The Sexopaths

  CHAPTER 8

  9th October – Leith, Scotland

  ‘It’s just me, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Just you…’ he hopes his ‘just’ is brightly awed, polished clean of disappointment. ‘Then I’m the one who should be afraid.’

  She laughs, a light cascade of notes that recalls the time when she asked him if there was anything he didn’t do, when he trembled in anticipation of his encounter with the shadowy Ms Y. Now, on bended knee at the refrigerator, Xara reaches in for some obstinate article. From his vantage point on a stool at the breakfast pier that divides the kitchenette from a living area – a room he’s never been privy to before, and which he notes is curiously devoid of personal effects – Adam assesses the smooth cocoa-butter flesh of her thigh, naked from ankle to hip, where it is eventually demarcated by the fine line of her brilliant pink briefs; above these just a short and flimsy clinging slip pays polite but ineffective lip-service to the protocol of greeting him at her door in something more than mere bra and pants. What on earth would a visiting meter-reader think?

  ‘Did your… er… client call off?’

  He can’t believe he’s asking such a fraudulent question, but no alternative opening springs to mind. It will prove embarrassing, costly even, if she knows he knows. Yet in one sense he’s relieved by Jasmin-Sharon’s absence (it makes any conspiracy theory somehow seem a little less likely), although now he feels a new anxiety – for what other purpose has Xara lured him here?

  She looks up quickly, then stands and holds a champagne bottle trophy-like, one-handed. With a quizzical smile, she says:

  ‘Didn’t I say? It was always just me.’

  ‘Oh… no… we… I don’t think we spoke. I just assumed from your text… I tried your number, but I guess you were busy. I couldn’t get through after that. I thought since I’d got the date and time, that was all I needed to know. I didn’t want to harass you.’

  ‘Sorry about that.’ Gracefully she brings down two fluted glasses from a shelf, taking her time to place them carefully together on the bar-top. She says:

  ‘I don’t normally drink – would you?’ She hands the bottle to Adam and slides onto a stool facing him, gently making knee contact.

  ‘Of course.’

  He unscrews the wire and twists the cork. It comes away more easily than he anticipated, and he’s obliged to present the neck urgently to the first glass. ‘Say when…’

  She lets him dispense a generous measure. He says, a little apprehensively:

  ‘Glass half full?’

  Again the sweet little laugh. ‘That’s my outlook. I think yours, too.’

  Adam hears this as a question. He says:

  ‘I try. Things can get a bit blurred at times, though.’

  She doesn’t respond to his tentative allusion to the mists and vapours that seem slowly to strangle him. Either she declines the invitation to elaborate, or simply doesn’t recognise his coded plea. Instead she rises beaming over the glass’s horizon.

  ‘Cheers.’

  He clinks. ‘Cheers.’

  ‘Here’s to the future.’

  ‘The future.’ Why?

  He meets her eye as they drink, but then averts his gaze, as if returning her dark probing stare will unlock his thoughts, lay them open to her scrutiny, reveal his guilty secret, stir her wrath. Yet this sugared overture bears no foretaste of an imminent disciplinary move on her behalf, a bitter reprimand, a punishment for his disruptive behaviour – his clandestine meetings out-of-school with her protégée, his discovery that their little business arrangement isn’t all she would have him believe – however inadvertently disclosure came upon him. Perhaps Jasmin-Sharon has held her tongue, shrinking from the inevitably condemned role of cowering messenger. He ponders the probability of her non-attendance being accounted for by her supposed bereavement – it would appear an obvious explanation… if it weren’t for Xara’s matter-of-fact statement that the appointment was always going to be to see her alone. Suddenly it strikes him that she might be expecting him to pay. He fights a moment of panic – he has some cash in his wallet but nothing like the figure she charges, even for half an hour – how will he engineer an opening to present the question, make his excuses? But hold on – it was not he that made the appointment; he has no designed intentions. This counter argument brings him back round to wondering what fate awaits him today. If Jasmin-Sharon is to be believed, Xara is a scheming manipulator who preys upon others for her own ends. Clearly it doesn’t make sense that she has enticed him here for a normal punter’s paying visit. Isn’t it more likely that some plan involving Jasmin-Sharon has gone awry, and now she is improvising? Yet… why didn’t she text him to call it off, or turn him away at her door?

  As if she’s reading his thoughts, she says:

  ‘I wanted to thank you.’

  Still he feels she draws his guard. Defenceless, unable to parry, he awaits some lethal thrust, but her softened features and gentle smile epitomise sincerity. Rather feebly, he says:

  ‘You mean about… the thing with your female client?’

  ‘Well… kind of, yes. You’ve been very, very helpful.’

  ‘It’s been my pleasure. You must have noticed?’

  She giggles. ‘And mine.’

  ‘Honestly?’ He lays his cupped hands on the bar-top, Oliver fashion.

  ‘Of course.’

  Surprise – he has asked for more and she has obliged. He’s baffled; instead of taking up the leash, roles of mistress and slave reinstated, she fosters an unexpected equality. It almost seems as if they’re dancing around one another, neither quite willing to make a first definitive move. He asks:

  ‘Does that apply with… all of your clients?’

  ‘Not necessarily.’

  He realises he doesn’t know her well enough to allow silence to winkle out her thoughts. In any case, his nervous anxiety strains to fill the void. He says:

  ‘It can’t be easy. You must like some more than others?’

  ‘That’s true. But I try to be… polite at all times. And who doesn’t like sex?’

  She takes a mouthful of champagne – more than a delicate sip, he notes – and slides a thigh against his. She swallows, wide-eyed as if to say ‘oops’, then her gaze seems to relax a little. He wonders is this courtesy leading to some request, demand – or is there… could there be… a special affection for him? But no – he can’t be lulled into thinking this kind of thing. Remember – there’s still a game of cat-and-mouse afoot, and she is the feline, claws on his tail. The proof? He might have disabused himself of Ms Y’s identity, but Xara shows no inclination yet to release her grip on this same score. He says:

  ‘You certainly win a lot of plaudits for your GFE.’

  It’s a reference he knows she’ll understand. She gives a modest shrug. ‘And what do you think?’

  Adam smiles. Girl Friend Experience. He’s read it a score of times in her reviews – it must be the number one abbreviation used by her followers, the ultimate accolade apparently, the kite mark that denotes satisfaction guaranteed.

  ‘They’re right, obviously.’ He’s quick to answer lest she thinks he doesn’t mean it, though he feels clumsy in his choice of words. Then, more carefully, he says:

  ‘But, to be honest… the idea… it beats me a little.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Well… I’d have thought… isn’t what guys want… more of a Bad Girl Experience?’

  Her eyes sparkle and her smile takes on devilish curves. ‘I think we know who we’re talking about, here – my dear Adam.’

  A thrill – or is it a chill? (it’s hard to tell) – delineates his spine from the rest of his whole. She must have used his name before (although suddenly he’s not even sure of that), but something in her tone has reached deep into the viscera of his subconscious and awoken a dormant urge, a profound desire to embrace and hold her, protect her, thank her, repay her on behalf of his gender for her unasked ministrations beyond the call of duty.
For a moment or two he is unable to speak, while for her part she gazes patiently, tilting her head questioningly. He summons up a reply:

  ‘But… isn’t it true? I mean – take the websites for your… profession. I don’t see girlfriends. I see alluring females, scantily clad, who promise wild sex and anonymity. Surely that’s bad-girl not girl-friend?’

  Xara nods gently, still watching him. She takes another sip, more modest this time. She says, quietly:

  ‘People look into an estate agent’s window… they buy what they see on the outside, but spend all their time on the inside, where it’s… comfy, reliable. Sometimes they never look at the outside again. The paintwork can peel and nobody will notice.’

  It’s an insightful analogy, Adam has to admit. ‘So – for most guys – you think they really want the comfy interior?’

  ‘Comfy need not equal boring.’

  ‘Something tells me you don’t do boring.’

  She inclines her head a fraction to acknowledge the compliment. She says:

  ‘It’s horses for courses.’

  ‘This feels a bit like a mad gallop.’

  ‘Well, at least you’re built for it.’

  ‘I can’t think what you mean.’ He’d love to ask her to elaborate.

  ‘It must be the champagne.’ She slides her glass towards him for a refill. ‘I shouldn’t have too much.’

  He responds to her action rather than her words and obliges with the bottle, then fills his own glass. He wonders how far she’ll allow him to pry – it’s a tantalising prospect, a tour of her private gated community, a window upon a little world where time-shared residences are populated by the intriguingly pseudonymous authors of field reports penned about this enigmatic woman – and how much light it will cast upon his own predicament. He says:

  ‘You do seem to have some very loyal customers.’

  ‘Every business needs its regulars.’

  ‘I think yours are more of a fan club.’

  ‘Maybe I should start making movies.’ There’s a knowing smile.

  Adam feels a tremor of apprehension at this particular suggestion. He hopes it’s not a hint of what is to come. He says:

  ‘Reading your reviews on the website – it’s like some of the guys, two or three of them in particular, are in competition. Almost… for you to belong to them – if you don’t mind me putting it like that.’ (She shakes her head.) ‘Who’s seen you the most. Who saw you last. Who had a better time with you. As soon as one’s submitted a report, another can’t get his in fast enough.’

  ‘I can’t do much about that.’

  He senses he’s pushing towards the limits of her permission. ‘Do you read them? Do you know who writes them?’

  ‘Of course. Both.’

  ‘And how do you feel?’

  ‘I don’t mind. So long as they’re not offensive or untrue. I prefer them not to be graphic in their detail.’

  Adam thinks she probably gets her way in this regard, and no doubt expresses her displeasure in the event a punter transgresses her unwritten rules. Of all the girls on the Angels365 website, she has by far the most reviews – more than two hundred dating back over eight years, certain authors having time-travelled in tandem – and rarely do any of the entries describe bedroom scenes in anything other than a narrow range of tacitly approved platitudes. “I'm not really going to say what else happened that night but what I will say is that I left the next morning with a huge smile on my face.”

  Yet more striking to Adam is the subtle competition he has described, with one of the suitors even freely admitting – in a tone of happy naivety – to over fifty proposals of marriage, as if through this schoolboy technique there will begin to be some diminution in her resistance. Adam finds it extraordinary that her followers can confess their fawning ardour in so public a forum, when they so patently pursue her as a posse. Moreover, these self-styled caballeros seem not to recognise that they ride a merry-go-round, their steeds fixed and undeviating, never seriously threatening to close upon their quarry. She stands by, holding to ransom their emotions, plundering their pockets, as they labour under their revolving misapprehensions of favouritism. He wonders, would he sign up to such a circle – if he were single or in search of the comfort she describes – apply the blinkers, convince himself he were the only jockey? He asks:

  ‘It’s quite touching how people feel about you – and I can completely understand why – but how do you reconcile having a bunch of guys, all pretty much besotted, and each thinking they’re the special one?’

  For a second now he thinks he’s stepped out of bounds: her eyes darken and he senses an unwelcome shadow has crossed her thoughts. But it’s a transient cloud – she brightens and, as if aware she might have disconcerted him, she smiles and reaches to touch his hand. In an almost girly conspiratorial fashion she says:

  ‘It’s not so difficult. It’s a job, after all. I can only be so much for somebody – after that it’s up to them what they want to believe. I don’t pretend to a relationship that doesn’t exist. I think they know that, really. Don’t you?’

  He’s unsure whether she’s asking for corroboration or confirmation. But before he can oblige with either a question has escaped his own lips:

  ‘Do you have a boyfriend… a partner?’

  He can’t believe he has asked. He’s certain the last thing he wants to discuss is his own personal circumstances – and anyway if they reached that topic, surely she would just expect him to lie – so he doesn’t imagine for a moment she will reciprocate. Yet his inquiry, taboo or otherwise, suddenly feels so pertinent, and not to feed his curiosity, but to sate a need to strike an understanding of her being. If what Jasmin-Sharon has told him is correct, then he can expect the answer is no. He wants the answer no. And he wants to ask its corollary – does she want a boyfriend? Does she want someone to love her? To make love to her?

  ‘It’s not possible.’ She seems unfazed.

  ‘But, you…’

  ‘… would if I could?’

  ‘Well… you’re… you strike me as a… an affectionate kind of person.’ He’s not sure if either of them believe this.

  ‘I was married once – very young. Too young. It drew me to the conclusion that I was probably better on my own. It made me very resilient.’

  ‘I’m sorry it didn’t work out.’

  ‘I think things have worked out okay.’

  ‘Sorry – I didn’t mean…’

  ‘It’s okay. I’m a tough nut.’

  Adam’s fingers are brushing the soft flesh of her arm, feeling the invisible nap of fine hairs. He says:

  ‘No. You’re more like a peach.’

  She seems to like the simile, and smiles approvingly. ‘Don’t bite me too deeply then.’

  ‘I’ll remember that.’

  ‘There’s also something you’re forgetting.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Well – you obviously read the reviews on the website.’

  Abashed Adam nods, although it’s a statement, uncomfortable with the impression that he’s perpetually online, patrolling the labyrinth. She continues:

  ‘The chaps you’re talking about,’ (he realises that, unlike other working girls, she’s never used the word punter in conversation with him) ‘they visit and review other girls, too… so it’s not as if the responsibility for their happiness rests on my shoulders alone.’

  ‘But… you do seem to offer something extra… these guys, they all come across as – kind of… tortured… captives… if you don’t mind me saying so.’

  ‘It’s certainty.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Certainty – not imprisonment. A little world, a safe-room of your own – you can enter it when you decide, you know I’ll be here, dedicated to you, faithful to you… until next time. You have certainty in your life. Guaranteed.’

  He notes her sudden switch into the second person, as though she’s selling the idea to him… or describing his drive, unearthing
from the deep mine of his psyche the gemstone that is the cause of his presence, shining upon it a beam of insightfulness. He shies away from this notion and says, in an admiring tone: