by Robyn Sisman
Somehow he’d been expecting her black hair to be longer, and the description he’d been given of the girl who’d dropped off the disk hadn’t said anything about the orange streak at the front. Even the guy at Reception didn’t seem to recognize her until she asked for Malcolm. As he’d sprinted over to claim her before she did another disappearing trick, he still felt a lingering sense of disbelief.
“It was you that brought the disk this afternoon, wasn’t it?” he asked her, once they were settled in the bar.
“It might have been.” She smiled coyly.
“Why did you run away? Not scared of me, were you?” He gave her a roguish grin.
“What?” She was batting her eyelashes in puzzlement. Probably not too bright. Just the way he liked them.
“You disappeared just as I got to the desk,” he reminded her. “Why did you give it to that doctor instead?”
“Oh, that . . .” She fiddled with her earrings. “I get shy sometimes. You may find that hard to believe after the way I spoke to you on the phone, but . . .” She raised her eyes, mesmerizingly round and blue in a circle of black eyelashes, to his. “You don’t realize, Malcolm, how exciting it is for me, a simple Australian girl, to be asked out by such a high-ranking executive from London.” She crossed her legs.
Malcolm felt his ears go hot, and tried to stroke his tie before he remembered he wasn’t wearing one. Of course. He should remember how intimidating all this must seem to a simple girl from the colonies. He’d been meaning to ask how Alicia had got hold of the disk in the first place, and whether Molly was in Paris, and why, but somehow he got sidetracked into telling her about his many responsibilities at PLB. Alicia seemed to be fascinated—she’d even made some very helpful suggestions about a problem that had been troubling him, namely the annual departmental Awayday, for which he’d been asked to organize some “ice-breakers” to help knit the staff into a real team. It turned out that Alicia had worked as a holiday rep in Greece the previous summer, and knew some great games. For example, you divided everyone into teams and lined them up in rows, standing behind each other with their legs apart. The person at the back had to crawl through all the legs and sprint up to the rep (or Malcolm, in this case), who gave them a shot of alcohol. Then they had to run round a broomstick ten times, while holding the top of the handle glued to their foreheads and the broom bit pressed to the ground, before returning to their team and crawling through the legs again, at which point the person now at the back would do the same thing. The first team to finish won.
“But we never got that far.” Alicia giggled. “Most people were so dizzy they couldn’t even find their team, especially with all the sand that got kicked up. Everyone was staggering all over the beach. It was hilarious.”
“Not a lot of sand in Basingstoke, of course,” Malcolm said thoughtfully. The Awayday was to be held in a hotel off the M3. “But I believe it could be adapted to a ballroom situation.”
“ ’Course it could.”
That’s what he liked: optimism, energy, the proactive, can-do approach. Here was a lioness—leopardess—who could drag home a ruddy buffalo carcass, crack a joke at the same time and still be dynamite in the den come nightfall. Look at her now, giving him that flirty smile. It was a good thing he’d managed to get those condoms.
But first, the show. He’d been a little surprised to find that the Crazy Horse Saloon wasn’t a saloon at all, but a smart building in one of the most fashionable parts of Paris—not far, Alicia told him, from the tunnel where Princess Diana had died. On the outside it looked like an exclusive club, with a discreet entrance guarded by a uniformed doorman. Very tasteful: not a tit or bum to be seen. He wondered for a moment if they’d come to the wrong place. Could there be two clubs with the same name? Malcolm had a nightmare vision of sitting through an evening of highbrow rubbish while the girls were getting their kit off elsewhere. But no, his tickets were waiting for him at the desk. Malcolm purchased a glossy program—ten euros!—and ushered Alicia through the inner doors with a pat on the bottom.
The inside resembled a small theatre, but with tables packed tight around the stage and a curving bar at the back. Soft lighting, an abundance of crimson velvet and hothouse temperatures gave it a mellow, seductive atmosphere. It was like sitting in a warm red cave. A beam of light projected the words “CRAZY HORSE PARIS” onto the curtains, which rippled from time to time with intriguing backstage preparations. Malcolm imagined what lay behind those curtains and squeezed his thighs together. Life didn’t get much better than this.
His hand trembled as he read the program, which told him he was about to see a revue called Teasing : “Twelve short scenes, some classical, some contemporary, are the perfect showcase for twenty statuesque dancers who will put on the most fabulous nude spectacle in the world.”
Just then a tinny squeak began to play a tune Malcolm eventually recognized as “Waltzing Matilda.” Alicia whipped her mobile out of her bag. He hurriedly retrieved his own phone and turned it off. He looked up to see Alicia grinning as she scanned a text message in the half-light. “Anyone important?” he asked.
“Not compared to you, Malcolm.” She gave him a look. Blimey.
The lights were dimming. A hush fell over the room. Malcolm tingled with expectancy. A drumroll rose to a crescendo. The curtains swished back. Malcolm’s mouth sagged open. To the sound of jolly military music, girls were marching onto the stage, wearing boots, bearskin hats, leather gloves up to their elbows—and nothing else, apart from dangly things like fly whisks over their you-know-whats. Look at those bodies! Long legs, bare breasts, acres of smooth skin gleaming in the lights. Trying not to gawk, Malcolm made a show of studying his program. This was billed as a “ballet” entitled “God Save Our Bare-skin.” Oh, ho, very good. He sneaked a glance at Alicia, wondering what she made of it all. She was loving it! The little tart. An image came into his mind of Alicia cavorting around his hotel room, wearing nothing but her tattoo. He wiped his forehead, and returned his attention to the stage.
The girls marched around in various formations. They saluted, stood to attention and at ease, wheeled left so that all their tits pointed one way, like pink noses sniffing the wind, then right, then did an about-turn so that their bottoms lined up like a row of luscious plums.
“Great choreography, isn’t it?” Alicia said to him, under cover of the applause.
“It’s not their choreography I’m looking at.” Malcolm chuck-led at his witty repartee.
“Oh, Malcolm, you crack me up.” She threw back her head in a laugh, then leaned close to whisper: “I must say, this stuff really gives you ideas, doesn’t it?”
Malcolm’s heart lurched with excitement and mild terror. He smiled his sophisticated smile, and poured her another glass of champagne.
19
He does like me, Molly insisted , as the lift glided upward. His pride was hurt; that was all. Men had enormous egos. They couldn’t help it: that was the way they were made. When their egos were threatened, they became angry, and anger made them cruel. Look at Sergeant Troy in Far from the Madding Crowd, who jilted the love of his life because she was late for their wedding, then suffered a broken heart until the day he died. Not that she wanted Fabrice’s heart broken exactly, but he would probably be penitent tomorrow. She would forgive him, of course, in the end. She pictured herself in the Café Balzac, wistful and waiflike in black, being coaxed back to smiles. There would be enough time for them to make up properly before her train left. How did that poem go? Something, something, “and then you, lovely and willing in the afternoon . . .”
The lift bounced to a halt. Lights sprang on automatically in the empty corridor. It was very quiet. Molly stood outside the carved front door, gathering her courage. She felt very alone. What would she say? How could she explain, without betraying Fabrice? M. Lebrun was a bad-tempered tyrant. Her French was not up to the task. But it had to be done. She pressed the buzzer.
There were quick footsteps, the click of latches
, and the door was pulled open. Monsieur Lebrun’s impatient expression modulated to surprise, then curiosity. Dressed in dark trousers and a shirt with the sleeves rolled up, he looked less pin-perfect than he had this afternoon. There was a pencil in his hand. “Ah, Mademoiselle Molly. I’m sorry, I don’t recall your other name.”
“It doesn’t matter. May I, um, come in a moment?”
“Of course.” His eyes flickered momentarily to the corridor behind her, as if to check she was alone, then he stepped back to let her in and closed the door. “This way.”
“I’m sorry it’s so late. I saw the light on. I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Molly gabbled, as she followed him down the hall. Through an open doorway she caught a brief glimpse of a lighted room, very different from the rest of the flat, sparsely furnished in pale wood and chrome: a desk covered with papers, filing cabinets, a drawing board.
“I was working,” he said, leading the way into the living room, “but not very profitably, it must be said. Now you have given me an excuse to have a cognac. You like cognac?”
“I don’t know. But—”
“Then you must try.”
“No. I mean, thank you, but I can’t stay.” Molly halted just inside the threshold. She felt sick. “Monsieur Lebrun—”
He turned sharply. “It’s about Fabrice? Something is wrong?”
“No, no, Fabrice is fine. And thank you very much for giving him the money for our dinner. It was delicious. But—”
“The food was good? Really? I am glad. One cannot be sure, since the restaurant was taken over by a big group. Sometimes they are careless about the cheese. I was once offered a Reblochon that was an insult. One would think it had been purchased in the supermarché!” His handsome features contracted with disdain.
“We didn’t have cheese,” Molly said rather desperately, clutching her bag. “Monsieur Lebrun,” she went on, before he could quiz her further about the menu, “I have something to confess to you. Something very bad. This afternoon, when I was here, I—I stole something.”
He looked at her in astonishment. Then his face cleared. “You mean the champagne. I told you, it is a gift. You must not think of it.”
“Not the champagne. This.” She put her hand into her bag and drew out the candle-snuffer. His face grew hard. She felt like a criminal. “You see, I’m very poor,” she stumbled on. “I just lost my job. I came here and saw all your beautiful things and—well—I don’t know what came over me. It was very wrong.”
“But now you are bringing it back?” His face was like a mask.
“Yes. I was ashamed. The dinner and so forth. And you are Fabrice’s father. So here it is.” Somehow she managed to take a step and hand it to him. “I’m very, very sorry, Monsieur Lebrun.”
He turned the snuffer this way and that in his hand for a moment, then pointed it at the sofa. “Sit down, Mademoiselle.”
He spoke so sternly that she sank down obediently, watching with widening eyes as he walked to a corner of the room. She saw a telephone. Was he going to phone the police? “Monsieur . . .” she pleaded.
He laid down the snuffer and opened a cabinet. There was the chink of glasses. Solemnly he poured an inch of bronze liquid into two bulbous goblets, carried them over to Molly, and handed her one. “Please call me Armand. ‘Monsieur’ sounds so old. And of course I am old—old enough, certainly, to know that it was not you but my son who took this thing.”
“No, honestly!” Her words fell thinly into a disbelieving silence.
He pulled up a chair and sat down, forearms on knees, confronting her. “It was Fabrice, wasn’t it?”
Molly dropped her eyes. “He—you see, it belonged to his mother. He wanted to have something of hers.”
“Ah, non!” Armand hit the arm of his chair so violently that Molly jumped. “Don’t lie to me!”
Molly twisted the handle of her bag round and round, as if she was trying to shred the leather. “He was going to sell it,” she whispered. “I knew he shouldn’t. That’s why I—that’s why we agreed that I would bring it back.”
“I suppose you’re going to tell me he was too ashamed to bring it himself.”
“Yes, he is! At least, he will be, I know.”
“And is he waiting for you down there?” Armand jerked his head at the window, and the darkness outside.
Molly shook her head. “He was too angry.” Without warning, she felt her face crumple out of shape, and had to grip her nose and squeeze her eyes tight to stop the tears bursting out.
“Oh, là là,” clucked Armand. “Drink your cognac. The world has not ended, I promise you.”
“He didn’t mean to take it,” Molly wailed. “He didn’t think. Perhaps if you gave him a little more money, were a little kinder to him . . .” Her words petered out. She raised the cognac waveringly to her mouth. The glass rattled against her teeth. Fumes scorched her nostrils as she tilted the liquid into her mouth. Ooh, how horrid! A firebolt shot down her throat, setting her chest aflame. Her lips stung.
Armand held his glass from underneath, fingers splayed around the bowl, and revolved it absently. “I am at the end of my patience with Fabrice,” he said grimly. “The fact is that I give him an extremely generous allowance, probably more than I should. I have paid for many years of study, special tutorials, trips to Italy, to museums. He throws it all away. This afternoon you suggested that I had made it impossible for him to study. That is not true. Fabrice was dismissed by the école because he refused to take the examinations. He said the teachers were out of touch, blinkered—‘Fascists’—and he refused to submit himself to their worthless opinion.” He sighed. “I’m afraid he can be arrogant. And he is not always truthful—in many things. That is something you should know.”
Molly stared at him. She wanted to protest. She wanted to disbelieve him, but the pain in his face told her he was speaking the truth.
“This is not the first time he has stolen from me,” Armand continued. “I confess it with shame. The truth is, he is spoiled. His mother spoiled him when she was alive, as all mothers spoil their sons, and after she died Fabrice was so unhappy I wanted to make up for his great loss. It was hard to say no to him. Today you told me I neglected Fabrice—”
Molly’s hands fluttered an apology. “That was very rude. I’m sorry. I thought—I felt—”
“You spoke your feelings honestly. That is admirable. You made me consider. It is true that I am very busy with my work. Perhaps I have given Fabrice too much money and not enough time. The exasperating thing is that he is truly talented: not a genius, bien sûr not a Corot or a Matisse, but there is a special quality to his work, an energy—” Armand broke off in frustration, tossing his hands in the air. “It’s a terrible tragedy to waste a talent, don’t you think?”
“I think he wants to do something good,” Molly said slowly. “He took me to the Rodin museum today, and he wasn’t just showing off, he was passionate about what can be done if you have a vision. He does show off a bit,” she added, meeting Armand’s eyes with a sideways smile, “but I don’t mind.”
Behind Armand’s head she could see the mirror where she and Fabrice had looked at themselves, naked. She ached for that lost moment. It didn’t matter that Fabrice could be a bit spoiled and self-centerd. He was so beautiful. Apart from his looks, what she liked about him best was his playfulness. She remembered the way he had grabbed her hand on the deck of the boat, the way he teased her about “culture,” his lovely cartoon.
“Perhaps Fabrice doesn’t know how to work,” she said. “I realize that sounds strange, but sometimes people want something so much—they see what they want to be but they don’t know how to achieve it.” As she spoke the words, she realized that they could also apply to herself. “People can be so frightened of failing that they do nothing, or choose something so dull they have no chance of shining. And, of course, Fabrice sees you—very successful, very busy—and wonders if he will ever be the same.” She frowned. “I did think it a bit odd t
hat he brought me to your flat. I mean, why not his place? He was very nervous to begin with. He seemed angry with you, almost as if there was something he wanted to prove.”
“Of course he can come here any time.” Armand flapped his hands elegantly, not really answering her question. “That’s why he has a key.”
“Yes, but not—not to—” Molly started to blush. “Monsieur—Armand—I want to tell you that I don’t usually—I’m not the sort of girl—”
“No, no!” he interrupted, aghast, palm raised. “That, of course, is none of my business. In France such things are understood. We are not like you English, who wish to print the story of every petite amie in the newspapers. Enfin, l’amour, c’est l’amour.” The way he waggled his head and puffed out little snorts of outrage reminded Molly of Alleluia, furiously shaking droplets from her coat after being plunged unexpectedly into water.
“It’s just that Fabrice has been so kind to me, so much fun, so . . . everything.” She smiled dreamily.
Armand had risen to fetch the cognac bottle. To Molly’s surprise, her glass was empty. She held it out for him to refill. Even though she couldn’t help wincing every time she drank the stuff, gradually it was spreading a warm contentment through her veins. Tentatively she smiled up at Armand. He wasn’t so bad. It was funny how nervous she had been about coming here. Now she felt almost at ease with this old Frenchman, with his smooth manners and precise speech. “Merci beaucoup,” she said.
“What a charming girl you are,” Armand said. “And really, your French is not at all bad for an English person. Tell me, how did you meet Fabrice?”
She gave him an edited version of their meeting on the boat and the things they had done together. Under his interested questioning, she found herself explaining how she’d come to Paris in the first place. That led back to Phipps Lauzer Bergman, her problems with Malcolm and her current unemployed status.