The Price of Love

by Deanna Maclaren

  ‘How long did all this take?’

  ‘An hour. She had a clock by the bed. But as someone once said, an hour can seem a long time in a brothel.’

  ‘Did you go back?’

  ‘No. Oh God no.’

  Helene sipped her coffee. Jean-Paul finished his cognac and absentmindedly picked up hers.

  So, Helene realised. We haven’t got there yet, have we?

  She decided to front this out. Otherwise there would be another bar and they’d be there till three in the morning with more cognacs and she really would turn into a Jean Rhys character. Besides, she had to get to work tomorrow. Women in Jean Rhys novels never held down a job for long. They lived precariously, at the mercy of men, the landlady, the boss. Jean Rhys women were always being fired. These days it was called being ‘let go.’ Like a balloon.

  Angeline, of course, could easily let her go. Theirs was an informal arrangement. Helene was only too aware that she had no legal contract of employment.

  ‘Jean-Paul, don’t tell me you’re going to take Marc to a brothel?’

  He looked horrified. ‘No! Of course not. It would ruin everything between us.’

  ‘Well what then?’ Helene demanded.

  ‘I – I wondered if perhaps Marc and I went out for a drink together one evening. We could come here, Brasserie Lipp. And if, perhaps, it would be possible that you could walk past. I could see you through the window. You could join us. I could say you were a client. You could, yes, you could wear one of your brooches. And then,’ he was speeding up, ‘then I’d go away. Leave you together. I mean, while you were in the ladies’ I could say to him, something on the lines of I think she fancies you…’

  ‘Let me get this absolutely straight,’ said Helene. ‘You want me to accidentally on purpose meet your son. You want me to seduce him. You want me to initiate him for all the women who’ll come after me?’

  Jean-Paul clasped her hand. ‘Madame, she expects me to do something about Marc. His situation. And chérie, I simply don’t know who else to ask.’

  They didn’t discuss it on Wednesday. He bought her a Hermes scarf and took her to the rue Mabillon, to a charming restaurant called La Fontaine.

  After lunch the following day, she phoned Alexis to see if he wanted to meet at VTR that night. The phone was on message, so she took herself off on a long walk to think through this Marc business.

  There were so many questions.

  Was Jean-Paul being a kind, concerned parent, or an interfering one?

  All right, it was flattering that Jean-Paul assumed Marc would like her, but he might not. She was, after all, thirty-seven, and he was twenty- three.

  Then, just because he didn’t bring anyone home, it didn’t mean he didn’t have a girlfriend. He might have a whole stash of them he doesn’t want his mother to know about.

  Next, Jean-Paul was assuming she could wave a sexual wand and in one night of magic turn an inexperienced lad into a Lothario. But it would probably take longer than that. And how was Jean-Paul going to feel when she said sorry, can’t see you tonight, got another hot date with your son. And what if Marc actually became attached to me? Stranger liaisons have happened.

  And finally, if she said she’d rather not do it, how would Jean-Paul react? He was accustomed to her being compliant. This hadn’t been difficult, given his considerate nature and his generous, non-judgemental attitude. But with Madame on his back, the pressure could change him, change them.

  I’ve never been temperamental, Helene thought. I’ve never thrown things, slapped anybody (Hilly and Noel didn’t count) or smashed up a guy’s car. But if Jean-Paul rucks up with me over Marc, I might over-react. Spoil everything.

  The only thing to do, Helene decided, heading for home, is to find Marc someone else.

  Chapter Eight

  As her eyes adjusted to the gloom in VTR that night, Helene realised she had walked into a drama.

  Harry had hold of the boy who helped behind the bar. He was shaking him, violently.

  ‘You’re a germ!’ Harry shouted. ‘You’re what a virus used to be before everything went high tech. I’ve told you and told you. I don’t mind the odd spliff but syringes in the bog are not on. So you’re out.’ He released the boy, who fell sideways. Harry kicked him towards the stairs. ‘Out! Now!’

  ‘You can’t do this,’ the boy protested. ‘I got rights –‘

  ‘Rights?’ bellowed Harry. ‘You got no fucking rights.’

  ‘My contract says you got to pay me – ‘

  ‘Read the fucking contract,’ bawled Harry. ‘Can you actually read? Can you do joined-up reading? Because you will see a clause expressly forbidding you either to drink or take drugs at any time during your employment. Now bugger off!’

  The boy scarpered up the stairs.

  Helene wasn’t sure what to do. Alexis wasn’t there. Neither was Christie, although his panama was resting on the piano, indicating that he was on his break.

  Then Harry was looming over her. ‘Come and talk to me. Calm me down. Bloody kid. Shooting up in the men’s room.’

  As Helene settled onto a bar stool, he poured her a glass of champagne, waving aside her attempt to pay. He was studying her T-shirt. Helene often wore it as an ice-breaker. It said:

  ‘Men may come and men may go, but I go on for ever.’

  Helene was preparing to explain that her name was Brook and this was from a poem called The Brook, when Harry said, ‘Unusual. Don’t think we’ve ever had Tennyson in the club before. I like it. Raises the tone.’

  He broke off to serve some Diet Cokes to a mousy couple who then went and sat quietly at a table. Perhaps, Helene thought, Thursday was just one of those slow nights at VTR.

  She said, ‘Where are you from, Harry?’

  ‘Romania. The pretty bit. And,’ he added drily, ‘we do have books there.’

  Helene coloured. ‘Look, a lot of English people wouldn’t even know how to spell Tennyson. Anyway, what’s your favourite poem?’

  It was impossible to faze Harry Moscow. Immediately, he recited,

  ‘Oh, I could live with thee in the wildwood

  Where human foot hath never worn a way;

  With thee, my city and my solitude,

  Light of my night, sweet rest from cares by day.’

  ‘Good heavens. Who wrote that?’

  ‘Richard Burton. No, not the Elizabeth Taylor one. The explorer. He was Victorian, married to an amazing woman called Isabel. You can read about it. Terrific book called The Wilder Shores of Love.’

  The title held an immediate appeal for Helene. ‘Who wrote it?’

  ‘Lesley Blanch. Out of print, probably, but you’ll see lots of second-hand bookshops in Paris and they do English -

  Christ!’ Harry was shooting round the bar, confronting the three girls from the lap-dance joint nearby. They were in their working gear, satin thongs, and sequinned skimpy bras, their faces gaudy with theatrical slap.

  ‘How many times,’ Harry yelled, ‘Have I told you not to come in here like that! This is a respectable club. Now get yourselves out of here and cover up. If you want to come back, cover your crotch. No one, I assure you, no one is interested in staring at your pathetic little minges.’

  As the girls scuttled away, Harry heaved a sigh. Helene was nervous he’d carry on shouting but instead he gave her what for Harry passed as a lopsided grin.

  ‘Took me years to get that one right. Some women, you have to speak to them like that. Wives, for example.’

  Helene could not imagine in a million years anyone wanting to marry this bruiser of a bloke.

  ‘You’ve been married, Harry?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He paused reflectively. ‘One day, I really must ask her why she left me.’

  Helene found this stunning. ‘You still see her?’

  ‘Sure, time to time. London. She runs a pub.’

  The lap-dance girls, accustomed to fast changes, were speedily back. They were, as instructed, clothed. One wore a festive mini-dress t
hat appeared to be fashioned of silver tinsel. The second was garbed in a green rubber outfit obviously designed to put the punters in mind of a hospital surgical unit. The third girl was in a gymslip, with fake plaits for the clients to tickle her with.

  As they demurely asked for orange juices, Helene realised they were English. Paris was such a cosmopolitan city, it was often difficult to tell where on earth people were from. Even when you thought someone was French, they’d inform you angrily that they were Algerian. Which wasn’t a far cry, Helene supposed, from the way Yorkshiremen rarely thought of themselves as English. No, they were always from Yorkshire.

  The lap-dance girls took themselves off to the banquette. The place was starting to fill up. Christie came back and put on his hat as he sat down at the piano. Harry was busy at the bar, so Helene drifted across to talk to the girls.

  Gymslip, she learned, was the specialist on the team. ‘I don’t just do lap. I do pole.’

  The other two were furiously engaged in slagging off Harry. The Romanian was, Helene gathered, something of an open wound with them.

  ‘No one wants to see your crotch! I’ll have him know, people pay good money to see what’s in my knickers.’

  ‘He dyes his hair. D’you know that? Odile in the hotel does it for him.’

  ‘And have you noticed, he has his suits made with extra wide lapels. Gives him a tough guy look.’

  Helene eyed the girls speculatively, conscious of her quest for Jean-Paul and his son. Would any of these three do?

  She said, ‘I suppose, working evenings, it’s nice to have time off in the day?’

  Gymslip hooted. ‘Time off! What’s that when you’ve got a kid to get to school and the shopping to do.’

  The others were nodding. It turned out they were all married with children.

  ‘And your husbands. Do they know, you know, what you do?’

  ‘Course. They have to babysit,’ said Surgical. She added primly, ‘And it’s not as if we’re on the game.’

  Tinsel wagged a finger at her. ‘Now, now. Language! Remember this is a respectable club.’

  At this the girls went into spasms of laughter. They clutched one another. They were practically crying with mirth.

  Helene just didn’t get it. As far as she could tell, Harry ran a tight ship. The club was crowded now with mainly middle-aged couples. Some were dancing, but mostly they were sitting quietly, chatting. What did strike her however, was how few of them were drinking alcohol. Some had wine, but mostly their glasses contained Coke, fruit juice or Perrier.

  Tinsel was still spluttering. ‘Respectable! When you think what goes on here.’

  Helene couldn’t stand it. ‘What are you talking about? What goes on?’

  They stared at her. ‘You mean you really don’t know?’

  Helene shook her head.

  Surgical leaned forward. ‘The door. Right at the back, behind the screen. Go and open the door.’

  Helene got up. ‘Are you coming?’

  ‘Can’t’ said Gymslip. ‘We’re banned.’

  Skirting the dancers, Helene sped down the length of the club and slipped round the mesh screen. There indeed was the door, painted the same dull black as the wall.

  She turned the handle and inched the door open.

  What faced her was an enormous bed, covered in smooth marron fake fur. Lying on the bed was the mousy woman Helene had seen at the bar earlier. She was unclothed. She was being fucked, with some enterprise, by three semi-naked men, and she was coming like crazy. Other women and men were sitting against the walls, either watching the action on the bed, or playing with one another. A man came in a woman’s mouth. Another woman climbed onto a man’s face and ground away at him.

  On a table by the door was a large pottery bowl, the type that at home accumulates vitamin pills, hair pins and a dusty apple. This bowl contained every possible variety of condom.

  The men were regarding Helene with interest. This damn T-shirt, she thought. ‘Men may come and men may go,’ –oh hell. One of the men smiled at her, but to her relief, none of them made a move. Then the woman on the bed sat up and beckoned. ‘Do come in. Come and join us.’

  Shaking her head, Helene backed off. As she shut the room behind her, she expected to hear them laughing at her. But instead, there was a woman’s voice saying with quiet sympathy, ‘Ah, elle est timide.’ She is shy. Or, she is fearful.

  Harry, who missed nothing, had seen the direction Helene was coming from, but remained impassive as she reached the bar and asked for a large Scotch.

  Back at the banquette the lap-dance girls were agog with anticipation. Then seeing Helene’s calm expression, they sagged.

  ‘Oh! We thought you’d be hysterical. You don’t even look shocked!’

  Helene eyed them with froideur. Listen, children, what you do is titillation. When I used to take my clothes off for a different man every Friday night I used to deliver the goods. So three semi-dressed men on a bed humping a woman isn’t going to make me call the fire brigade.

  Tinsel said, ‘You really didn’t know it was a swingers’ club?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well it’s not exactly in your face,’ said Gymslip. ‘Not like where we work.’ She checked her watch. ‘Ten minutes, girls.’

  Surgical said to Helene, ‘Swingers’ clubs aren’t all that obvious. You usually have to know someone to get through the door, and they favour couples. For some reason, most people prefer Thursdays. Girls can show up on their own, and they don’t have to pay. It’s never rowdy, and no one is forced to do anything they don’t want.’

  ‘From a female point of view,’ said Tinsel, ‘for a woman who’s getting on a bit, a club like this is godsend, a sure-fire way of getting laid.’

  ‘Yes, I see,’ said Helene. ‘But what about the hygiene side of it? Mopping yourself up afterwards?’

  ‘There’s a bathroom next to the room,’ said Tinsel. ‘You just didn’t notice it – ‘ her voice rose. ‘What on earth is that?’

  It was a girl, striding down the stairs. She had short, dark spikey hair, gelled. She was wearing a black leather mini-dress, hung with silver chains, and thigh high suede boots. Her bare arms were smothered in tattoos and silver bangles. And what skin was visible – that on her face – was the whitest Helene had ever seen.

  ‘Looks like she needs a blood transfusion,’ said Tinsel.

  ‘Wacky outfit.’ Gymslip and Surgical were in a frenzy of envy. ‘That lipstick looks black as well. And gedda load a that, she’s got black leather strips over her eyebrows. Oh wow.’

  Helene had tuned them out. What concerned her was that the girl was with Alexis.

  He took the girl over to the bar and, as was the rule, introduced her to Harry. He nodded. She asked for a Bellini. He nodded again.

  ‘Come on girls,’ Gymslip was on her feet. ‘You know we get fined if we’re late.’

  Helene refused to sit and wait for Alexis to notice her, so she wandered across to talk to Christie. He gave her his slow smile, ‘Hi. Have fun in the back room?’

  ‘No,’ Helene said tartly. ‘I prefer my men to take their socks off.’

  ‘Yeah, but be practical. Afterwards they’d get in a stew about who’s socks belonged to who.’

  ‘Well I must say, as orgies go –‘

  ‘No, no, no, sweetie. An orgy, by definition, involves behaviour that is licentious, riotous and drunken. You might get that at an English swingers’ club but you won’t find it in Paris. Reason is, the French take their pleasures very seriously. They like to follow the rules – unless they’re plotting a revolution, of course.’

  ‘What about all those kids setting fire to cars? What’s lawful about that?’

  ‘Most of them weren’t French.’

  The mousey woman from the bed was dancing with her guy. Her face was fairly blank. She gave no sign of her recent activity, and no sign that she recognised Helene.

  Helene said to Christie, ‘Do you mind people dancing when you’re playing
? ‘

  ‘If I minded, I wouldn’t play in a club like this. Worst thing is for singers in restaurant clubs. They’re trying to put across some bittersweet torch song – say Get Out of Town – and they’ve got to compete with the smell of fried scampi and the couple at Table Four having a row. Blossom Dearie won’t do it. Everyone has to stop eating and shut up. Otherwise she won’t sing.’

  ‘I know you don’t go for September Song,’ said Helene, ‘but what do you like? What’s your favourite?’

  He started to play a song that was new to Helene. Gentle, sweet, haunting.

  ‘That was lovely,’ she said at last.

  ‘It’s called I Live Upstairs From Her.’

  She saw Alexis approaching with a glass of red wine. ‘Christie,’ she said, ‘has Rory McEwen been in at all?’

  ‘No! I didn’t know he was in town. He gave up the flat – so I suppose, if he is here, he’ll be at Odile’s. Tell you what. I’m off in a minute. Why don’t we nip up to Odile and see if she’s got McEwen?’

  Alexis put the wine on the piano for Christie, and took Helene’s arm.

  ‘Come and meet Malveen.’

  Of course. Helene appreciated that creatures in chains, tattoos and leather eyebrows couldn’t be called Jean or Linda.

  ‘Who exactly is Malveen?’

  ‘My sister.’

  ‘Is she staying with you?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Have you given her your bed?’

  ‘Come off it! She’s on the sofa. Anyway, it won’t be for very long. Malveen never stays anywhere very long.’

  Malveen was at the bar, talking to Harry. Helene was just in time to hear him say, ruminatively, ‘One day, I must remember to ask her why she left me.’

  Alexis introduced Helene.

  ‘Oh. Right,’ was all Malveen said before demanding another Bellini.

  Admiring Harry’s easy skill, shaking up peach Schnapps, white wine, lemon juice and Grenadine, Helene asked him, ‘Have you got anyone in mind for the bar?’

  ‘Not yet.’ He eyed Malveen. ‘Looking for a job, Mustang?’