The Sexopaths

  ‘Hello… Adam?’ Evidently she has the hotel number stored in her phone memory.

  ‘Lifen – is Monique there?’

  There’s an intake of breath. He’s omitted any greeting and left no room for her to reciprocate. He’s vaguely aware his brusqueness will offend, but through Lifen wants to convey his ire. She composes herself:

  ‘One moment please.’

  ‘Adam – are you okay?’ Monique. Her tone tells Adam she knows something is awry.

  ‘I’m not okay.’

  ‘What is wrong – are you feeling ill?’

  ‘I am feeling a bit sick, now you mention it. I’ve just read these emails between you and Lucien.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘About your relationship – ‘circumstances’ as you put it – about meeting up… what’s going on Monique?’ A telltale octave tries to break through as he fights the tremor in his voice.

  ‘Adam – there is nothing. I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘It seems clear enough to me.’

  ‘Look – you are making something out of nothing. Don’t be ridiculous.’

  He can’t believe she’s said it: ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Not so long ago she’d read it out from a magazine: it’s what your partner says when you accuse them of having an affair, and they are. Ridiculously, he finds he’s arguing with himself that such a thing can’t always be true; surely it is a perfectly natural thing to say, innocent as much as guilty? He remains silent, the conflicting arguments – the email, her denial – wrestling in live and mortal combat inside his head. At present they threaten to cancel one another out, leaving him in a bewildered limbo. The hiatus forces Monique to speak:

  ‘Adam – we shall soon be finished – in less than half an hour. I can’t talk from here – there are other people nearby waiting for me to continue. We shall speak when I get back. Okay?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Adam – I must go.’ She adds, whispering: ‘I love you, my darling.’

  ‘… love you.’

  He falls down on her bed and stares unseeing at the pale ceiling. The words – or rather the word, love – hovers in his mind’s eye like the sun’s image burned upon his retina when accidentally viewed; offset from centre, each time he tries to look at it, it dances away, elusive and unreal. Whatever she might say, these feelings of despair tell him how much he loves her… if that need to possess, to be secure, to be sure, is love. He recalls Xara’s treatise; certainty is her maxim, control. Whereas Monique…? Is she free of such terrors; shimmering, diaphanous, able to slip her bonds and cross into those tempting places, drawn by forces that beguile and bewitch, and persuade one’s normal sensibilities that it is acceptable to see the world a different way? No wracking transition from Jeckyll to Hyde and back again… instead taking unseen duplicity in her stride? Right now, she says, there’s nothing afoot… while he at the other end of the phone reads her words – an intimate ‘Hey’, three kisses when he gets one – talk of relationships, of meeting up – are they not proof of her deception? Or, at the very least, self-deception – he supposes that’s what he wishes, hopes for; the lesser evil. Not the planning that takes nerve and cunning, the brazen excuses delivered with the cold calculating expertise of the psychopath, but a childish innocence that cannot distinguish between right and wrong, that puts gratification before loyalty, pleasure before pain.

  He sighs and shifts onto his stomach, presses his face into the pillow, smells her scent. Does it matter which it is? Nothing can change the conversation he has witnessed. Monique seems to be saying to Lucien she wishes she could be with him, but her personal circumstances prevent it. And now the proposal that they meet up in London – not even shielded beneath the cloak of respectability provided by the European Board.

  Right now he wants to take hold of Monique and squeeze her until the truth comes spilling out, like Snow White’s little choking bite of pomme empoisonnée. He thumps the mattress with a clenched fist, contemplates replying to Lucien using Monique’s handset, inviting him to ‘get the fuck away from my wife,’ but he feels somehow it would be a weak gesture; and phoning him last time obviously made no difference, albeit the guy hung up pretty smartly. Direct intervention might feel good, but in his heart he knows it will offer but a Pyrrhic victory; Monique is his only ally, and the outcome of the battle lies in her gift.

  ***

  ‘Monique – look, over there – no, no, not straight at them! Stand like you’re meant to be in the photo. That’s it – now you can turn round a bit and see.’

  Monique giggles and makes an exaggerated pose. Adam, one eye squinting into the camera, the other stage-directing Monique, zooms in on his real subject behind her. It’s a street-food shop manned by an extended Chinese family who, shaded by a dingy tattered green-and-white-striped awning, squat indolently on low stools around a pile of king-sized dim-sum baskets. The elderly matriarch is stretched out bare-legged as she undergoes some kind of foot massage from a peripatetic practitioner who has slung his yellowing plastic carrier bag of snake oils on the back of his cut-off chair. Beyond, at a table in the shadows crouches an old man, shaven headed and ostensibly naked (at least from the waist up), staring unseeingly into Adam’s lens, unmoving except for the rhythmic motion of his chopsticks and lower jaw as he loads noodles into his mouth from a tarnished wok. Several small presumably grandchildren also in various states of undress slowly wrestle one another like juvenile primates for the increasingly precious remnants of the dripping ice-lollies they each possess. At the equally haphazardly organised fruit-and-vegetable outlet next door a group of younger adults sits shaded in more relaxed contemplation, their seats – in the fashion, it seems – no higher than those at Camille’s nursery school. At their backs an opening in the wall is completely blocked by crates overflowing with unfamiliar produce. Through the viewfinder Adam notices that one of the party, a woman squatting so that her backside touches the heels of her pale-aquamarine flip-flops, is looking right at him, accusingly. Silently he steals her image and then turns the camera more pointedly upon Monique and sidles around so there can be no doubt he’s photographing her. He says:

  ‘Okay – that’s good. I got them but they’ve rumbled me so we’d better walk on.’

  ‘Which way shall we go?’

  ‘I think if we kind of bear left we’ll get deeper into this old part. We seem to be skirting round the edge of it now.’

  He lowers the camera and reaches for her hand. She reciprocates and offers him a share of the shade beneath the umbrella she’s carrying. He ducks away and says:

  ‘I’m fine – you keep it over you – it’s not big enough for two.’

  ‘Unlike you, my darling.’

  He makes the sound of a suppressed laugh – so as not to reject her saucy compliment – but looks ahead rather than meet her eyes. He doesn’t yet feel ready for the intimacy she’s offering. As they trip along in their superficial cheerfulness, they tread on eggshells. Like naughty children who have escaped sanction for their wrongdoings, they now over-compensate in their efforts to please. Monique, he’s sure, despite her outward joviality, bears a mantle of guilt woven from the indisputable evidence of the abridged email exchange. She seems to have conceded he was entitled to reach the conclusion he did, however much of a misapprehension it might be in fact. He, meanwhile – having so forcefully accused her of having an affair, frightening her with his anger, reducing her to tears – sports a lighter cloak: of remorse nonetheless, though edged with the lingering doubt that there is some element of truth, and thus infidelity. Indeed, while Monique he senses would gladly let matters drop and move on bright and breezy, happy-go-lucky, for him as-yet-unformed questions still push and probe at the brittle surface of his consciousness from the turbulent magma beneath, destined to burst forth their fetid ills.

  With the benefit of hindsight Adam wonders if he should have refrained from phoning Monique at Lifen’s firm’s factory. It had given her more than an hour to organise her def
ences, to arrange historical events in her mind, to re-cast and smooth over those subtle yet vital interpretations of words and phrases that for him had bristled with ambiguity; had he held his tongue he might have caught her entirely off guard. But he doubts he could have battled the intervening period of anguish alone, while the opportunity to speak with her lay within his reach. And, in spite of the disagreeable nature of the call, it had at least enabled him to verify his bond with her, however damaged it had felt at the time, her soft voice and soothing reassurance authenticating their common entity. Nonetheless, the prospect of waiting for her had stretched ahead, a lonely road, dwindling to infinity on a desert horizon; it was a path he chose to run, donning his kit in the bedroom and riding the lift up to the hotel’s penthouse spa, treading out the miles long past the point of her likely return.

  He’d returned, perspiring, still panting, to room three-nine-three to discover the bathroom door locked and the hiss of the shower just audible through its dark wood; Monique had later professed herself to be overcome by the draining climate, though he suspected a displacement activity at work on her part, too. He’d prowled about, stripped down just to his briefs, cooling his feet on the exposed tiles. Meanwhile Monique had lingered, he imagined psyching herself up, perhaps extending the hiatus in case he had arrived infuriated. She emerged finally in her towelling gown (its cord restored) like a boxer ready for the fray. He had not announced himself, but she had presumably detected his presence. Crossing the room towards him with extended hands she’d said:

  ‘So… what have I done to upset you, my precious darling?’

  Her silky timbre and elegant choice of words – considered?... spontaneous? – were an immediate pouring of oil upon the treacherous waters that divided them. When she could simply have scolded him for being upset over nothing, opted for outright denial, she had instead assumed liability, bared her throat to his fangs. Be it innate diplomacy or a desperate ploy for survival, she had obliged him to hold back, accepting her offered grip with reluctant fingertips and enabling her to engage him face to face, the hazel eyes laid open, inviting him to gaze upon her soul. Though ruffled by the success of these placatory tactics, and dismayed that she was acting as if there had been no precursor to this morning’s discovery, he’d retreated only by a quantum, from the angry to the injured:

  ‘Shouldn’t you be telling me?

  ‘There is nothing to tell.’

  ‘So there’s nothing going on between you and Lucien fucking Décure?’ He uses his knowledge of the surname like a piece of telling evidence.

  ‘My darling – I promise you – I am not having an affair with Lucien. I do not want to have an affair with Lucien… not with anybody!’

  He’d felt she’d leapt a fraction too hastily to the word ‘affair’. And did her use of the present and future tense shrewdly exclude the past tense, the careful literal avoidance of a lie? He’d picked up her handset, the offending email still open, and held it before her eyes before releasing it into her custody. He’d said:

  ‘You read it.’

  ‘My darling – I do not need to – I know what is there and there is nothing to be concerned about.’

  ‘Well what about three kisses, for a start? I’m not familiar with this kind of business correspondence. I get one kiss on the note you leave for me. And this ‘Hey Lucien’ stuff – what’s all that about? And your ‘personal circumstances’? You missed him. And you want to see him again – and he’s suggesting you meet in London. A party.’

  He’d paused for dramatic effect, before adding: ‘Is that nothing, Monique?’

  Beneath the weight of his stare she’d lowered her eyes, then slowly she’d sat down on the edge of the bed, smoothing out the creases to one side with her free hand, perhaps hoping he would join her. After a moment’s apparent consideration she’d tapped the phone ruefully against a bare tanned thigh, and looked up at him imploringly, tears forming in her eyes.

  ‘I am sorry – I have learned my lesson.’

  His heart had leapt into his mouth; he was certain she was about to confirm his worst fears, to give up on the tiresome charade. Too late, he’d realised he didn’t want to know – he’d wanted to silence her – but quickly she’d continued:

  ‘Look – Lucien – he was keen that I come to all the meetings – he thinks I can be elected as Vice-President because they feel a big country like the UK should play a significant role in the organisation. So I was trying to show them I value the Board and it was a difficult decision to miss a meeting. I did not mean I missed Lucien personally.’

  ‘You say in your email that you’ll see him soon.’

  ‘My darling – that is just politeness… good manners.’

  ‘It sounds like you’re arranging a date to me.’

  ‘Adam, no. Read it again – it is he who says something about seeing me – and I just reply that I shall see him soon… at the next Board meeting, I expect.’

  Adam had to admit this part of the exchange was accurate as she described it – and he’d prayed she was being truthful about it, too. But he’d persisted:

  ‘Except then he says he’ll see you in London.’

  ‘But what can I do if he writes such a thing?’

  ‘Tell him to fuck off.’ He’d paused. ‘Or I will. In person.’

  ‘No, Adam – you do not need to get involved, there is nothing to merit that.’

  ‘Well – what will you say?’

  ‘I do not have to reply.’

  He could tell she knew this wasn’t a plausible answer. He’d protested:

  ‘Oh, come off it – how’s that being polite, then?’

  Monique had shrugged. Of course they both understood she had to reply. She’d said:

  ‘I shall think of something. I do not want to hurt his feelings for no good reason.’

  Adam had taken her face in his hands – too forcefully, really – and made her look into his eyes. Was there fear amidst the tears? After a long pause, he’d said:

  ‘Monique… whose feelings do you care most about? His… or mine?’

  She’d hesitated for a disconcerting second before answering, although her reply when it came had sounded quite unequivocal.

  ‘Yours of course, my darling.’

  ‘Then it’s easy.’

  Now Monique had sighed, as if it wasn’t easy – and why should that be? Adam had said:

  ‘So if there’s nothing to it, what’s all this about ‘personal circumstances’? You make it sound like you’d get involved with him if you weren’t married – why say that to somebody?’

  Again Monique had deliberated for a moment or two before replying. Preceded by a small involuntary sob, she’d explained:

  ‘Like I said – I have learned my lesson. Look, Adam – when you just meet someone – and then after that you mainly communicate by email – it is very easy to be drawn into being a little bit more intimate than you would normally – it is easy to make a joke and to joke back – to say things that could be construed as a little bit risqué. I have been trying to make a good impression on the people in AMIE. They want to find out about me, get to know me… and I want them to like me. Lucien – maybe he has been looking for a little bit more.’

  ‘A little bit on the side, I think is the correct expression.’

  Curiously, although Adam had still not been sure that she wasn’t going to reveal an affair, a wave of relief had suffused his tortured mind – at least his intuition had been correct, and now at last she was admitting to him there was indeed a hint of something about which he might justifiably be concerned. It felt as if she had finally slipped off the fence of infuriatingly blithe indifference, putting a first tentative toe down upon the dewy grass of his side. He’d lowered himself beside her, though avoiding contact, suddenly self-conscious of his near nakedness. She’d shaken her head vigorously at his suggestion of ‘a bit on the side’, but had not offered an accompanying verbal denial. He asked:

  ‘What about this ‘party’ he’s plan
ning to have with you?’

  Monique had giggled – in a serious way, as if to show she knew it was a mistake he couldn’t help making. She’d used it as an opportunity to place a hand over his, and replied:

  ‘No, no – he means they had a party for him after the Board meeting – he has completed his term of office and is leaving. Simone had emailed last week me to tell me she had arranged everything. They went to some trendy restaurant and nightclub in Brussels. It was not a party for me, silly!’

  There’s further relief, though Adam can’t avoid the stark contradiction with her earlier statement about the next meeting. Nevertheless, he’d returned to the point that was most vexing him, although this time he’d phrased the question in her favour:

  ‘So you’re saying to Lucien that you’re sorry about your personal circumstances as a way of being polite about not being able to get involved?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why did you say ‘our’ personal circumstances? It’s like you’ve discussed things with him. That doesn’t feel good – you and he talking about whether you’re in a position to have an affair or not.’

  He’d sensed a tightening in Monique’s posture. She’d said, hurriedly as if to correct any misapprehension he might have:

  ‘I know, my darling – but I mean… it is normal conversation when you meet people or sit near to one another at a lunch or dinner or even in a long meeting when there are breaks, coffee… you talk about your life and where you come from and your family…’