The Frenchman's Slow Seduction

by Flora Lanoux

  “Training will ensure that you react properly and in a timely manner to increase the chances of a positive outcome. Survival thinking must become second nature to you. If you have to think about it, you don’t stand a chance.

  “Tonight, you will learn how to take a fall without hurting yourselves badly. Then you will learn how to destabilize your opponent and how to kick and hit without incurring injury to yourself.

  “All cadets stand up on your mats. Cadet Paul, up front please. I would like you to help me with the first demonstration.”

  For the rest of the night, we get hands-on experience.

  When I get home shortly after nine o’clock, deflated and exhausted, Bryan is waiting for me. I lead him into the kitchen. After getting us each a glass of water, I join him at the table.

  “I’ve got night shift for the next three nights, Rach. If you need to get hold of me between six in the evening and six in the morning, you can use my mobile number. You can call me at my place anytime.”

  “Thanks, Bryan. I appreciate it, but I don’t think there’ll be any more dramas.”

  “A bunch of us from work are going to a pub called The Lookout on Saturday. Do you know it?” he asks.

  “Yeah. I’ve been there.”

  “We’re all bringing friends. Would you like to come?”

  “Sure. Sounds like fun.”

  He gives me a brilliant smile. “I’ll pick you up around eight.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  At the door, he hugs me. “Congratulations on getting through the first night, Rachel.”

  Chapter 11

  It’s a struggle to get up in the morning. I’m sorer than hell, and no matter how long I stay in the shower I do not feel better. I start to wonder if the class is worth it or if I’m up to it. Feeling as miserable as a toothache, I take a couple of pain relievers. Looking at the bruises on my arms and legs, I’m reminded of something my grandmother once told me: “Nothing in life that’s worth doing is easy, Rachel. Remember that.” Frowning and a bit hunched over, I leave for work.

  It’s my turn for morning surgery. Gigi, a terrier-shepherd cross, has swallowed something that has wedged in her small intestine. Tim assists with the surgery. The mysterious lump is easily found, and a cut to the intestine reveals a small red ball, a tiny green soldier, and a toy jack.

  “Is this a dog or a toy chest?” Tim says, cracking his first joke since the KoKo incident.

  The next operation is a sex change operation for Arthur, a tom, who has had one too many urinary tract infections. The scarring on his urethra has left us no choice but to amputate his penis, leaving a female-like opening. It’s not an uncommon procedure. Tim is fascinated.

  “There goes his love life,” he says as I take a snip, which starts me laughing. “Don’t laugh too hard,” Tim says. “He needs something left behind.” We finish off the morning with a couple of neuters, to which Tim adds comments like “Another one bites the dust,” and “There’s no getting one past the goalie now, mate.” As we’re putting the last patient in his cage, Tim becomes more serious.

  “Hey, Rach,” he says, “got any ideas about who could be breaking into this joint?”

  “Not really,” I tell him. “Sometimes I feel like I almost know but I’m afraid to find out. Does that sound stupid?”

  “No, not stupid. Something about it doesn’t sit right with me either.”

  On my way home at the end of the day, I drop by Michelle’s place. She suggests going to the university pub, which sounds perfect. Getting into her Peugeot, I smile when I think of the day she chose the color. While we were at the car dealership looking at color strips of paint, she pointed to a brilliant red color and said, “That’s it. Bust my cherry red.”

  At the pub, I fill her in on what’s been happening at work, especially the break-in part.

  “Shit, Rachel. What the hell’s going on over there? You know, a lot of your problems started when you began working at that clinic. I wish you were working someplace else.”

  “I’m beginning to feel the same way,” I tell her.

  Sitting back, she takes a drink of wine. “So, Bryan’s helping you out. He’s such a sweetie. You should have called me. You know I’d have come.”

  “I know, but I didn’t want to call anyone.”

  “Rachel, you’ve got to stop trying to do everything yourself. There’s no virtue in being virtuous. People like to be needed, so let us in every once in a while, okay?”

  As Michelle and I drink, munch, and idly chat, I find myself thinking about life. Looking across the table, I say, “Michelle, do you ever have doubt?”

  “Of course. Is this about Mike?”

  “No. It’s about me. Sometimes I feel like I’m not like other people, that I don’t love like other people. You and Bryan, you’re so free with your emotions.”

  She puts down her glass. “Want the trade secret? Don’t think, just feel. Trust the little voice deep inside you. It’s all you’ve got.”

  “That’s just it. I can’t hear that little voice.”

  “You will. And as far as being able to love, you’re the most loving person I know.”

  On Thursday morning, I’m the first to arrive at the clinic and feel uncomfortable being there alone.

  When Mike gets in, he finds me in the stockroom and puts his arms around me. If I could, I would melt into the center of his being, become invisible, disappear without a trace; if even for just a moment.

  Holding me close, he says, “Where are you, Rachel?”

  “I’m not sure. I’m trying to make sense of things, and I guess I need some time. I’m sorry if that hurts you, Mike. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “Take all the time you need. I just feel like I’m losing touch with you. Fill me in every once in a while, okay?”

  With a sigh, he releases me, and we get on with our day.

  As I walk into one of the back treatment rooms, Albert nudges his head against the cage bars for his daily head rub. When I put a finger in his cage and stroke him, he pushes against my finger, like he usually does. Suddenly, he turns and takes a chunk out of my finger. Pain and blood are all I register. Looking into the cage, I see him chewing on something and realize that it’s a tiny piece of my flesh. Feeling weak, I watch as he spits it out onto the cage floor.

  Mike walks by. “Oh no, Rachel! Just what you don’t need.” Using peroxide and a couple of sticking plasters, he ministers to my finger. “I’ll take surgery,” he says. “You take appointments.”

  At the end of the day, as I’m leaving for Northcliff, I run into Mike outside the X-ray room, and he drops his armload of files. Both of us bend down to pick up the mess of papers. As we get up, we look into one another’s eyes, and I catch my breath.

  “What’s the matter, Rach?” Mike asks.

  “Nothing,” I say. For a moment, Mike felt like a complete stranger to me.

  At Northcliff, Verna is in her room, sitting on a chair, dressed in an elegant white lace skirt and top combo.

  “I have a suitor,” she says. “What do you think about that, Rachel?”

  Surprised, I say, “I think it’s exciting.”

  “I’m frightened. I thought my days for suitors were over. His name is Syd, and he’s very kind. I tested him you know, and he broke down and cried.”

  I smile. “So he passed.”

  “Oh yes, he passed. He’s got character, too. He’s not afraid to tell people off when they do something inappropriate. I feel safe with him.”

  “And?”

  “And he wants to marry me.”

  Bowled over, I say, “Wow, that’s great. Is that where you’re going now?”

  “Gosh no. I haven’t said yes yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because maybe one day I’ll wake up and he won’t be kind anymore.”

  I sit down on the chair next to her. “Then you’ll pack your bags and leave. Don’t let your ex-husband take anything else from you, Verna. He’s done enough damage. D
on’t let him take away your chance for happiness in love. You deserve that much.”

  She shakes her head. “When I think of how I treated you the first day we met.”

  “You were great. Besides, you were right. I did need to be here.”

  After our walk, I stay with Verna and Liz for dinner. By the time I get to the gym changing rooms, it’s a few minutes to seven.

  “Better get the lead out, Wiley,” Sondra says. “They don’t tolerate tardiness in the force.” The cadets treat me like one of them.

  As I walk into the gym, Sergeant McMahon blows his whistle.

  “Tonight will be your toughest night, cadets. First, you will review falling, destabilizing your opponent, kicking and punching. Then you will have an exercise that determines if you can bust through the social conventions thrust upon you. I will be wearing an inflated vest, and you will hit me in the abdomen, hard enough to mean it. You will first have a practice run on the punching bags. All cadets need to pass this exercise to carry on with the rest of the course. Is that understood?”

  We all shout, “Yes, sir!” which has now become second nature to me.

  An hour into our practice session, Sergeant McMahon calls us back to our mats. Using a piece of chalk, he marks a line on the floor and then puts on his inflated vest.

  “Cadet Stewart, advance to the line.” My stomach tenses up as Cadet Stewart does as she’s told. “I want you to stand behind the line. On my cue, you will step forward and punch me in this area of the abdomen.” He uses his hands to show us where she is to hit him. “On the cue of Go, you will do as I’ve instructed. Is that understood Cadet Stewart?”

  “Yes, sir!” she shouts.

  “Go.”

  She advances and thrusts her fist into the vest.

  “Well done. You may return to your mat.”

  After Cadets Flemming and El-Gabalawy successfully whack him, Sergeant McMahon shouts, “Cadet Wiley, advance.”

  I approach the line.

  “On the cue. Go.”

  I advance to hit him, but stop short and feel sick. To hit Sergeant McMahon, I would have to break a promise. At the age of fourteen, after a particularly violent outburst from my father, I escaped to my bedroom. Filled with rage at how powerless I felt, I did what I heard people do when they’re mad; I punched a pillow. Not knowing the proper technique, I hit it while it was on the bed instead of in the air and ruptured a joint capsule in my wrist. The pain I felt was searing. As my mother tended my wrist, she said, “If you let anger get the better of you, Rachel, you’ll never be happy in this life. Promise me you’ll never hit anyone or anything ever again.” And I did.

  “Cadet Wiley, are you having a problem?”

  “Yes, sir!” I shout.

  “I am an aggressor who means to do you harm. Do you want to come out of this altercation alive?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Return to the line. On my cue. Go.”

  I advance to hit him, but stop short again.

  “Cadet Wiley, are you taking this exercise seriously?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Are you married?”

  “No, sir!”

  “Do you want to get married some day?”

  “Maybe, sir!”

  “Do you want your husband to be a widower because you can’t bring yourself to hit an aggressor?”

  “No, sir!”

  “Return to the line. If you do not follow through this time, I will grab you and throw you to the floor. Do you want to stop, Cadet Wiley?”

  “No, sir!”

  Suddenly, my childhood mantra resurfaces: Don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me. As a child, when I would see my father pull up in the driveway of our home, that mantra would run through my brain. The same thing happened at Mike’s house one day. Mike had gotten angry about something that had nothing to do with me, and I went into a separate room, leaned into a corner, and started crying, thinking those same words.

  “Rachel, what’s wrong?” Mike asked when he found me.

  “I don’t know. I feel like you’re going to hit me.”

  Truly horrified, he said, “Hit you? Good God, why would you think that?”

  “You’re so angry.”

  Gently, he put his arms around me and said, “I’m not really angry, Rach, and I’d rather die than hurt you.” He never let me see him angry after that.

  “On my cue,” Sergeant McMahon shouts.

  “Yes, sir!” Don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me.

  “Go.”

  I advance, go to hit him, but stop short. When he sees that I can’t do it, he grabs my extended arm, uses his leg to destabilize me, and drops me to the floor. Still holding my arm while I’m on the floor, he puts a foot on my shoulder and pins me down. When the vibrations stop running through my body, I resound with pain.

  “Do you want to stop, Cadet Wiley?” He is still pinning me to the floor.

  “No, sir!”

  “What’s going through your mind?”

  “I was thinking about what a bastard you are.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I was thinking about what a bastard you are, sir!”

  “I can live with that. There are a lot of bastards in this world. Do you have children, Cadet Wiley?”

  “No, sir!”

  “Do you want children?”

  “Maybe, sir!”

  “Do you want their mother to be taken away in a body bag one day because you can’t bring yourself to hit an aggressor?”

  “No, sir!”

  “If you fail again, I will drop you again. Do you want to stop, Cadet Wiley?”

  “No, sir!”

  He releases me.

  “Return to the line. On my cue. Go.”

  Looking at him, I think of the terror his daughter must have felt when she was attacked. I advance. And this time I hit him in the abdomen much harder than intended. My hand is killing me. The cadets all cheer.

  “Congratulations, Cadet Wiley,” Sergeant McMahon says. “You may return to your mat.”

  Everyone else gets it on the first try except Cadet Paul. She stops short on the first attempt, hits too softly on the second, but nails Sergeant McMahon the third time around.

  In the changing room, Sondra walks up to me. “You did great, Rachel. We’ve all had training in this kind of stuff so it was easier for us. We’re all going to The Lookout to chill out for a bit. Do you want to come?”

  “Sounds great. I could do with a drink.”

  When I get to the pub, I see the cadets at a table in the far corner. Before joining them, I stop off at the bar for a double rum and coke.

  “Welcome to the team,” Sondra says, lifting her glass as I approach. The others do the same.

  “Do you know someone on the force, Rachel?” Sheena asks.

  “Yeah. Bryan Lin. He’s my best friend’s brother.”

  “Bryan?” Sondra says. “He’s one of the best guys on the force.” They all seem to agree. “Maybe you can tell us why he doesn’t have a woman hanging off him?”

  I shrug. “He’s a bit of a romantic. I guess he’s holding out for the right woman.”

  “Well, power to him,” Sondra says, raising her glass. “There’s not too many left like him. Most of them just want a doink.” Laughing, they raise their glasses and drink to Bryan.

  All of us stay at the pub until one, toasting everyone and everything. I have to call a cab to take me home.

  The following morning, at seven o’clock, Bryan shows up at my apartment with a bottle of Tylenol. I lead him to the kitchen to get us each some orange juice.

  “So you survived night two, the showdown,” Bryan says, sitting down at the table.

  “Barely,” I say, joining him. “I’m bruised in both body and ego. I almost flunked last night. I couldn’t bring myself to hit Sergeant McMahon. I only managed to punch him on the fourth try after he dropped me to the floor for failing to do it the third time.”

  “I knew you could do
it.”

  I relax in my chair. “I went out drinking with the cadets after class, at The Lookout as it happens. We were there until one.”

  “They always stay until one. It leaves just enough time to get enough sleep for the next day.”

  “They knew you.”

  “Yeah, I’m involved in a couple of their classes.”

  “They like you, even toasted you. You and your morals.”

  His eyes widen. “You’re pulling my leg.”

  I shake my head. “I’m being completely serious. They think you’re one of the dying breed of decent men.”

  He laughs. “A lot of them will be there Saturday.”

  “Then the night will be even more fun.”

  At the door, Bryan kisses me, hovering a little longer than usual.

  Chapter 12

  Shortly after I arrive at the clinic Friday morning, Michelle phones. Having decided that we both need an overhaul, she has booked us hair appointments with Sammy Chu, one of her favorite people, and has planned an evening of shopping. “A storm’s a brewing, and we might as well be ready for it,” she says.

  The instant I meet Sammy, I fall in love with him. He’s honest and he’s funny. Michelle decides that I should get my hair cut first; she has a couple of errands to run.

  “How much do you wear your hair up?” Sammy asks.

  “All the time for the last six years.”

  “Why?” he asks, dramatically. “A beautiful girl like you, you could do some real sexy stuff with all this blonde hair. First, we’ll part it on the side. It’ll give you a softer, sexier look. That center part makes you look like a goody-goody. Next, we’ll put some soft, textured layers near the ends so that it falls nice. You’ll still be able to put it up, but you won’t want to.”

  After forty-five minutes, just as Sammy has completed the transformation, Michelle walks into the salon.