The Sexopaths

by Beckham, Bruce

  In this regard stands one small curiosity – something he’d wished to ignore, had it not rung in his ears before he could close them to its message – which in its diminutiveness was all the greater, the sibilant punctuation of the humble triangle about which revolves an entire orchestral manoeuvre. Amidst their free-ranging yet disjointed conversation, perhaps by then less guarded, lulled by his neutrality, she had made a slip – too authentic to be affected, outwith the context of any joke – it could only be that. ‘I’d not spoken to nobody.’ Two letters where there should have been three, and fleetingly he’d glimpsed a vision, a slice of life: a skeletal tower block, ply-boarded windows, litter, the evening summer heat on concrete, yellowing weeds, a mongrel pausing to sprinkle urine, a girl on the corner, bronze legs slick, cocked head framed by graffiti, chewing gum, cars slowing, accent East End.

  While he’s mulling over this conundrum a familiar scene comes upon him and he realises he’s completed a circuit. He lingers for a second or two near the entrance to Xara’s apartment, but rain is starting to fall. He dodges the traffic and vaults the low wall bordering the supermarket lot; his car is nearby, patently not a shopper’s, parked distant from the store entrance, and well out of reach of those heavily laden trolleys that become pressed into service as battering rams. He drops inside the cockpit and feels the sudden grip of the chill that has been creeping upon his torso, inadequately clad against the elements. He cranks the engine, turns the heater to maximum, switches on the heated seat – but already a reflex has kicked in, a violent shivering designed by ancient genes; he has no choice but to let it run its course. He yields to the discomfort, allows his teeth to chatter; then he revs the engine to accelerate the onset of its tipping point, when a chain reaction will finally despatch hot air to relieve his discomfort. But as his shaking slowly subsides he realises he craves not the warmth of the cockpit, but the heat of her body. His first thought is to return across the street and hang upon her intercom – but that’s not her system: a dozen drunks a week buzz the wrong flat, and kids do it out of devilment, so her internal chimes are disconnected; gentlemen callers must telephone for admission. Instead he clicks the paddle of his carphone and selects the last number dialled. She responds almost instantaneously:

  ‘Adam?’ She too sounds handsfree – it would explain the fast reaction time.

  ‘Oh – hi. Look – sorry to bother you. Are you around for a bit longer?’

  ‘Adam – I’m sorry – I’ve already left. I’m on my way to the airport.’

  ‘Oh – sorry… I, er… I shouldn’t have bothered you.’

  ‘It’s okay. I guess we were a little longer than I’d expected.’ The giggle.

  ‘Sorry about that.’

  ‘Don’t apologise. It was my doing.’

  ‘Look – are you… flying?’ He’s uncomfortable asking the question, prying. Evidently one of her regulars (he of the fifty proposals), she usually collects at the airport and chauffeurs to heaven. He knows this courtesy of the field reports: the smart little sports coupé, the car park deep underground, the private lift to her apartment: presidential anonymity. He guesses this could be her mission, but she answers his question in the affirmative, contradicting this hypothesis:

  ‘Yes. I’ve a four-fifteen departure.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ So there’s no chance she’ll be free again today. He checks his wristwatch. ‘You should be okay – I think the traffic’s fine at Gogar at this time of day.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘When will you get back? I’m away myself from Friday night, for over a week. I have to go to China for a conference.’

  ‘I’m not sure… it depends on a few things.’

  Now there’s a faint hint of guardedness in her tone; and he feels a twinge of disappointment that she fails to comment upon his jet-setting.

  ‘Well – shall I phone you or text you when I’m… home?’

  ‘Sure.’ Her response lacks the enthusiasm he would wish for.

  ‘Great. Well… have a good… trip.’

  ‘Thanks – and you.’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘Take care, Adam.’ A sudden softening.

  ‘Bye…’

  He wants to complete his farewell with her name, the forbidden fruit she almost handed to him, before second thoughts and self-preservation intervened; instead he chokes on the alias Xara, swallows on the dry aftertaste of awkwardness, the ‘nice to have met you’ mouthed in lieu of the name of someone just introduced, instantly forgotten. But she’s gone, perhaps irked that he’d contrived a second, unscripted farewell. Annoyed at himself he kicks the car into gear and departs untidily, catching an exit-kerb with a precious alloy, the scraping sound causing him to cringe like someone has run a fingernail down a blackboard. He gains the main street where he is obliged to halt at the junction in view of her apartment block’s main door. Again he feels the magnetic pull, the futility. Is this what she does – entices the unsuspecting, brainwashes them in her own special way, releases them tagged for recall whenever she desires? Or is he willing it to be thus – conscription to the elite order? He recalls the girl Victoria’s remark about Xara being able to hand-pick her clientele. Perhaps there’s a vacancy in the ranks – maybe one of the associates has resigned… or died? (Death seems the only permissible excuse.) But this is just his ego playing tricks: it’s not a fellowship he came for, but freedom – and he’s sure that’s exactly what she granted him, oblique though her pardon was.

  Give or take the odd amber gamble he gets green lights almost all the way up Easter Road, London Road and through onto Queen Street, and in ten minutes he’s signalling to turn into a fortuitously vacant parking space beneath his office on The Mound. His attendance, even this late in the day, makes good diplomatic sense: though his partners are accommodating of his idiosyncratic timekeeping, and his extra-curricular publicity good for the firm’s profile, it’s a busy period and he’s about to be away again – this time for longer than usual. But switching off the ignition reveals an inertia about his person, and he senses he’s unprepared to fashion a lively entrance and join in whatever banter or bonhomie is currently accompanying work in progress. Then he has the idea of making a phone call – he can steal past reception and through to his desk under the cover of a conversation, required only to nod here, wink there, able to duck any jibes about long lunches, settle in immune from interruption, shielded from attention until he’s ready to engage.

  In the lift he dials Monique’s mobile number, but her line diverts straight to voicemail; he’s forced to listen to the message he despises. Upon its conclusion, he says:

  ‘Hi – it’s me. Just phoning to see how you are. The visas were ready. I’ll try you on your office number. Love you.’

  He ends the call and dials again, heads into the main office, keeps moving fast, minimising eye-contact, acknowledging where necessary. He reaches his desk and slumps down, spins to face the windows. Now Monique’s direct line diverts, too.

  ‘Hello, Monique’s phone.’ The voice is female, friendly – it sounds familiar though he can’t put a name to it.

  ‘Oh, hi – it’s Adam here – I was trying to get hold of the missus.’

  ‘She left about noon – she’s not back yet. Can I take a message?’

  ‘It’s okay, thanks – I’ll try her mobile. Cheers.’

  He can’t recall her saying she had a meeting today. He’d noticed – his newly acquired vigilance – this morning she’d left for work dressed in a relaxed fashion, jeans and a loose-fitting top, as if in anticipation of a day indoors at the agency. The girl minding her calls – it wasn’t Monique’s usual PA – hadn’t volunteered her whereabouts, while he shied away from further interrogation, feeling his casual concern would transmit through his questions and embarrass him as suspicion; with her PA he could have chatted more informally, complained of Monique’s penchant for shoes and handbags and the credit card bill she was no doubt running up. Now in his mind he runs the familiar scenarios: c
ould she be meeting with Jasmin-Sharon – for coffee, for coke, for worse? With Lucien – for the unthinkable?

  He gives a little shake of the head, as if to dislodge the thoughts that descend upon him like persistent flies whenever some obstacle slows his pace. Come on Adam, Monique must have half a hundred reasons to pop out at lunchtime (including to shop) – and has probably been doing so without troubling his antennae since long before they became acquainted. For all he knows she has regular lunch appointments – isn’t it how they do business in advertising? He’s guessed it’s part and parcel of her job without ever quizzing her about it: that clients dangle their juicy budgets in return for unlimited Chardonnay and her delightful company. Some perhaps hope for more – in fact, knowing Monique, some probably think more is on the cards – but until recently he’d never even had to bother his head with such a notion. He’d always taken her to be a big girl, professional at what she did, setting clear limits (in her own mind at least, even if potential suitors didn’t quite see things the same way); he remembers that from his own first encounters; although the barriers did of course break down. Of late… he’s not felt so sure. Could there have been other Luciens, other Jasmin-Sharons?

  His mobile rings: it’s her.

  ‘Monique – are you okay?’

  She says she’s fine, my darling, how is he? He hears background noise, the hum of traffic, the clank of building work, she’s a hint breathless as if walking.

  ‘Er – yeah, fine – I was trying to get you.’

  She says she had to switch off her phone – she was at the hospital.

  ‘Really?’

  He pictures her together with Jasmin-Sharon, sitting either side of a bed tenderly holding a hand each of the grandfather whom he had correctly predicted had the powers of a latter-day Lazarus.

  But she says she is fine. She?

  ‘You are fine?’

  He listens, concentrating, guilt seeping into his gut. She tells him it was just a regular check that she was scheduled for… women’s stuff, you know.

  ‘And – is everything okay? I mean – are you okay?’

  He nods. She says absolutely – they inform you immediately if there’s any trace of a problem – although of course there are some routine tests they send for further analysis and mail you the results later.

  ‘Monique, you should have told me – I could have come with you.’ His words concern him. Why didn’t he say would?

  She tells him it wasn’t necessary – repeats that it was just routine – she hadn’t felt concerned. In any event she’d forgotten until she checked her diary at the office. He’s alarmed by this whole revelation – how would he have handled it if she’d mentioned the check-up this morning? Surely the only thing to do would have been to insist he accompanied her, slapped down her protestations, cancelled his engagements. Or lied. The prospect disturbs him – where would the greatest loss have been incurred? Monique speaks his name to break his silence, repeats that she is fine – as if she imagines in his silence he’s worried and lost for words. He asks:

  ‘What are you doing now?’

  She says she’s not going back to her office. They need some groceries… and she’ll collect Camille… so if he has to stay a little late at work it’s no problem.

  ‘Okay – well, look – I’ll call you about six if I’m not leaving then.’

  She says she looks forward to later.

  He agrees, then logs on to find Xara7 dot com.

  Blog by Anonymous – 8

  OMG! Sarah has made me an offer. I’ve said I’m going to take her up on it. It could mean everything changes… el milagro!

  CHAPTER 9

  Mid-October – Shanghai, China

  Adam can’t help noticing that the two good-looking girls in the front row near where he’d awaited his introduction to the stage now appear to be asleep. Indeed, among the audience of three hundred or so, it seems that at least a dozen are indulging in the post-lunch power-nap that Lifen had warned him about – advice he’d only cursorily listened to, thinking it surely couldn’t happen during his, the keynote speech. Although the spotlights are upon him, and the onlookers in relative darkness, he can just make out a number of dark glossy heads laid upon the paler flip-over desktops that form part of the conference seating arrangements. Meanwhile the wakeful majority are staring and still as if concentrating hard on the translation, an incessant chatter that escapes in minute fashion from the scattering of headsets that have been discarded by the more able linguists. For a moment he feels disconcerted and hesitates over the transition to his next slide, but Lifen’s assurances come back to him: ‘It is custom in China to eat lunch at one’s desk and then put one’s head down to sleep for a few minutes – please do not take offence.’ Still, it’s curious, he thinks – he’s been flown business class halfway round the world, various employers have paid handsomely for their staff to benefit from his wisdom… and here they are having a kip at the crucial moment. Fingers crossed that the official photographer, whose blinding flashes burst from random points in the darkness, doesn’t get any shots that include a sample of those enjoying a sojourn in the land of Nod. Now he clicks on an animated section of his presentation, and moves away from the rostrum while the video sequence plays. He spots Monique sidling up beside the left-hand wall of the auditorium. She too has a camera and appears intent on framing an angle that will certainly capture some of the dozing delegates. Oh well, it will make a good story when they get back home.

  He expounds with the occasional ad lib: it’s a peculiar sensation as his head-mike collects his quietly spoken words and relays them about the auditorium, an infinitesimal yet just discernible delay enabling him to feel the resonance of his voice within his chest, as if he’s part of the sound system. The amplification gives him the impression of being a more skilled orator than he knows he is (having watched video clips of himself on conference websites), but this is one occasion when that probably doesn’t matter, given that most of the delegates are listening to Mandarin… or Shanghainese… or whatever other translations are available – and who knows how they will turn out? He was initially perturbed when Lifen informed him that the Chinese version of his new book is really quite different to the English original – but that she admired them both, of course. He casts about for her among the rows of unblinking homogenous faces, clearer now that he has stepped back from the limelight, but he can spy no trace of the distinctive spiky hairdo that has aided his recognition of her thus far. It was a characteristic impressed upon him when, on their late arrival in the hotel foyer, she’d swiftly detached herself from the reception counter and, evidently having waited patiently for all of the two hours of their flight delay, politely intercepted them with a bowing introduction. Up until that moment he’d reacted with some cynicism, even mild annoyance, that Monique had procured somebody – via her newly acquired AMIE contacts – actually based in Shanghai who would review his book and his conference slides, and provide feedback upon any salient points that might have an adverse impact in a local context. He’d complained that under the circumstances they were just trying to impress her as a customer, their motives mercenary… and in any event what were the chances of them being qualified to comment upon his work? But he knew in his heart that the true source of his irritation was the connection to Lucien, indirect or otherwise.

  They’d dozed fitfully during what was a night-flight in UK terms, arriving in China to find the day well advanced. By the time they reached the hotel it was around seven p.m. (and eleven a.m. at home), and though Adam had felt fatigued by the indolence of travel, he was not actually sleepy – his internal clock knew it was mid-morning. He wasn’t due to speak until the following afternoon, and he’d calculated that they could probably afford a long lie during the forthcoming Shanghai morning, which was the equivalent of the next British night. Nevertheless, he was eager to shower and change, the humidity encountered since disembarkation compounding his discomfort, and had been calculating how quickly they coul
d excuse themselves from Lifen’s dutiful attentions. Monique, of course, had insisted that they all have a drink in the foyer bar, and with hindsight Adam was thankful for her instinct always to engage socially in any such situation. Not only was Lifen impeccably courteous, and a veritable cornucopia of sincerity and humility, but despite her long and indeterminate wait, she had immediately pointed out how tired they must be and had suggested she come back at a time in the morning that would be more convenient (commuting for who-knows-how long from who-knows-where across the seemingly limitless concrete metropolis). Naturally Monique had railed at the idea, and in due course at their table Lifen had produced from her attaché case an elegantly typeset pack of notes relating to his speech, along with suggested itineraries, restaurants, sights, shops and contact details for things they might like to do in their spare time in Shanghai. She offered to take Monique to see the local sister factory of that where the soft-toys would be made – if of course they felt they could spare a couple of hours, and naturally Adam was included in the invitation. And when they finally did part, some forty or fifty minutes later, she gave him his first lesson in local etiquette: the bowing, two-handed presentation and mutual appreciation that was required in order to exchange business cards, diplomatically pointing out how to store the received card carefully in a case, and not casually to stick it in the back pocket, later – horror of horrors – to be sat upon, as ignorant Westerners are prone to doing.

  Adam reflects on such differences as he reaches the concluding slides of his presentation. When he addresses a British audience, or even those further afield where English has been enthusiastically adopted by the latest baby-booming multitude of young, trendy, smart and hungry business graduates, like in many of the former Soviet Bloc states, he usually gets a few laughs as they pick up the intended ironies in his perspicacious observations. The last time he’d lectured in Mexico City he’d felt more like a stand-up comic than a serious conference speaker, such was the level of audience participation. Today, however, the Chinese are either living up to their reputation for inscrutability, or are simply not used to this kind of subtle double-speak – and why should they be? He’s the one in the minority around here. He wonders if in fact his entire way of thinking, the premise of his proposition, his hypothesis, simply isn’t right for the oriental mind or mentality. While Lifen gave no such negative hints in either her notes or the discussion they’d had, he’s detected none of the usual subtle but affirmative body language that tells him the crowd is with him.