterpart in their Chinese office – I just set up the contact by email.’

  He notices that she’s working to overcome an objection he hasn’t yet raised, sensing that she’s put him on edge. But he wants to believe her claim of an arm’s-length involvement, and to reward her for this. He says:

  ‘You know – you could put out the story that your container ship’s been hijacked, and then run a promotion where consumers have to mail in ransom money to free the pandas. You’d make a fortune. And just think of the ad shoot – a little jaunt in the tropics.’

  Monique laughs, an exaggerated off-the-peg giggle that he recognises as part of her positive stroking repertoire. ‘You see – I’ve always said you’d make a great copywriter. I’ll suggest it to my client.’

  ‘It’s okay – I’m not serious. Though it would be a neat PR stunt.’

  He wonders if between them an unspoken pact is taking shape: that whenever they near the precipitous cliff-edge that is the subject of Lucien, they slow, tread warily, then link hands and retrace their steps, not ready to risk the mutual destruction of the lover’s leap. She must be cognisant of his distress, and assume he guesses this. So they back away from the danger. Yet they do not speak of its presence; and it is her reluctance to address his apprehension that most disturbs him. Why not take him firmly by the hand, haul him to the edge and show him that the abyss is a trick of geology, an optical illusion? A misapprehension. If that is not how the land lies then why not race across together, feeling only springy turf beneath their feet? Why circumvent a figment of his imagination? Fine – be elusive with clients, associates, even friends for the sake of diplomacy… but aren’t they too close for such obfuscation?

  Or is he just reading it all wrong? There is simply nothing going on with Lucien and hence – in turn – there is simply nothing going on in her pretty little head. His knee-jerk tics and twitches at each mention of the Frenchman don’t register any more than if he were the invisible man. She can’t allay his fears because she doesn’t detect them in the first place. As if to confirm this version, she chirrups:

  ‘Anyway, my darling – China is going to be very exciting. We shall do lots of amazing things. You are so clever to get us this trip.’

  Adam nods thoughtfully. A little abashed, he says:

  ‘Are you absolutely sure you’re okay about leaving Camille?’

  ‘Of course, my darling – she will be fine. You know she asks for Laura all the time – we are lucky the way things have turned out. I do not believe if my parents came to stay she would feel as comfortable. And it is great that Laura can just live here; she knows where everything is in the house, how to get to the play-park and the health club – Camille will have more fun than if she comes with us!’

  ‘You’re probably right. When I was bringing her home the other night she said she wants to have two mums – you as her real mum and Laura as her stepmother.’

  Monique giggles. ‘So – in that case would you get two wives, my darling?’

  ‘Is Laura available?’

  ‘You are supposed to say you only think of me.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s what I meant.’

  ‘Well, watch out, Monsieur.’

  ‘I shall – but you know what? I’ve asked Camille, and she can’t remember that Laura was actually her nanny.’

  ‘That is odd. When Laura started her job at the nursery, Camille recognised her instantly – she charged like a little bull across the playground into her arms.’

  ‘I guess we bond without knowing it.’

  They’re silent for a moment. Adam wonders if they’re both thinking the same thing. Suddenly, and he doesn’t know why – except that inside him he understands there’s a seething miasma of thoughts and feelings, questions and hypotheses, and every so often one such fragment breaks free – he says:

  ‘Actually, I was looking forward to the coke bit tonight.’

  ‘Mmm. So was I, my darling.’

  Again there’s a silence, before Monique says:

  ‘I could meet Sharon for a coffee. I am sure she would sell me some of hers.’

  ‘Shit – Monique – you can’t just do that.’

  ‘Adam – what do you mean?’

  ‘Well – it’s like… it’s drug dealing.’ His instinctive reaction, he knows, is not driven by propriety, but he hides behind this contention.

  ‘What is the difference? We took some here – we gave her money?’

  ‘Yes, but… I mean – say the police had turned up – I know it’s improbable – but at least we couldn’t have been blamed if she’d brought drugs into our house without our knowledge.’

  ‘It is just as illegal to take them, my darling.’

  Adam gropes for a line of reasoning. ‘But… what if the drugs squad are keeping an eye on her? Imagine you getting caught buying coke in a café – it could ruin your career.’

  Monique looks a little crestfallen, though he wonders if it’s because of his reaction rather than his logic. Then she brightens and says:

  ‘There must be a way – maybe if she came here? I could ask her round for a girlie tête-à-tête one morning. I feel it would be nice for her to have someone to talk to – I don’t think she has many friends outside of the other working girls… and with the news of her grandfather...’

  Adam senses that this idea is one she has harboured anyway – if they haven’t already met for coffee and chat. He’s unsure whether to acquiesce, though he has scant reason to object. He says:

  ‘What – leave you pair alone with a stash of coke? I’ve got a feeling I know what would happen!’

  ‘Adam – you are bad. You know I only want it to be us together.’

  He’s minded to ask her to qualify the meaning of ‘us’, but instead finds the answer another way:

  ‘Well maybe I’d need to take the morning off, too, in that case.’

  ‘That is fine with me, my darling. Though you might find the chat a little tedious.’

  He smiles ruefully. ‘There is one thing, Moni. We can’t go making a habit of cocaine… I mean just you and I, every time we…’

  ‘It would be once in a while, my darling.’

  ‘Would it, though? Listen to us now – we’re saying it’s wrong, illegal… and we both know it wouldn’t be good to rely on it, just like it wouldn’t be good to rely on her… in the next sentence we’re hatching plots for how we’re going to pull it off.’ He opens his palms in a gesture of resting his case. Monique says:

  ‘My darling, it is getting late and we are tired. We don’t have to decide anything right now. In a few days’ time we might feel differently about things. And like you say – Shanghai will make a space for us.’

  ‘Yeah – it’ll be good, I hope.’

  ‘Do you have a great deal to prepare?’

  ‘Not a lot – it’s pretty much the same content as my speech in Jurmala. The frustrating thing is that there’s the Chinese edition of my book – it would seem a shame not to make reference to it. The trouble is – obviously – it’s all mumbo jumbo to me. And the translation could be hopeless for all I know.’

  ‘Why don’t you ask someone Chinese to read it?’

  ‘It’s crossed my mind – but to be honest I’ve no idea what kind of Chinese the book’s written in – and there are two editions – one for Taiwan, I think. The publisher tells me less than nothing. Anyway, the only Chinaman I know is Sicheun from the Hong Kong Garden.’

  Monique looks at him engagingly. ‘I could find someone to read it for you – we are flying out prototypes of the soft toys on Monday or Tuesday – there is sure to be a person connected to the company who will be interested. People seem so keen to learn, wherever we go.’

  It feels rather like she’s offering him an elegant sword, precisely the implement he needs – except it c
omes blade first; should he accept, he can anticipate the sharp sting that is the opportunity for her to liaise with Lucien. Yet there is another still-deeper subplot that appeals to him. Monique will be seen to be acting overtly to assist her spouse, in whose achievements she is proud. And through her good offices he will be elevated to a status that is not merely European, but worldwide, a star in his field, in demand around the globe. Moreover, she has chosen to accompany him to Shanghai, rather than let him make a flying visit alone; meanwhile she will miss a meeting of AMIE in Brussels. With the cat away, the mouse could have played to its heart’s content. That decision must surely count for something. Okay, there’s only one first-class trip to China and there’ll be lots of European Boards (and for all he knows Lucien may already have given notice of not being able to make the next meeting), but… he cautiously accepts:

  ‘Well – if you can… I mean, ideally someone in Shanghai whom we could meet for a chat. I suppose I could prepare a list of points I’d like them to check out. The thing I’m always wondering when I lecture abroad is whether people’s minds work the same way as ours…’

  ‘I thought you said they did, and that’s why you get such a good response?’

  ‘I reckon so, in Europe – and the States and Latin America. But China seems so distant, a different culture, decades of isolation, a political climate that probably discouraged conversation, gossip even. Oh, I’m probably talking nonsense. I think I need to sleep, Moni.’

  ‘Let us leave the table until the morning. These things can wait.’

  ‘Cool.’

  They rise and separate in a drift of smoke from the extinguished candles. He lingers downstairs to draw glasses of water from the kitchen tap. Crossing the landing a few moments later he spots Monique silently untangling Camille from her bedclothes amidst the flickering shadows of a rotating nightlight. In the master bedroom the red pvc sheet is still in situ, creased by their exertions. Quickly he pulls it free and crumples it away into a drawer, reinstates their pillows and duvet, strips and slides into the cool sanctuary from where sleep beckons.

  ***

  Adam is dreaming about Jasmin-Sharon… and now he realises he’s listening to Monique speaking to her. But – of course – she’s on the telephone somewhere. It’s daylight and bright bars of slanting morning sunshine are suspended across the room, their form suggested by myriad swirling motes. As the remnants of his disturbed dream subside beneath the interface between conscious and subconscious, Monique’s words begin to make sense, where a moment before they heaped confusion upon his mind’s already befuddled ramblings.

  ‘Look – you are bound to feel this way. It is only natural.’

  ‘Yes, it is a terrible shock – even when you know someone is unwell.’

  ‘That’s right – she will appreciate that.’

  ‘Of course we are not, no – not at all. Like I said last night, you should not be worrying about us at a time like this.’

  ‘It is okay – it is no problem, honestly.’

  ‘Of course we do – we will.’

  ‘Look – you should not try to hurry back to work.’

  ‘I see that – but why not take some time off? Get some rest.’

  ‘It is okay – and there is nothing to make up to us – we had a nice evening – of course we missed you, but… you have given us lots of ideas.’

  ‘I’m sure it will keep for next time!’

  ‘That’s right… yes, of course.’

  ‘Honestly.’

  ‘I shall text you when we get home from China.’

  ‘Yes – it is about ten days in all.’

  Adam rolls out of bed, still feeling dazed, and pads to the door. It sounds as if Monique is sitting at the bottom of the stairs. Camille’s door is open, but there’s no sign of her – probably she’s watching kids’ tv in the playroom. He retreats to the ensuite and turns on the shower, cranking up the heat so that a cocoon of steam gradually envelops him in a luxurious limbo. He stands for five, maybe ten minutes, until the flow begins to run cool and forces him out. He thinks maybe Monique has already had a bath, but when he re-enters the bedroom he finds her back beneath the covers wearing a pink satin dressing-gown, flicking through a magazine. There’s fresh coffee at either side of the bed.

  ‘Good morning, sleepy head.’

  ‘I was only pretending.’

  ‘You pretend very well, my darling.’

  He wonders if there’s a hint of irony worming beneath the smoothly unequivocal surface of her remark. He says:

  ‘Actually, I was kind of part-awake-part-dreaming – and your conversation was in it. We were in Shanghai, it was night, the streets were dark and packed with thousands of Chinese, and we couldn’t find the girl who’d read my book – you were on the phone to her and she was nearby, giving directions – and we were in some kind of danger – like the whole conference invitation was a trick to get us out from the UK – and they wanted to separate us and take you away – and you were being really nice to the girl – but I kind of knew she was double-crossing you and trying to lead you to where they could abduct you – and I was trying to follow, but it was almost impossible to keep up in the crowds – other people were trying to distract me – eventually I couldn’t see you – I could just hear your voice getting fainter…’

  ‘That’s horrible – we must stay close together all the time we are there.’

  ‘It was only a dream.’

  He notes his economy of detail about the distraction: only weakly resisting he was being funnelled away from the throng by a pair of hired seductresses towards a neon-signed alleyway leading to some kind of sex-club. And neither has he said that the girl on the phone to Monique was not in fact the Chinese reviewer of his book, but Jasmin-Sharon. Surely Monique would have known that, however much the latter had tried to disguise her voice? But now he realises he’s beginning to confuse dream and reality, and sinks down onto the bed beside Monique. She says:

  ‘You know I am superstitious – especially when we are apart from Camille.’

  ‘She’s much safer here, though.’

  ‘I know – I meant if something happened to us – what would become of our poor baby?’

  ‘Monique – nothing will happen – we’ll be staying in a really good hotel – we can get taxis everywhere – they’ll pay for guides if we want. China’s dead safe – we’re probably more at risk sitting here now.’

  ‘I know… I know – but that was Sharon on the phone…’

  ‘What did she say? I take it she’s fine now?’

  ‘Her grandfather died.’

  ‘Oh – come off it – do you believe her?’

  ‘Adam – she is so upset – of course I believe her! How can you be so mistrustful?’

  ‘Okay, okay – I shan’t say any more. But I bet she asked about seeing us again.’

  Monique doesn’t answer and instead turns her gaze back to the magazine. She says:

  ‘She did… but… only because she feels so bad about letting us down – and I think she was looking forward to it as well, so she knows we were disappointed.’

  ‘I thought we weren’t sure if we were?’

  ‘Looking forward to it, or disappointed, my darling?’

  Adam hesitates as he processes her question. He says:

  ‘It’s probably the same thing. Anyway, how did you leave it?’

  ‘I said I will get in touch when we are back. Maybe I can meet her for a coffee or something, like we discussed.’

  Adam harrumphs. ‘I think you should wait and see. Don’t arrange anything right now. You’re feeling sorry for her – too sorry for her, like you don’t want to upset her – and in a couple of weeks we might feel it’s best we just drop the whole thing.’

  Monique smiles winningly. ‘My darling – I agree – let’s see how we feel – and make today a nice sunny Sunday for Camille. I thought we should all go swimming this morning after her lesson?’

  He nods, grins ruefully. Of course, she has all wee
k to exchange texts and calls and even rendezvous without his knowledge – she has no need to gain his assent, tacit or otherwise. Yet ironically he will surely see Jasmin-Sharon first – ‘Meeting pls next Tues 11am Xx’. Just how is that going to play out – now that he has woken with no doubts he will obey the summons? Will he get a moment alone with her – a chance to confer about events as they unfold? A repeat of the last episode could provide such an opportunity (although unbeknown to him there could have been a silent observer in the room). Or will Jasmin-Sharon, as she suggests, obey Xara’s every command, taking cover in mute anonymity until the hour’s storm has blown through?

  Curiously he feels a growing thrill, and a correspondingly diminishing apprehension. Inexplicably things seem less complicated now – perhaps some barely perceptible threshold has been crossed and his will to fight subsumed, bondage now being his permanent state, the outcome abandoned to fate, his thrall to Xara a parole that Jasmin-Sharon before him has surrendered to. So he must attend, pretend, enjoy – love to live another day.

  Blog by Anonymous – 7

  OMG. I just discharged myself from hospital. Some bastard date-raped me. I just know it. I think I must have been out cold for 24 hours. The police were coming to interview me this morning. I had to get out of there. I don’t think they’ll track me down. I never carry any ID. The nurse told me the cleaner at the apartments found me and couldn’t wake me and called an ambulance. She’s Lithuanian. Her English isn’t great but we’ve kind-of got an understanding. I always leave her a good tip because of the state of the bed and the bin full of condoms and whatnot, and she always puts in extra towels when she knows I’ve got a reservation. She must have collected my things together and given them to the paramedics. I think I was tied up because my arms are sore like they’ve been wrenched round my back. And I’m tender you know where. God knows what he slipped in my drink – I’ve tried most things but never that rohypnol – and especially not on top of whatever else I’d had. I should know better – it says on all the working girls’ websites never to accept a drink you’ve not seen opened, nor to take your eyes off it after that. He stole my cash and what was left of my gear. And my underwear. Fucking pervert. Thank God he left my phones – but they can track them down, can’t they? – from the signals they give out. They’ve been vibrating like crazy with calls and texts. Now it’s Sunday afternoon and since I escaped I’ve been apologising to one punter after another. Or avoiding them. To be honest, most of last week’s a blank to me – that shit has really fried my brain. I can’t remember who I saw or who I didn’t – I don’t even have a clue who the bad guy was. I’ve had to wait until people phoned me up wanting to know why I’m late and make excuses. That started in the hospital – God knows what the other women in the ward thought – you’re not even supposed to have mobiles. Right now I feel like I’ve been run over by a double-decker bus. The nurse said it can feel the same as when you’ve had a general anaesthetic. I was acting like I’d lost my memory (which was almost true) until I could get my head together and make a plan. When I say I “discharged myself” I mean I just did a bunk and got Liz to pick me up at the front of the hospital. There were a couple of other taxis there, so she didn’t look out of place, despite it being 4am or whatever. And it wasn’t so difficult to walk out – no different really to walking into a hotel to meet a punter – and they’re short-staffed, I guess. I just got changed in the loo and dumped my gown. Meanwhile I’m down a load of cash – and other stuff. I must have lost out on three grand. And I missed out on seeing M. I’ve thought about telling her. (I told Sarah straight out, and she was okay about it; she’s asked me to go round to her place later. I’d forgotten I was supposed to see her on Saturday night, too. She must be mellowing in her old age.) But M… she might start to wonder who she’s getting into bed with. And she’d probably tell her bloke and I reckon he’d definitely try to stop her seeing me. I don’t know what to do. I should get out of all this. I think I might go to mass tonight. I need a miracle!