by Emma Becker
I pick up. Damn everything else. At the other end of the line, that voice drills through me to my ovaries, tearing me apart. The impact is so powerful that my legs turn to jelly. ‘There’s hardly any signal. I’ll have to go downstairs.’
‘Wait for me outside,’ he replies, readily accepting my lie. ‘I’ll finish my own call and be along soon.’
The mobile phone I’m holding is all that matters.
‘Who were you talking to?’ Monsieur asks.
‘Andrea.’
‘You’re at his place?’
‘I’ve gone outside for some privacy.’ Which means I’m pacing up and down the street like a prostitute, wobbling on my uncomfortable heels, unaware of the pain they’re causing. I feel nothing. I feel only Monsieur.
I must be strong. I should sound detached. He must never learn how I’ve felt while he’s been out of touch. I mustn’t forget that the only reason he’s speaking to me is because of my call to the clinic, which gave him the willies. It’s a long time since I kept him waiting and, having called me four times without an answer, he had to send me texts, like a soft hand grazing my neck: ‘Ellie . . .’
But that’s no longer who I am. All that remains inside this small, carefully made-up and dressed body is consumed by the need to know why I appear to have done wrong, what I said or did to distance Monsieur from me and our anonymous hotel rooms.
‘How are you?’ he asks.
‘Fine. You?’
‘So-so. I’m depressed,’ he says. The line is terrible, full of crackling. ‘I’m feeling old.’
‘Come on, you’re not old!’ I say, with surprising energy.
I know what he’s planning to tell me. Just a week ago it was in one of his texts: ‘Your twenty-year-old eyes and body are making me feel old.’ That was when I understood how terrible the effects of youth can be, and the fact that there was so little I could do about it. How could I avoid childishly expressing my joy when Monsieur joined me on Tuesday mornings, even knowing that for him it was somehow a defect? I could have been slimmer, blonder, prettier, whatever, but I couldn’t be older.
‘You must believe me. You’re not old.’
‘Nothing I can do about it. You know how it is – I have days like this.’
‘What about me in all of this? What happens to me?’
‘I know, sweetie.’
‘Sweetie’: the word he used instead of ‘darling’ when he thought I was playing cute.
‘I have no appetite for anything, right now.’
‘Not even me?’
Monsieur deploys the indulgent smile I knew so well. ‘The moment I see you, I feel like making love. And, by the way, those photos of your arse make me so horny.’
I smile. Like some cheap tart I’d tried to seize his attention with them. ‘Do you want us to stop seeing each other?’
‘I never said that.’
‘So what do we do?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘So what do you know?’
A couple walking by hand in hand glance at me, hearing me cry softly. I feel so alone in the world that I’m speaking too loudly, not noticing that, a few metres away, behind the corner of the building, Andrea is waiting by his car. He waves at me and his signal is like fingers circling my neck. For a moment, it’s as if he’s finally realized something is wrong, after missing a thousand clues.
‘You’re not the only one in this relationship. I exist too. If you don’t wish to see me again, I’d rather know than live like a drug addict always hoping for her fix,’ I say, lowering my voice.
I walk towards Andrea, unable to hang up. I’m so nervous I go on talking as I sit next to him in the confined space of the Fiat 500. All I hope is that he can’t hear Monsieur’s seductive voice as he defends himself: ‘That’s not a nice thing to say. Likening yourself to a drug addict.’
‘Not nice for whom?’
‘For me. My life isn’t a bed of roses right now.’
(What about me? Do you think I’m enjoying this? Sitting like an oyster when you’re not around, always wide open, awaiting your messages and calls, hoping to seize them from the air? Do you believe I enjoy having to force myself not to think of you for days on end, foolishly hoping that my silence will overcome yours? I’m drowning within your shadow: I Google you and learn things about you I already knew, then realize what a fool I am and, fuck, why am I doing this? Lately, apart from eating and sleeping, I’ve accomplished nothing I can be proud of, nothing that brings me closer to you, and, right now, my boyfriend is taking me out for the evening. I’d happily exchange that for five minutes with you. I’m twenty and I’m ready to devour the world, but I can’t because you’re eating me up inside. Who do you think is having a hard time? The wealthy and esteemed surgeon surrounded by his loving family and his admiring friends, or me? Who the fuck is suffering most?)
‘It ain’t easy for me either.’
‘I know, sweetie. But why do you say you feel like a drug addict?’
‘You know why. You just want me to say it.’
Andrea watches me calmly, waiting like a proper boyfriend for his girlfriend to end her call. The serenity in his pretty black-brown eyes hurts and annoys me.
‘It’s easy for you,’ I say. ‘You have the best of both worlds.’
‘Not at all. You’re the one for whom everything is easy. Tell me, how many men would give everything they own to be in my place?’
‘I don’t give a toss about them.’
‘You have no ties, you’re free. I have to pretend nothing’s going on.’
Monsieur has always underestimated the way young hearts can react.
‘You’re wrong. It’s hard for me too. I go mad not knowing what’s happening, whether I can help you.’
‘You can’t. It’s just me. It’ll pass.’
‘So, you’re not about to forget me?’
‘I’ll never forget you.’
‘Swear.’
‘How could I ever forget you?’
Ecstatic, I close my eyes. A few minutes later, this unhealthy joy will disgust me, bring me to the brink of tears, but for now it feels great.
‘What do you want to eat?’ Andrea whispers.
I break free of my opium dream and shrug. ‘Whatever you want.’
‘Is the book making progress?’ Monsieur asks, but now that Andrea is bothering me about the choice of restaurant, I can’t talk to him any longer.
‘It’s complicated right now,’ I say, fervently hoping he’ll understand what I’m on about.
‘You can’t talk?’
‘Not really, no.’
Monsieur has a strangulated laugh, reminding me of a rather indecent conversation we had, with my parents a short distance away. It seems the rules haven’t changed.
‘Shall I call you back tomorrow, when you’re alone?’
‘Yeah, that’d be good,’ I lie, having resolved to leave Andrea’s place, like a thief, in the middle of the night.
‘Kisses,’ he says, and it’s over.
This car has never been so suffocating. I’m sweating like a pig under my trenchcoat. Behind the curtain of my fringe, I glance at Andrea, attentive to his expression. So, what are we doing, darling?
‘Want to go Japanese?’
‘Let’s,’ I say.
Then, as a strange silence settles over us, the sort of silence that usually triggers an argument, I fall headlong into yet another lie: ‘I told you, didn’t I, that we’re having a party for my sister’s birthday?’
‘No.’
‘We were thinking of hiring a free jazz band. I was speaking to a mate who thinks he knows a really good one. He’s going to call me back.’
‘Now? That’s who you were talking to?’
‘Yeah. I hope it works out.’
‘It’s a good idea, free jazz,’ he remarks, parking the car on rue Monsieur-le-Prince.
‘I love it,’ I say, and hand in hand we walk into the narrow restaurant where, for the next couple of hours, thirty o
r so people will be able to watch me go through the motions of tenderness and lie through my teeth.
Thinking of Monsieur makes me witty and sparkling, and Andrea is a perfect audience, laughing at everything I say, stroking my knees under the table. I am the perfect criminal.
* * *
The following morning, on the stroke of eight, I open my eyes as Andrea is making love to me, gently and clumsily like a boy who has just woken up. His hands excite me. The way he caresses my breasts excites me.
‘That’s so nice.’ I sigh. ‘I just wish they were bigger.’
‘They’re perfect,’ he whispers into my hair, his warm breath smelling of coffee and toast, as his fingers graze my nipples. ‘They look erect,’ he adds, and I start fucking him, my arse in frantic motion.
‘You drive me wild,’ I pant, sitting on him and caressing myself with my hands as I’ve never quite dared before.
Inside me, Andrea is hard and unyielding. In the pale early-morning light I watch, with fascination, his cock move in and out of my still sleepy cunt. Before I began going out with him, the mere thought of seeing him naked kept me awake. And after I did, all I could dream of was Andrea Levinger’s cock. Now I am torn between the waves of pleasure and the shadow of my mobile phone sitting under my discarded pants on the floor.
Does Monsieur have any idea I’m being fucked right now? Does he have any idea how different I am, outside and in? He should be here so I could stare at him while I mechanically thrust myself against Andrea, my eyes dead as my body catches fire. I am a monstrous contradiction. No one could guess how much of my perverse sensuality is all pretence.
‘Now?’ Andrea sighs, as his taut back straightens like a buttress, his nails digging hard enough into my arse cheeks to make me scream, and I hate myself.
I hate myself because the only thing I can think of right now, as his cum streams down my legs, is speaking to Monsieur.
‘We’ll call each other, OK?’ I whisper into his neck.
‘You’re leaving now? So early?’
‘I forgot my keys. I have to get home before my mother leaves for work.’
If Babette knew that, she’d call me a slut.
A few minutes later, I’m running down the Métro corridors, mobile in hand.
What’s it like, Monsieur, to be a drug addict? It’s just like it was that first Tuesday morning. Frantically waiting for you locked into that room with the shutters hermetically sealed until nine thirty. Falling apart as I realize you’ve forgotten me, despite yesterday’s promises. Watching the day pass and shivering for an hour when I know you’re on your way home. Yet again, like a bar of soap, you slipped through my fingers.
ELLIE
Darling, I hope you’re feeling better. That you’ve overcome the blues. My problem, right now, is that I feel like a downright beggar for wanting news of you, and it’s something I can’t bear. It’s not a question of pride but I hate it when you see me like this. I know I’m better than that. And what I hate most is that our story (if you can call it that) is suddenly growing ugly, even if I was never sufficiently stupid enough to believe I was on the threshold of some mad romance. I know who we are, how we live.
Which is why I don’t understand. It would be wrong for you to take pity on me; I’d rather you hated me. I’m just surprised by the lack of understanding I have of the current situation. I’d come to the conclusion that you were manifestly unwell, partly my fault, and there is little I can do about it. I reckon you don’t need my assistance either; it would be somewhat presumptuous to think I could help. But I can’t bear the thought you might forget me, and I have to know how you are, because I have known you and, for me, that sort of detail is so important right now.
I’ve thought about it over and over, but you know I’m not too good at interpreting male hints, and can’t decipher your ‘depression’. It might feel clear cut to you, but put yourself in my shoes and try to spell things out. It would be so much easier and come as a huge relief.
I was under the impression that everything was going smoothly between the two of us. We talked so much and the suddenness of this break in communication is just killing me. I realize you’re not always available, for a variety of reasons, but this is evidently different. You don’t talk at all now. And I can’t help thinking it’s not my fault.
I’m a simple person, you know, in many ways. When I met you, I knew I shouldn’t invest too much in the whole thing, that our contact would sometimes be minimal. I was never stupid enough to believe I could change things, and never wanted to. I entered into this relationship with the firm intention of being honest with you, and forbidding myself ever to get hurt by it. Which is why I believe it’s only fair that you should keep me in the loop, in simple terms, letting me know how your feelings evolve as we go along.
I also told myself that my letters possibly made you think I was growing too attached to you. I’m fond of you, I confess, but it’s the only way I can manage things, in the midst of this relationship. Despite the violent strength of the passion that binds us, I need emotion too.
When I think back to where we began, I tend to say to myself: ‘OK, something must have happened for him not to be in touch. He was fine when we last talked.’ The only thing I did wrong was to ignore your cowardice. All men are cowards. As cowardly as women are complicated. At any rate, I can’t believe you’ve been lying to me all along, playing a game just to get me into bed. It makes no sense because I was the one who came to you.
I’ve also come to the conclusion that, being married, you didn’t want a normal sort of relationship, just the occasional encounter. If that’s the case, I understand totally. I can understand everything, as long as it’s made crystal clear to me.
I’m not asking for much. I’m not begging you to come back to me. All I’m asking for is an explanation. At most ten minutes of your time. I just want to understand, have things settled once and for all. And if you think I’m planning to hunt you down in a dizzy attempt to get you back, you’re mistaken. I may have crawled all over the floor a fair few times for men, but not to that extent, and I’m not about to start now. What I’m proposing, and have been from the start, is childishly simple. I’ve never asked for commitment. Or love. Or anything that either of us might see as a chain. You’re a fascinating person and I fancy you, and if you want me, I have so much more to show you, say and do to you. I have fun with you. It’s that simple. If you don’t want me any more, I won’t stick around.
A few hours ago, I sent you a text asking for a clear answer. As you’ve not responded, I’m asking you, please, to give me a call when you can. If you don’t want to do it for me, do it for yourself, and tell me to stop texting you. I can imagine how annoying you might find it.
Darling . . . I just cannot believe you didn’t enjoy our Tuesday mornings. And everything we did. But I might be wrong, I often am. Make a small effort. Surely a man like you must know how irritating it can be to wait for others to show signs of life.
And it hurts to know you’re sad. If I told you I understand how you feel about getting old, you wouldn’t believe me, but I truly do. I believe it’s even more tragic for a woman, to see her beauty fade. But you’re still young, in the prime of your life – look, you have a twenty-year-old girl hanging on your every word. Surely that counts for something.
I’m touched by your sadness. That’s why I was saying: ‘Just use me.’ I’m a sponge, and I absorb everything you teach me, do to me, say to me. There are a lot of things we haven’t talked about, but I know how to listen. And if you don’t particularly wish to be heard, I know other ways to help you forget everything. It might not sound much, but the power to make you forget is mighty. You can use me because I’m strong. I know I am. Sometimes I can feel myself bending in the wind, but I never break. And I can take over your grief, if only you’ll talk to me.
I’ll keep it simple. I can give you delicious early-in-the-week moments in small rooms, with my body at your disposal.
Ellie
> (Oh, I know it’s not the right moment, but if you’ve got the blues, maybe a photo of my arse might function like a really tiny fix of heroin. I quite like the idea of lurking inside a syringe . . .)
PS And the book is making good progress! But how in hell can I end it, if I don’t know where to put the final full stop.
MONSIEUR
Please, please, don’t stop writing Monsieur.
ELLIE
Damn it, really, what am I supposed to write? Monsieur passed through my life like a flash of lightning and, if I’m to believe you, I had the same effect on you? Monsieur fucked me so well, made me realize how much more there was to sex, but only by a fraction, because at the end of the day he left me with the panache of a thirteen-year-old, just stopped communicating with me. Monsieur dropped me like a sack of potatoes, never had the courage to tell me why. What sort of story can I concoct, with such a pitiful ending?
I’m angry. The last time you had me on the telephone, I gave you plenty of opportunity to say, ‘It’s over,’ there and then. I was ready to accept it. I don’t understand why you’re behaving like this. I did everything I could to make you happy, never asked for anything in exchange. All I wanted was honesty. You couldn’t even call me and talk about it. You’ve trodden on everything I gave you.
There are better ways of feeling young than acting like a spoiled teenager. I could have given you all of it, renewal, passion. No strings. God, I just can’t pinpoint the precise moment I lost you. I thought maybe I was too kind, but that’s not it. I’ll never blame myself for this, or for falling in love.
So, the only thing I’m asking of you today is to call me tomorrow. And let’s sort it out. Because I have no wish to think you’re an arsehole, as the Monsieur I once knew was anything but. Be that Monsieur again, charming, elegant, full of flattery, witty, but don’t be a coward.
Do it for me. Leave me with the memory of a worthy man. It’s the least you can do if you expect a book from me.
Somehow things are so much worse at the shop. It was hard enough anyway to summon the energy to get up at seven thirty on Saturday mornings, and now I was on the verge of tears at the thought of the long, long day behind the counter, when all I wanted was the solitude of my basement room. I had no desire to speak to anyone. Every time I opened my mouth I was sort of hoping that whoever was facing me would evoke Monsieur. It’s as if that man was lodged in my every pore, and always had been. In my mind, I conjured up acts of revenge, sophisticated schemes to make him pay for his silence. Or Monsieur returned to me, saying he didn’t know why he had done it. Sometimes, while I was assembling yet another bouquet for yet another customer, floundering among the scattered flowers on the table, I would look up, my eyes scanning the emptiness, my hands mechanically completing the task, and for an infinitesimal moment I thought I could see his tall silhouette or hear his voice. My fingers were badly at risk every time I had to use the pruning shears.