Jean-Paul. She hoped he hadn’t suffered. It seemed to have been devastatingly quick.
This was Helene’s first immediate emotional involvement with death. Her last grandparent had died when she and Hilly were six and their parents had refused to take the girls to the funeral. Helene hadn’t been sorry. She would have missed her tap-dancing class.
Noel, of course, was unpleasantly accustomed to death and decay, what with AIDS and his job as a hospital porter. It meant he was never short of binbags, flowers, chocolates and keepsakes from his dead darlings.
What have I got, Helene yearned, that Jean-Paul has owned? A handkerchief that he’d lent her and which she’d never given back. She’d heard of widows sleeping in their late husband’s pyjamas so they could drown in the smell of him, and take comfort in feeling close again.
Dodging a determined bunch of cyclists careering towards her, Helene wandered up to the tranquil public park that was the Luxembourg gardens. It was the one place in Paris where people were allowed to sit on the grass. By the round lake the mothers and nannies sat watching over their small charges. A toddler fell over and let out a wail: ‘Maman!’
Helene’s sense of isolation increased as a woman rushed to her child. That will probably never happen to me, Helene thought. No one will ever call me mummy.
And her lover had left her.
At the café, she sat on a green metal chair beneath the horse chestnuts, under a leaden sky. You mustn’t think like that, she told herself. He didn’t die deliberately, to deprive you of a confidant, a protector.
I’m going to be so lonely.
Stop it. You’ve lived alone before. You liked living alone in London. After Robbie, you never wanted a regular boyfriend.
But then Jean-Paul had found her, and spoiled her. Had she ever thanked him properly, she wondered distractedly. Had she ever even said, ‘I love you.’? Was it starting, then, the guilt, the conviction you hadn’t done enough for your loved one?
Unusually, in the Luxembourg gardens, there was a playground which the school-age children, just released, seemed intent on destroying. They paid no heed to the notice warning that the playground was an experiment and any irresponsible behaviour would cause the authorities to remove it immediately.
On the see-saw, two boys were trying to make themselves sick. Helene felt a bit headachy herself, confronted with all the primary colours of the play equipment. Why was it assumed that children needed to be surrounded by garish colours? What was unstimulating about pistachio or sky blue?
A girl was pedalling at full tilt round the cycle track – but not for long as another girl jumped out and threw her off. Seeing the tangle of bike and fallen girls, Helene watched them almost bounce, and realised the ground was surfaced in some rubbery material that looked a kindly far cry from the old-style tarmac that grazed your knees.
On the slide, a girl was trying to go up it. Naturally, she kept slithering back down. But this was a game girl, an inventive girl. She waited until a fairly small boy who looked like a sausage was making his descent, then hurled herself on top of him and, using his body as purchase, scrambled both of them triumphantly to the summit. Helene felt concerned about the influence this episode would have on his future sex life. For the moment, however, the boy was ecstatic, whooshing down the slide, then windmilling all the way round the playground.
And Helene heard a sound she hadn’t expected today. Above the exuberant screams from the playground, she heard laughter. Her laughter. It steadied her. Proof that she was, after all, part of the human race. Animals, birds, aliens, they didn’t laugh, did they? And she’d certainly felt alien today.
The wind was getting up, scudding the water on the lake. It was starting to rain. Heavily. The mummies and nannies were taking flight with the children, trawling them along like wheely luggage. Reluctantly, Helene headed for home.
She found her door unlocked. She frowned. Strange. I know I was underslept this morning, but I’m sure I locked the door. I always lock the door.
Someone was in there, in her apartment, meddling with her things. She knew it. Her throat constricted.
Then her fear fled. A wild hope surged through her. It was all a mistake. He wasn’t dead. He was here! She tugged off her dripping raincoat, shook it onto the landing, and turned the knob of her apartment.
A man was standing by the window. As Helene dropped the raincoat in her hall, he turned to face her. He didn’t approach.
He was youngish, with thick shiny hair the colour of conkers. He wore the smallest, rectangular horn-rimmed spectacles Helene had ever seen, giving his face a grave look. And she knew, before he spoke, who he was. She knew because of his mouth. She had kissed that mouth.
‘Miss Brook,’ he said. ‘I’m Marc Cordier.’
She shook hands, thinking, of course, of course you are Marc Cordier. You’ve got your mother’s colouring, your father’s height and your father’s mouth.
‘Won’t you sit down, Marc?’
He sat by the window. He was still wearing the black funeral suit.
Helene regarded him from the sofa. Somehow, she knew she would remember every detail of this encounter. Already, she felt tautly wired. She reviewed what she knew about him. Not much. Uni band, Ripping Velcro. Job in market research. Girlfriend he never took home. Oh, and unlike Alexis, he wasn’t messy around the place.
He was saying,‘The thing is, Miss Brook –‘
‘Helene.’
‘Right. Well I didn’t know if you knew. If you’d heard.’
‘I’d heard.’
‘Because I promised my father I’d come and see you, and break it to you myself.’
‘He told you about me?’
‘Yes. Before a rock concert. Not long ago.’
Oh God, Helene thought. I’m a disappointment. You were expecting a flame-haired temptress, not a rainswept waif.
He put Jean-Paul’s keys on the table. ‘Excuse me letting myself in. But it was raining, and I didn’t know how long you’d be. Oh,’ he reached into his jacket pocket, ‘I was told to give you this.’
Helene took the envelope. It was addressed to Helene Brook and there was a message, in Jean-Paul’s distinctively elegant handwriting: ‘Don’t read this until you are ready.’
As she crossed to put it in the drawer, with his other letter, the one welcoming her to Paris, Marc said,
‘About this apartment.’ Helene waited. Was he giving her notice to quit? She could see he’d thought all this out.
He went on, ‘You’re very welcome to stay on for a bit. My mother wants me to arrange for our apartment to be sold, and that’ll take about six months.’
‘How is your mother?’
‘Stoic. She’s gone to Chantilly with her sisters. She’ll be okay with them. They’re very close-knit.’
By now it was lashing down outside. Marc didn’t appear to have a coat.
Helene fetched a bottle of red wine and two glasses. ‘Will you join me?’
He brightened. ‘Sure. Thanks. And, um, would it, would you mind if I had a cigarette?’
‘Not at all. I’ll find an ashtray. You open the wine. And why don’t you take off your tie?’
She was aware that they were talking in a politely stilted way. But what the hell else were they supposed to do? This wasn’t an English soap, everyone theatrically over the top, so by now they’d be yelling ‘Woss goin’ on? It’s aw your fawt, I dunno I’m gonna do your ‘ed in…’
All Helene knew was that she had to stick to what she’d established long ago as a game-plan in a tight situation. Grace, style, good manners. Marc was an unknown quantity. He might go absolutely crackers. No one could blame him. All she could do, was deal with it.
She brought a bowl of nuts and some crisps. ‘Haven’t had a proper meal today.’
‘Neither have I. Funeral stuff. Too much pastry.’
Food, Helene thought. It’s what I always do, isn’t it? Take refuge in giving people food. ‘Listen, if you like, I could knock up an
omelette.’
And then it happened. What subconsciously, all this time, she’d been waiting for.
He smiled. It was hesitant, but it was the real thing. It was Jean-Paul’s smile.
Shaking, Helene took her wine to the kitchen and when she had washed the salad, and spun it, she talked to Marc through the open door.
‘I heard it was a heart attack, when he was just back from Chantilly.’
‘Yeah. They got him to hospital, but…’ She heard him drag on his cigarette. ‘I had to arrange the funeral. Register the death. Never done all that before. My firm were ace. Gave me a week’s compassionate.’
He was at the door of the kitchen where Helene was cracking eggs into a bowl. He said, ‘Can I help?’
‘Thanks. You can set the table.’
Helene had some cooked potatoes, so she made a tortilla along with a green salad, glistening with dressing in a glass bowl. There was a fresh fruit salad to follow. Somehow, they didn’t feel like talking, so she switched on the TV for the news, and afterwards, they watched a programme about rivers. Marc sat at one end of the sofa and Helene at the other.
It had stopped raining. Helene wasn’t sure quite what to do. Except, the one thing she did know - she didn’t want him to go away
She said, on impulse, ‘Have you ever been to VTR?’
He hadn’t, so Helene went to change. At her T-shirt drawer, she paused. ‘Men may come and men may go but I go on forever.’ No, not at all suitable this particular evening. Marc of course was still in his black suit, so Helene chose a simple black top and trousers, with a gold chain-link belt. What a day it was turning into. One neither she nor Marc wanted, but somehow it had to be got through. And she sensed it was a long way from being over yet. A second wind was clearly needed.
As they walked down the wet street Marc said, ‘You knew he had a heart condition?’
Helene halted. ‘No. He didn’t – when was this diagnosed?’
‘Last November.’
Just before he met me, thought Helene.
‘I didn’t know till recently. But he told my mother immediately and evidently she said, Well probably you’ll live till a hundred, but just in case, if there’s anything you haven’t done that you always wanted to, I should get on with it.’
So that’s what I was about, Helene realised. That’s what I was for.
At the VTR bar she asked Jack-the-Lad for a large Scotch. Marc had a glass of wine and as he got his bearings, Helene took stock of who was in.
No Alexis. No Malveen, although her influence was evident. The lap dance girls were at the banquette and two of them were wearing shoes comprised entirely of silvery chains. Only Gymslip was in her customary Mary Poppins lace-ups. Presumably they gave a more reliable grip when she was writhing up and down the pole. And when she got too old for that job, she could always apply to join the fire service.
Helene took Marc across. ‘Marc, this is –‘ And she suddenly realised she had no idea what the girls’ real names were. Oh well. ‘This is Tinsel, this is Surgery and this is Gymslip.’
Rocking with laughter, the girls shoved up to make room on the banquette. They were regarding Marc with frank interest. Why not, thought Helene. He’s very easy on the eye. And he’s got a girlfriend.
As the dancers started their flirt routine, Helene gazed round the club. At first sight, everything was as normal. Christie, wearing his panama, at the piano. A few deceptively sedate couples, dancing. Behind the bar, the plastic carousel conveyed its cargo of salmonella sandwiches round and round.
The bar. Helene realised what was different. Everything was not normal.
Harry wasn’t there.
She went across to the piano. Usually Christie played and sang jazz standards. Getting Sentimental Over You, Don’t Get Around Much Anymore and always, for Helene, Just in Time.
Tonight, however, he was singing what sounded like a very old blues number:
‘I got nipples on my titties
As big as the end of your thumb
I got something between my legs
Make a dead man come
Oh daddy
Baby won’t you shave ‘em dry
Won’t you grind me baby
Grind me till I cry
I fucked all night and the night before
And I feel like I want to fuck some more –‘
He broke off. ‘Not your sort of thing, Helene?’
‘No. I prefer Let’s Face the Music and Dance, actually. I was wondering what’s happened to Harry?’
‘No idea.’
Helene remembered that at VTR it was pointless ever asking where anyone was. The answer was always, ‘no idea.’
Christie nodded towards the banquette. ‘Your friend seems to be having an interesting time.’
Helene spun round. Gymslip was crouched on the banquette, holding Marc’s arms. Surgery was confiscating his spectacles. Tinsel was writhing around on his lap. She’d pulled her dress up to her waist, revealing a pert bottom in a microscopic gold thong.
Helene moved to go and intervene, but Christie grabbed her. ‘Hang on. Give the guy a break. He might be enjoying it.’
It was impossible to tell if Marc was enjoying it or not. Helene plonked herself down next to Surgery and said, ‘Seen anything of Malveen?’
‘She was in a few days ago,’ said Surgery. ‘Talked to Harry most of the time. She had the most amazing make up. Blue. I gotta get some. Reminded me of blue muesli. Harry said it looked like woad. What’s woad?’
Helene struggled, trying to be polite. Finally, she said faintly, ‘I don’t think they sell it any more.’
‘Oh. Still, hand it to her, she socks it right back at him. You know how he won’t tell anyone where he lives? She said, Oh you can’t fool me, Harry Moscow. I bet you still live with your mother.’
Helene wasn’t listening. She was watching Tinsel gyrating at spectacular speed on Marc’s lap, her arse moving like she had a firecracker up it. Helene could see how this girl earned her money.
‘Oooh,’ Tinsel was cooing at Marc. ‘You’re being a very naughty boy.’
Surgery leaned across. ‘Is he? Is he being very, very naughty?’
Tinsel pressed her breasts against Marc’s face, her provocative little arse shifting even faster. ‘I can feel him. He’s getting bigger and badder.’
‘Oh well,’ said Gymslip, ‘we know what happens to boys who misbehave, don’t we?’
And they kidnapped him. Dragged him beyond the bar and behind the mesh screen.
Helene hesitated. Where the hell was Harry?
She ran the length of the club and wrenched open the door of the back room. The lapdance girls were banned, of course, but possibly Jack-the-Lad didn’t know that, and they were taking advantage. Where on earth was Harry?
On the giant bed were two women and four men, involved in strenuous sex. One of the women smiled at Helene encouragingly. A man sitting by the condom bowl regarded her with approval. She wondered if he’d appointed himself Condom Custodian – Consultations by Appointment.
The lapdance girls, and their prisoner, were not in the room. She heard a yell. Marc. Bathroom. Next door.
The girls had him backed up against the handbasin. He was putting up a fight, but even at six foot he couldn’t fend off three very fit and fired- up girls.
‘What happens to boys who misbehave is that they have their cocks slapped,’ Gymslip informed him.
‘That’s right,’ said Surgery. ‘Slapped all over. And their balls. I’m afraid that hurts, but it serves you right for having dirty thoughts. Get his pants off and get his cock out,’ she said to Tinsel, who still had her dress pulled up. ‘Let’s see what we’ve got to punish. We have to be very strict with bad, bad boys. We take it in turns you see, Marc and then when each of us has finished with you, we all set about you, all at once, and we expect a grand show, no wimpish stuff, no oh, I’ve already come, your cock has gotta stand up good and hard, cos if it doesn’t you know what’s gonna happen to i
t?’
Tinsel had hold of his zip and was tugging. Helene rushed at her. She was elbowed aside by Christie.
He grabbed Tinsel and threw her into the corridor. ‘Out!’ he ordered the other two. ‘Tonight, tomorrow, every night. Out!’
Tinsel was pulling her dress down. ‘We’ll see what Harry has to say about that. He’s the owner.’
Christie shouted, ‘He does not own VTR. I do. Now get the hell out!’
They ran off, muttering about killjoy and spoilsport. Christie followed, marching across to Jack-the-Lad. Marc had vanished into a cubicle. Helene left him to get himself together, but suddenly he came hurtling past her, past the bar, and was stumbling out up the stairs.
Helene followed, and as she neared the banquette she noticed his spectacles on the table. She grabbed them and ran for the stairs. Who needs the gym, she thought. Come to VTR and spend your evening sprinting from one end to the other.
She caught Marc up further down the street.
‘Marc! You’ll need these.’
‘Thanks.’
His voice was choked, and she saw his eyes were bright with tears. ‘Thanks. I – I’d better get home.’
Home? Back to a vast, lonely apartment, visualised Helene. This morning you buried your father. This evening you had to visit me at home, not knowing what to expect. And I was stupid enough to take you to VTR. Those idiot girls.
She knew, she could sense that after the emotion of the day, Marc was feeling just as fractured as she was. She touched his arm. ‘Come on. Let’s get you a nightcap.’
She took him home, hung his jacket on a chair, dimmed the lights and poured him a cognac. She could see he was still on the verge of meltdown, his hand shaking as he lit his cigarette.
Helene leaned back against the sofa cushions. I’ve got to go for this. I’ve got to find out. I can’t let him clam up.
So she said, ‘What’s the story, Marc?’
He shuddered a sigh. ‘I’m just. Well, to be honest, I’m not very good with girls.’
The Price of Love Page 13