A Clean Pair of Hands

by Oscar Reynard

  Johnny paused to let his words take effect.

  He went on, “You don’t have to like me to enjoy what I can do for you.” His hand moved under the sheet and he began stroking Charlotte’s leg.

  She could not speak now. Minutes passed. She closed her eyes, lay back and thought about what she had suspected all along. Johnny slowly peeled back the sheet and stroked her belly and thighs until she began to move under his hands, pushing herself against him, keeping her eyes closed.

  When Michel returned, Charlotte was dressed. There was a cool atmosphere between them. Michel attempted some small talk, but it was obvious that Charlotte had something else on her mind and as the conversation soon petered out, she broke the silence.

  “What have you been up to this afternoon?”

  “I was at the clubhouse library with Ayida. I brought some books back.”

  Charlotte admired the anticipation and attention to his alibi.

  Michel asked, “What did you do?”

  “Nothing exciting; I went for a swim, Johnny came to me with an indecent proposition, and I kicked him out.”

  “He tried to seduce you?” Michel didn’t sound surprised or bothered.

  “Yes, probably no surprise to you though. After all, you left me alone with him.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  Charlotte thought this was hardly the response of a jealous husband.

  “Nothing, do absolutely nothing. I can take care of myself.”

  Michel was visibly embarrassed. Obviously this attempt to initiate Charlotte into the swinger community had failed. He would have to discuss it with Johnny and find another way.

  Charlotte’s assessment of her husband’s behaviour took another step towards distrust and there was a growing layer of fear in her mind to add to her depression.

  The close family suspected that they were only seeing or hearing about the tip of an iceberg, but they didn’t dare to speculate how deep it went. Charlotte began to discuss her concerns more openly and in more detail with Thérèse over the telephone. Charlotte explained that she was worried about Michel’s health. She was concerned that his general irritation at home stemmed from the late nights and overworking or struggling with a mid-life crisis. Thérèse discussed her thoughts with George. Neither believed that Michel’s work routine, as Charlotte described it, was an essential or good way of doing business, but as the sales orders continued to roll in, what was there to complain about? On reflection, Thérèse thought that Michel did appear to be having some sort of mid-life crisis. She observed that he seemed to be trying to compete with his daughters, recreating his youth, but in a perverse way. How could it be otherwise? He could not match them physically. They were tall, slim, cool, and attractive in different ways. Michel was a complete contrast. He was short, fat and increasingly vulgar. He had taken up smoking again, and was neglecting his fitness training and healthy eating, so had put on a lot of weight. He ate like a pig, seemingly taking pleasure in rejecting conventional table manners. Nevertheless he was going out to night clubs with his daughters and embarrassing them by trying to impress their young friends by flaunting his wealth. It was as if to say ‘I have what it takes for you to notice me’. It appeared to the Miltons that, having given up trying to rejuvenate himself physically, he was grotesquely and almost tragically trying to prove something or die in the attempt.

  At this time, most of Michel’s family knew nothing about the hotel run by Johnny and Ayida Mendes, nor precisely why Charlotte seemed to treat Johnny with barely concealed disgust. However often she made her feelings on the subject known to Michel, he remained impervious to her arguments and she couldn’t avoid the couple. Michel invited them frequently and they often went out together. Then Michel invited them for another joint holiday. Charlotte tried to put her foot down. She couldn’t bring herself to explain further why she abhorred the arrangement, and Michel seemed insensitive to the fact that Johnny Mendes was at the very least propositioning his wife. As usual, he had his way. Thérèse and George thought that Charlotte’s expressions of revulsion couldn’t amount to much or she would not have complied, and sure enough, from this time on, Michel and Charlotte Bodin nearly always went on holiday with Johnny and Ayida Mendes, wherever they went.

  During a telephone conversation with Thérèse, Michel said he no longer found his wife stimulating enough. Perhaps not surprisingly, because Charlotte increasingly suffered chronic health problems which, along with their work routine and Michel’s working hours, prevented them from enjoying a spontaneous sexual relationship. In another conversation, Charlotte disclosed to Thérèse that Michel was suffering from erectile dysfunction and this was causing him to be mentally disturbed. He was making more and more bizarre demands on her and had taken her to a club where wives or partners were offered to other men and their coupling could be observed through one-way mirrors. Charlotte said she was revolted and had declined to be traded in this way, but George found out later that there was another side to this story.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Meet the Wider Family

  As their business generated more cash, Michel and Charlotte were able to buy a second home in the south of France, fifteen kilometres inland from the Cote d’Azur, close to a fashionable artistic village not far from Toulon. In 1997, they invited the Miltons to celebrate their eldest daughter’s 21st birthday there. The Miltons stayed at a hotel nearby and on the day of the party drove the few miles to the large Provençal-style estate where Michel and Charlotte had gathered a wide circle of family and friends totalling around a hundred. The party was an informal all-day picnic in the sun, where it was possible for guests to come and go as they pleased, to wander the lawns, splash in the swimming pool and stroll in the fields leading down to a stream lined with trees. It was a magnificent location, providing a perfect backdrop for opportunities to chat with family members and friends, some of whom had previously existed only as names and who were, after a few glasses of wine, willing to share their views on almost any subject.

  The Miltons met Huguette and Thérèse’s brother François for the first time in over a year and found them to be as bright and enthusiastic as ever, though now in their late sixties. Huguette looked like a platinum blonde Hollywood film star who had paid enough visits to her plastic surgeon to keep up appearances, yet without suffering from an overdose. François had a leathery skin cured naturally by exposure to the sun and probably topped up by fake tan, but it was his obviously dyed hair that made him look older and unreal. He could talk endlessly about what he had acquired and how much it cost and what he had achieved. He would never need a Curriculum Vitae, because his publicity had preceded him. Despite that, the Miltons enjoyed spending time with him and Huguette, and categorised them as colourful and enthusiastic characters that could be relied upon to fill any gaps in conversation.

  George Milton was taking a walk towards the pool, intending to take a dip, when, on turning a corner of the house, he found himself among a bevy of at least ten topless women, some standing around chatting while others lounged in the sun. Practising his peripheral vision, he noticed among them Charlotte’s sisters, and a close friend Ayida Mendes, looking magnificent in her tanned nudity. George was relieved to note that, at least when she came to greet him, Charlotte was wearing the briefest bikini, an orange string revealing her buttocks completely, and with a top not much wider than an elastic band which she adjusted modestly as she walked towards him. At least it was a gesture.

  In the middle of this scene from the harem sat Michel. He was wearing Bermuda shorts and dark glasses and as he leaned forward on the lounger to read, he showed a great expanse of full belly and folds of fat on his lower back. He had put on a lot of weight since his earlier days as a jogging and gym enthusiast. After politely but rather awkwardly greeting his hosts, George decided to take a swim later and glided back to the house.

  Back with the group of older relatives on the cooler side of the house George met Gigi, an English actor and published
author who was resident in France. His real name was Gilbert Tilson, and he was, in addition to his professional capabilities, a great entertainer in company. He spoke fluent French without accent, but when it suited, especially when telling a story, he would imitate the archetypal Englishman abroad. He was, not surprisingly, adept with words, and being bilingual, could find humorous word plays for those who understood, leaving the rest of his audience bemused. His turn of phrase, wit and dryness kept his audience in suspense until the punch line.

  One of Gigi’s friends was an aspiring Formula One racing driver with an apartment the size of a small hotel in Monte Carlo and another home in Switzerland. When told that his friend had won a motor race, Gilbert put his hands together as if in prayer and pronounced with an absolutely straight face, “Oh great, I always knew he was a vainqueur.” (With exaggerated substitution of a ‘w’ for the ‘v’)

  Today, Gigi had donned a magnificent Chinese black and silver silk embroidered dressing gown, which hung casually open to reveal a narrow chest covered in dark hair, above minute black swimming briefs, and skinny legs. On his feet were heavy jogging sandals and socks; a bright pink towel hung over one shoulder to complete the style. He announced that he was on his way to the pool for a swim. The subject of the topless sunbathers came up. Gigi’s eyes widened.

  “So, George what did you do?”

  George admitted that he had sidled away at the earliest opportunity.

  “Oh dear, this time you must come with me. I have a technique for that sort of thing.”

  The two went towards the pool. On reaching the tanning colony, Gigi scanned the exposition and shouted, “Darlings, what a fantastic display. Are you doing this just for me?” The women looked up. Some were smiling, others serious, mystified by this sexually ambivalent apparition. Gigi walked up to Ayida who, with her back to him and one foot on a sun-lounger, was languorously oiling her legs. He put his hands around her, cupping her breasts, pulled her upright and kissed her ear. Ayida didn’t resist.

  “Now darling, this is all so fantastic, so stimulating. I want a private séance this evening in your boudoir.” Ayida turned her head casually and spoke inaudibly.

  “And can I bring a friend?” added Gigi. “Oh great. George, you’re on for tonight. Bye, darlings.” Gigi let go of Ayida after whispering something in her ear and, after a further loud kiss to all, led George away.

  “We Brits are so inhibited when it comes to sex and nudity. You just have to confront it. Otherwise you get a huge build-up of repressed feelings that can burst out in the most anti-social ways, don’t you think?”

  In the pool, George asked Gigi what Ayida had said and whether there was a real assignation scheduled for him. He was embarrassed because although he admired Ayida physically, he didn’t know her enough to relax and fool around with her as Gigi was able to do, or put her off diplomatically if necessary.

  “Well, you will be relieved to hear that you are off the hook unless you decide to make a move. Do you really want to know what she said to me?”

  “Yes. I do. I want to know what you are letting me in for. I need to know whether I am dealing with a woman you have just procured for me or whether she is a respectable guest.”

  Gigi took a breath and slid underwater. When he emerged he wiped his eyes as if he were crying with laughter.

  “My darling George, you are not under any obligation that will embarrass you or your dear lady wife. What Ayida said, politely translated, was, ‘I love what you are doing, but I would rather be ridden by a pig than a camp poof like you.’”

  “You took it calmly. What did you say to her?”

  “I assured her she could rely on me to find her an ideal partner at the first opportunity.” Gigi tilted his head sideways and exaggerated his grin. “Oink, oink,” and disappeared underwater again.

  When he popped up for air, George grabbed him by the arm and dragged him to the side of the pool where they stood together laughing like a couple of ten year olds. “You seem to be a very happy person Gigi, but is there a moment in your life that isn’t funny?” asked George.

  “Conceptually, no,” replied Gigi, leaning back against the pool side, rocking in the water, looking up and feeling the warm sun on his face. “I do try to see the funny side of everything, but that’s just me. More generally, happiness is not about falling over with laughter. You can’t put right the fact that most people have unrealistic expectations of life these days. However, I take the view that depression is not a good place from which to write a book.”

  He sank slowly back into the water, rolled over and swam away.

  Although Thérèse had met Roger Timmonier before, at this party George met him for the first time. This was the man to whom Michel had previously referred as his role model. Michel’s uncle on his mother’s side of the family, Roger Timmonier, had served time in prison for an armed robbery in a Paris suburb in which a security man had been killed. Since leaving prison, Timmonier had lived a life of comfortable idleness, his only exertion being the maintenance of relations with three mistresses and a tolerant wife who brought up their son mostly on her own. His financial and personal needs were fully taken care of by the women in his life and he moved from one home to another as the fancy took him.

  George was introduced to Roger without comment and the two chatted amiably about non-controversial matters in the afternoon sunshine. Roger, who must have been around seventy at this time, was dressed in faded jeans and a washed out pale yellow tee shirt which hung loosely in folds around his thin arms. He rolled a cigarette with yellow tobacco-stained fingers and lit it. As he spoke and smiled, he revealed teeth the same colour as his shirt, though mainly black around the gums. He had not bothered to shave for this event, emphasising the contrast in appearance with his sister, Huguette Bodin, who had turned up in a fantastic black sequined dress and heavy gold jewellery, having the poise and impact of a diva.

  This being the role model that Michel had said he looked up to, George had one day much later asked him when they were having drinks on the terrace in Paris, what he saw to emulate in Roger Timmonier. Michel had been eating pistachios. He paused and replied by sticking his chin forward, pushing his face close to George, presenting a set of teeth loaded with pistachio fragments, bulging eyes, and three-day stubble under a shaved head.

  “Roger lives life exactly the way he wants, free from any constraints and with all his needs catered for. He doesn’t give a fuck what other people think.” As he said this, Michel rocked his head from side to side in an oriental way as if giving a lesson to an idiot and getting very exasperated. George did not pursue the discussion, believing that Michel was probably drunk and potentially dangerous. Instead he leaned back in his chair, took another sip of wine and wondered if it was Roger Timmonier who fired the fatal shot.

  George had seen what Michel could be like when the two dined with their wives one warm summer evening at a smart restaurant in Bordeaux not far from Thérèse and George’s second home. The atmosphere was good humoured and relaxed. Michel ordered another bottle of Château Haut-Brion wine (over €300 a bottle), ignoring the others who said they had had enough. George thought it was a complete waste of a good wine and only Michel drank any. At the end of the meal he suggested to George that they should smoke a cigar. Smoking in restaurants was permitted in those days so, as they were sitting at a table next to the open door, the two men lit up and began to enjoy the excellent Cohiba cigars that Michel had chosen. As they smoked, a group of diners passed close to the table on their way out. A slim middle-aged man in a suit leaned over and said, “You know, it stinks in here with all your foul smoke.”

  As the man immediately moved away out of the door to the pavement, Michel jumped up from his chair and followed, challenging him. “What did you say? I’d like you to repeat that so I can hear you.”

  The man turned and repeated what he had said before, whereupon Michel swung a punch, catching the man on the side of the head. He collapsed and slumped to his knees. As Mi
chel was lining up another punch, George leapt to his feet and intervened, grabbing Michel from behind and encircling his arms. He spoke quietly into Michel’s ear.

  “What are you doing? You could have killed him. You don’t know how fit he is and someone could call the police.”

  He drew Michel back into the restaurant, meeting the manager coming the other way.

  “It’s all over, just someone being rude. It’s all sorted. We’ll pay and go, please.” George was worried that someone might have already called the police and they could all end up in the cells. Michel was not concerned.

  “Fuck the police. I know them. They are all rotten. I have got what it takes to shut them up.”

  George led him away and they drove home in silence. Next day Michel didn’t mention the incident, but Thérèse asked Charlotte what had set him off.

  “He gets argumentative when he drinks too much,” she replied, as though this was a regular occurrence.

  Back at the 21st birthday party on the Cote D’Azur, George and Thérèse Milton were formally introduced to Johnny Mendes and his wife Ayida. Thérèse took an instant dislike to Johnny, though she did not explain to George whether it was something he said or just an impression. Later she described him as a slimy character. George found Johnny to be on his best behaviour, though rather sly and ingratiating. He invited Thérèse and George to stay at his Paris hotel next time they needed accommodation there. Having already seen if not met Ayida at the pool with Gigi, George could now appreciate her dressed in a fine turquoise sarong. She was from a mixed race background of Haitian origin, one of eighty thousand Haitian migrants living in France. She had fine European facial features, svelte figure, hypnotic green eyes and café-au-lait skin, a combination which would encourage men to give her the benefit of the doubt on any subject. Her broad smile and white teeth would finish the job of seduction.