Midnight Girls

by Lulu Taylor

  ‘I’m not quite …’

  ‘Please? It’s nearby, it will only take an hour or two. It’s worth seeing, I promise.

  ‘All right then. If you’d like me to,’ Allegra agreed reluctantly.

  ‘Thanks, I owe you. I’m sure I’ll be better later,’ Romily said, her eyes grateful.

  At two o’clock the message came that Monsieur Antoine was waiting outside. Allegra found him waiting in his navy blue Audi, sitting on the white leather back seat, the darkened window lowered so she could see him.

  ‘Where is Romily?’ he asked, surprised. The driver got out and opened a rear door so that Allegra could get in.

  ‘She’s sick. She can’t come.’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘What a shame. Never mind. We shall have a lovely time together nevertheless. Musée d’Orsay, please, Georges.’

  Allegra felt uncomfortable for the first few minutes but then she began to relax. Paul Antoine was friendly and polite, and although she didn’t like the way his stomach strained over the top of his trousers, he wasn’t quite as ugly as she’d remembered. Nevertheless, he was no oil painting: he had deep-set black eyes and dark hair streaked thickly with grey, while more wiry dark hair emerged from under his shirt cuffs. He had a melodious voice, though, and an undeniable charm that soon put her at her ease.

  They arrived at the Musée d’Orsay within twenty minutes. The driver ignored any traffic restrictions and brought the car to a standstill as near to the entrance as possible, then opened the doors so they could alight.

  ‘Now, this is a wonderful treat,’ said Monsieur Antoine, as he ushered Allegra through what appeared to be a priority door for those who didn’t need to buy a ticket. He murmured something to the person on duty who jumped up and made a great show of welcome. Allegra could make out that her host was waving away the offer of a guide.

  ‘They know me well here,’ he said as he led the way into the museum. ‘I donated a painting or two a while ago and they make a great fuss whenever I come. Now, let us see what we shall see.’

  Allegra had learned about art from what she had seen on the walls at home, and from trips to the National Gallery and the Tate with Uncle David. She had little time for Old Masters or endless portraits of pasty-faced ancestors in ruffs and jewels and furs. At once she could tell that this was her kind of art gallery: the paintings, some over a hundred years old, still shone with life and buzzed with energy. The Impressionists, Post-Impressionists, Expressionists, Modernists: all were represented here by the finest artists of their time, portraying ordinary people – peasants working the fields, girls at their dancing class, a woman drinking in a café – with brilliance and luminosity. Allegra wandered from picture to picture, taking it all in, entranced by what she was seeing. Every room offered some new delight, from famous paintings such as Manet’s Le Déjeuner sur l’Herbe or Renoir’s Bal du Moulin de la Galette to many she had never seen reproduced but found just as stimulating and interesting. And, to her surprise, Monsieur Antoine proved to be an excellent guide.

  He didn’t push her in any direction but let her follow her own inclination. When she stopped to observe a painting, he gave her time to look at it before murmuring to her about the artist and the techniques used in this particular canvas. When she came to halt in front of a painting of three women bending over a harvested field, picking up dropped wheat, he said quietly, ‘Millet was fascinated by this subject, and this picture of the gleaners took him ten years to research. These peasant women are caught in the midst of their back-breaking work, scavenging what they can from the fields while behind them we see abundance in the full haystacks. And yet their grace is redemptive, is it not? We don’t feel lectured about the inequalities of society. We see beauty and stoicism and humanity.’

  Allegra nodded, moved and feeling as though she had glimpsed something important.

  So they went on. The museum was not huge, it was nothing like the National Gallery in London with its majestic galleries and several floors. This was more manageable, but the richness on offer – not only paintings but sculpture and decorative arts – meant that it would have taken hours to see everything.

  ‘We have been here long enough,’ her guide said finally, consulting the bulky Rolex on his wrist just at the moment that Allegra was beginning to feel tired. ‘Come, Georges will be waiting.’

  As they went to leave, this time by the main entrance, Allegra’s eye was caught by a painting hanging alone on a great wall by the door, and she gasped. Was that what she thought it was? Yes … it was the lower torso of a woman, entirely exposed. She was lying on a bed, but everything above her breasts was hidden by a swathe of sheet and the picture ended at her ripe thighs.

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Monsieur Antoine was standing beside her, gazing at the same picture. He was short, she realised, perhaps even shorter than she was. ‘The Origin of the World. A stunning picture, is it not? The female sexual organs in all their beauty and power.’

  Allegra felt paralysed by embarrassment. Her face was flaming so much, she thought she might be about to explode. She couldn’t see any beauty or power – just the anonymous glorification of that place. What was it that drove men wild about it? It looked unattractive to her: biological, intimate, faintly repulsive. And if I had pubes like that, I’d kill myself.

  ‘Come along, we must go.’ Monsieur Antoine touched her elbow and guided her towards the door. Allegra was glad to take her gaze away from the mortifying picture.

  A moment later, she was climbing into the cool interior of the Audi and the car was gliding off through the streets of Paris.

  ‘Where are we?’ she asked after a while. The journey from Romily’s apartment had not taken very long and they had already been driving for what seemed far longer. She was sure they were heading in a different direction from the avenue Foch.

  ‘We have a little time. I thought you might like some tea.’ Monsieur Antoine smiled at her. ‘I’ve enjoyed our visit together, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Allegra agreed politely. She had enjoyed the gallery, it was true, but now she was keen to get back to familiar surroundings and see how her friend was. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Ah, we are here now.’

  The car slid to a halt beside a smart apartment block and she was shown into a tiny wrought-iron lift which climbed to the fifth floor.

  ‘I’ve been bold enough to bring you back chez moi. It is clear you have a soul that is touched by art. I thought you might like to see my own collection.’

  He opened the front door and Allegra stepped inside, curious. This apartment was very different from the pastels, silks and gilt of the de Lisles’ home: it was more masculine, with its dark wooden panelling, heavy furniture and forest green velvet curtains, though there were flowers everywhere in all manner of vases. But each square of panelling displayed another painting; the walls of the apartment were covered in them, of every period: twentieth-century abstract, nineteenth-century portraits, Renaissance religious art … anything she could think of was there.

  And everywhere there were sculptures – ancient Greece, Rome, China and Japan were all represented – with every flat surface covered besides in beautiful things: carved boxes, marble lamp-stands, onyx heads of African animals. Leaning against one wall was a gigantic Egyptian sarcophagus in polished wood. Bookshelves were packed with antique tomes, and tiny Etruscan-looking terracotta figures were posed in front of them.

  ‘How extraordinary,’ breathed Allegra, unable to take it all in at once. She stared about her at the incredible collection.

  Monsieur Antoine went to a table in the corner of the room and returned with a tumbler which he pressed into her hand. She took it and automatically sipped without thinking, then winced. It was neat brandy.

  ‘These are the fruits of many years’ dedicated collecting,’ murmured her host, holding his own glass to his chest. He began to wander about the room, pointing out his most prized possessions – a Matisse cut out, an Ingres drawing, the cameo head of a
Caesar carved from jasper. Allegra followed him, listening. Her stay in the de Lisles’ apartment had begun to inure her to seeing the kind of paintings that ought to be in a museum on the walls of a private home – after all, Romily’s house was crammed with Vincent de Lisle’s work – but nevertheless, all of this was stunning. She followed him as he showed off his treasures, going from room to room, sipping at her brandy which became less difficult to drink the longer she did so. Then they reached a room decorated Empire-style with a majestic bed standing in the centre and a large desk by the window, everything swagged in dark green velvet or covered in burgundy leather.

  ‘The bedroom, where I keep my favourite pieces,’ said her host, and put his glass down carefully on a small table crammed with bibelots. He leaned over and took Allegra’s glass from her hand, putting it down next to his. Then he came and stood close to her, and she smelled the brandy on his breath. ‘But you, my dear, are a treasure yourself.’ He put out his hand and stroked her hair. ‘So young and beautiful. You are a prize, aren’t you, for some lucky man?’

  ‘I think I’d like to go home now,’ she said, stiffening as he touched her hair, feeling a crawling sense of horror.

  ‘Come on, you’re not going anywhere. Why did you come home with me? Why agree if you didn’t want what I’m about to give you?’

  She saw his hand move to the front of his trousers. He seemed to stroke himself there, just for a fluttering instant. Then she realised she could see a great bulge like a truncheon at his fly, and fear clamped round her like an invisible corset. Run away, she told herself. But she couldn’t move.

  The next moment, he was making a strange noise in his throat and inching her towards the huge bed.

  I know what’s going to happen, she thought. Half her mind was gripped by fright, but the other half seemed to be extremely calm and removed from the whole event. He’s going to do it to me. I wonder what it will be like. I hope it doesn’t hurt.

  Hundreds of thoughts flashed through her mind as the man pushed her down on the bed and lay down next to her, panting, holding her firmly with one hand as he began to tussle with her clothes. He seemed overcome with excitement and didn’t appear to know what to do first, pushing her skirt up round her thighs and scrabbling towards her knickers at one moment, then fumbling with the buttons of her shirt the next, desperate to get his fat fingers on her breasts. This isn’t how it was supposed to be, she thought, remembering all the ways she’d fantasised about losing her virginity.

  ‘You like this, don’t you?’ he muttered. ‘I knew what you wanted. You’ve been begging me for this, don’t think I didn’t understand …’

  Then he pressed his mouth to hers, forcing her lips apart with his tongue. She became passive, letting him lever her jaws open so he could push himself into her mouth. She wanted to close her teeth on his tongue but she did nothing. Why can’t I move? Why can’t I do anything? But she seemed gripped by a strange sort of paralysis that meant she lay there and endured everything, with a calm little voice in her head offering her a running commentary all the time on what was happening to her.

  How strange – he’s actually a better kisser than Freddie. He’s not thrashing about like a snake in a washing machine. And he doesn’t taste as bad as I’d expected, which I suppose I should be grateful for. Perhaps it’s because I’ve been drinking brandy too. Oh, he’s got my buttons undone at last, so … what now? Oh, of course.

  He left her mouth and pulled the cups of her bra down under her breasts so that they were pushed upwards, their soft pink nipples tilting towards him. She saw his eyes for a moment and understood for the first time how someone’s eyes could actually be glazed – his seemed only to be half-focused. He was still making that strange sound, in between panting for breath, then she felt her right nipple taken into his mouth. Is he going to bite it? But he sucked and sucked on her instead, pulling the nipple up into a tight peak. He grazed at it, rolling the little bud against his teeth. Something tingled within her and she moved involuntarily.

  Oh, no, no … I can’t start to enjoy it. She shuddered with revulsion at herself, which made him grunt and murmur, ‘Mmm, you like this, little girl, don’t you?’

  No, I hate it! she told herself, appalled at her own body which seemed to be reacting despite itself.

  He moved on to her other breast, sucking at it while his hand crept back to her skirt, pushing up underneath it across her smooth thighs and sliding under the elastic of her knickers.

  He released her nipple with a tiny popping sound and said hoarsely, ‘I cannot resist you, you are so beautiful. I must taste you.’

  He moved down the bed, pulled her knickers down and discarded them, then parted her legs and put himself between them. ‘Ah, the great mystery,’ he said, ‘the garden of delights.’ He nuzzled into her small patch of fair pubic hair, inhaling hard. Then she felt his warm tongue dart out and touch the very top of her quim, where her small hard clitoris nestled inside its fleshy home. It sent an electric jolt through her, and she jerked. That place was always so sensitive, sometimes she could hardly bear to touch it herself.

  He laughed throatily. ‘You see? You like it. Of course you do, it’s what you were made for. So delicious …’

  His tongue came out again and began to lap at her, first tickling her around that unbearably sensitive place, and then lapping at her entire mound, pushing up inside her and rolling towards her bud. She had never experienced anything like it and couldn’t prevent her body responding to his skill. She didn’t want to enjoy it but it felt good.

  So this is cunnilingus, the calm voice in her head told her. You wondered what this would be like and now you know. Freddie wanted to and you wouldn’t let him – now you’re getting it anyway.

  Each time his tongue reached her clitoris, it was as though she had been jolted: her legs jerked around his beefy shoulders.

  ‘Come on, little darling,’ he muttered, ‘I love the taste of your cunt. You English have good words for things, and, you see, I know them all …’

  The feelings were too hard to resist. Even the little voice in her head was quiet, unable to speak against this torrent of physical sensation. It was rushing up over her like a wave rolling inexorably up a beach, an almost sick feeling of intensity that built and built until she wondered what on earth was going to happen next – when suddenly she was possessed by an extraordinary crash of pleasure that shook her violently: her head thrashed, she gasped and cried out and felt her body spasm with the force of whatever it was. It seemed to go on for a long time then subsided, leaving her breathless and confused. But at that very moment, something new happened.

  She felt a crushing weight on her stomach and chest and realised that Monsieur Antoine was now lying on her. He’d freed his cock from his trousers, though she couldn’t see it. All she could feel was its great head pushing between her legs.

  ‘You’re ready for me,’ he whispered. ‘Beautiful and ready … ah, yes! There we are! There we are!’

  The orgasm had left her slippery and accessible. He pushed his cock up inside her. She felt herself stretch to accommodate him – Oh my God, it’s happening, he’s doing it, he’s doing it – and then a resistance.

  ‘Ah,’ he crooned. ‘Ma petite vierge. Don’t worry, darling, just one quick push …’

  He thrust hard and suddenly the resistance gave way in a rush of pain. Allegra screamed and tears sprang into her eyes. ‘Stop it!’ she cried. ‘Get off! Stop!’

  Paying no attention, he started to increase his pace, pushing into her harder and harder, his eyes tightly closed and his breath coming hard and fast between pursed lips. It hurt horribly and she started to moan and cry, which only made him thrust harder until, with a little yelp, he withdrew suddenly and she felt something warm splatter across her stomach.

  He rolled off her and they lay in silence for a moment. Then he sighed heavily and said in a satisfied voice, ‘As wonderful as I had hoped, ma chérie. You were made for pleasure. Do not worry about having a baby, I
made sure you will be quite all right. Was that not good of me?’ Then he propped himself up and looked at her, his gaze smug. ‘And we both know that this is what you wanted, don’t we? I hope you’re not going to make up any silly stories about it, pretending that you were somehow unwilling. After all, you should thank me for that delicious little emission you enjoyed. Now clean yourself up. It’s time to go home.’

  PART 2

  Chapter 13

  Oxford University

  Autumn 2002

  WHAT WOULD MY life have been like if I’d been at Oxford without Allegra? wondered Imogen.

  She was sitting on a chair in her friend’s room in the Lincoln College buildings, not the gracious medieval quadrangle but a more modern 1930s house on Turl Street nearby that housed some of the first years, a mug of coffee in one hand, a cigarette in the other, watching a boy curled on the bed as he flipped through the pages of Country Life and remarked, ‘It’s so funny seeing one’s friends’ houses in here, isn’t it?’

  ‘If you say so, Roddy,’ Allegra said with a laugh. She was flicking through a gossip magazine while chain-smoking her Marlboro Lights and feeding her hangover with sweet tea and chocolate.

  It was a silly question, really, because Imogen could never know it any other way. I’d never get to go to all these glamorous parties if I weren’t with her, she realised. Allegra’s pigeon hole was always stuffed with invitations to all manner of exciting things and they went to everything together – safety in numbers. It meant that Imogen’s social life took place almost entirely outside her own college: she was always in Lincoln with Allegra, or in a cocktail dress in one of the grander colleges, sipping sparkling white wine that aped champagne. The only person she knew in her own college was Nick, her tutorial partner, a soft-voiced, guitar-playing lad from Wales with a Kate Bush fixation. ‘I love hearing all about your high life,’ he’d say when she told him what she’d been up to the previous evening. ‘You really are living the Oxford dream, aren’t you?’