Crush (7 page)

She was getting mad. David had no idea of the stunts she performed to get free. What hadn’t she invented to come to him? A plausible business appointment, for her staff; an editorial committee meeting where she would be unreachable by phone, for Paul’s sake. She had made a big dent in her credit with her daughters by telling them she’d come home too late to kiss them good-night. And all that for nothing! And to think of the intricate arrangements she’d have to make to see him again. Did he really wish to marry her, as he claimed? How could he hope to convince her of it if he failed to make himself more available?

She regained some of her cool after listing her grievances. She was perfectly unfair. David was in love; it was he who was running into her parsimonious time allotment, her reluctance to plan the future. There were times when she saw herself as a vampire, quenching with him her boundless sexual thirst while infusing his being with frustrations.

She told him she was not about to exchange a husband overwhelmed with work, a settled family life, for another busy man who had not sired her children. But if she sought shelter behind this carefully wrought case, which appeared rooted in common sense, the real reason was her grudge at his failure to convince her of dropping everything to live with him, of not being irresistible enough to silence her scruples.

Her introspection was getting too serious. Amélie decided to stop this barren self-absorption. Now she had the time to go to the art show, and to the movies. After all, David was
entitled to his thwarting impediments. Life was full of unpredictable happenings, which ought not to unleash paranoia attacks!

She was suddenly ashamed of loving him so badly, and felt the need to make up with him though she alone experienced their falling-out. She knew the address, if not the telephone number, of David’s office. He was rarely there, spending most of his time home or outside on the shoots. She decided to call on him.

The entrance to the building on rue François Ier must have been elegantly old-fashioned before the glass partitions and the potted plants. A receptionist, involved in refreshing her nail polish, seemed to have collapsed inside her booth.

—David M., please? Amélie ventured, taken somewhat aback by the woman’s lowered face.

—Got an appointment? she inquired without looking up.

—Sure thing, answered Amélie, ironically concise in the hope of getting a reaction.

—Second door to your left, beyond the stairs, was the roguishly curt answer.

Amélie, expecting to be announced, had no desire to intrude upon David at the wrong time. She made her way along the corridor without the least bit of wholeheartedness, full of doubt as to the wisdom of an unexpected visit. She knocked on his office door so timidly that she was forced to repeat this operation a number of times before she was heard.

—Come in! David thundered, annoyed with the mincing ways of the pusillanimous person behind the door: Amélie! he claimed, as she entered.

—Am I disturbing you? she inquired tensely.

—Of course not, my love. Come in and sit down.

He looked at his watch, adding:

—I’ve got all the time in the world. My next appointment is in three-quarters of an hour. What a lovely surprise! It’s so good to see you!

Amélie recovered slowly from what she feared would be considered a lack of tact. She told him of her desire to see him, and forgetting his telephone number.

—I had forgotten how beautiful you are! David interrupted her.

Amélie smiled with satisfaction, pleased with her judicious selection of a pleated skirt, when she realized she might have been locked in David’s arms for the past five minutes. He hadn’t made a single move, too busy suggesting that he show her the final draft of the poster for his new film.

—Where did I put it? Oh, yes, I know, he muttered.

He circled his desk, went over to the closet, whose sliding panels were covered by mirrors. Amélie followed him with her eyes.

His grey suit enveloped him in seriousness. He spoke of his movie as though he wanted to lend a professional character to their reunion, one in harmony with the décor. Seized with the desire to rid him of his constrained attitude, Amélie had stopped listening. She was going to get back at him for the ease with which he reestablished his self-control the moment he left the bedroom.

She got up, feigning interest in the poster, and put her hand on the fold of his fly. David grew still, questioned her with his eyes. Amélie put on a candid air:

—Your health is my only concern, my love. I’m checking out your vigor.

She clasped the contours of his penis with her fingers, stroking it to assess its hardness, fingers on the prowl for any positive feedback. David scolded her, amused, yet upset at the prospect of his imminent meeting.

—Now look what you’ve done! I’ve got a hard-on. Amélie, you are impossible!

Fueled by David’s scrupulousness, the incongruity of their surroundings, the possible interruption by a secretary, Amélie acted as if her blind gropings were far from responsible for the bulge threatening to burst the seam of his crotch:

—But darling, I must check this out . . .

Kneeling, she spanned the broadness of his erection with her mouth, shooting warm puffs of breath through half-opened lips along the length of his cock encased in gray twill, as if practising scales on a mouth-organ. A suddenly silent David abandoned all resistance before Amélie’s lack of faith. Obviously, she needed to feel in order to believe.

Leading David to the edge of his desk, she propped him up facing the mirrors, presenting her provocative ass by leaning forward to pursue her delectable investigations. David relished both the impunity of contemplating Amélie riveted to his prick, and the surge of power derived from seeing her down on her knees, at work on his cock. He lolled back, watching her unbuckle his belt, pulling down the zipper of his fly.

Amélie took her time freeing David’s cock from its white cotton prison, extricating it with joyful pleasure, rubbing it with conscientious concern so as to dispel any cramps inflicted by an awkward position. Only then did she dip charitable fingers into the tight fit of his underwear, seeking to comfort his balls after their prolonged isolation. David was already breathing
heavily. Amélie lowered his underwear over his thighs, staring hungrily at his thickened prick.

He moaned with impatience. Affecting an indifference she was far from feeling, Amélie knelt below the cock prodding at her forehead. She tasted the flavor of his balls, gathering them into her mouth with her lips, counteracting the hindrance of hi s underwear to explore the hidden folds of his flesh with the tip of her tongue. There she lingered, in the dark nook under his balls where his dick took root, fondling the secret recesses of his groin.

When David felt her tongue glide upstream to his cock’s peak, he took a deep breath, hoping to store up self-control before she could engulf him in the sweet torture of her mouth and play havoc with his increasing excitement. He allowed himself a break, letting his eyes roam. Catching his own reflection in the mirror, buttressed against the desk by Amélie’s mouth, he watched her straining ass force her skirt to the top of her black stockings.

—Pull up your skirt! he panted.

Amélie seized the sides of her skirt with her fingers, bringing it above her waist. Her panties had indiscreetly slipped into the cleft of her buttocks, clinging to the wetness of her pussy.

—Take off your panties! he ordered.

Amélie lowered them promptly, making a show of stroking her ass. She opened her thighs, letting him glimpse the moistness trickling from her throbbing cunt.

Inspired by her provocation, David grabbed his dick, shoving his pelvis toward her like an imperious toreador defying a brave bull.

—Say you love my cock! he commanded.

—Yes, it’s beautiful, big and hard, said Amélie, wetting her greedy lips with her tongue, eyes widened by lust.

David savored Amélie’s subordination, her enticing vulnerability, and the sight of her rounded thighs nipped in by the tourniquet of her lowered panties.

—Tell me you want to suck me, he went on.

—Oh, yes I do! Give it to me, she begged eagerly, deeply aroused by his hoarse voice and curt orders. It made her shiver with masochistic submissiveness, assigning her a role as sweet as it was painless.

—Here! Take it! he demanded, his stern disdain adding spice to this delectable exercise.

She proceeded. Propelling her tongue orbit-like around his prick as though licking her chops, she gluttonously lapped up the drops oozing from the furrow of his glans. Narrowing her lips, she suckled at the crown of his cock, tonguing the ridge etched down its length.

—Yes, that’s right, suck me hard, David spurred her on, lurching into her mouth, his hands flat on her head, sustaining and prolonging Amélie’s voluptuous inspiration.

Amélie impaled herself onto David’s stiff rod, retracting his foreskin with her fleshy lips. Guiding his length down her gullet, she squeezed him between sucked-in cheeks, licking the tip of his prick wedged against her palate. Then she drew back, smoothing out the loose tunic of flesh wrinkle by wrinkle while she fingered the weight of his balls, rolling them in her hand as if testing them.

—Oh, that’s so good . . . You’re a real fine little tart . . . Go on! gasped David.

With her tongue, Amélie took the pulse of David’s desire, adapting her pace to the reflexes of his penis. When his
large balls grew suddenly compact under her fingers, she glanced up. Countering his sudden dizziness, David firmly grasped the sides of the desk. He let out a yell, his knees buckling. She felt the spasms of his cock in her mouth, the spurting of his cum down her throat.

She sucked him tenderly holding his hand, waiting for the troublesome vulnerability of his uncontrollable emotions to subside. Then like a drinker after downing a foamy pint of beer, she wiped her lips with the back of her hand.

—You killed me! he groaned, reeling.

—My poor darling, whispered a falsely compassionate Amélie. You have exactly two minutes before your next appointment. I’m leaving now.

She pulled up panties and stockings, with the quick precision of one who, although aflutter, never lost her faculties. She looked at David, haggard, his trousers bunched about his ankles, and her own detachment struck her as a triumphant, heady whiff of freedom, a new independence defying her addiction to David. She added before leaving:

—No hard feelings, I hope, my angel? Call me.

She headed toward the door; David stopped her:

—Amélie . . . I love you.

She turned around as she was about to cross the threshold of his office. She smiled at him. Light-headed and sated, she savored the taste of his semen lingering in her mouth. Outside, it was a beautiful day.

CHAPTER FIVE

—You must be kidding, you’re not serious, are you? was Amélie’s response to David’s telephone call at her office announcing the following news:

—No . . . yes . . . well . . . I’m moving next week.

It was quite unexpected. David had spoken to her of the house at Saint-Germain-en-Laye he had bought for his family. It remained empty after the departure for Morocco of his former wife and son. He used to say he’d sell it, and now he was moving in!

—You’ll see, it’s a beautiful house . . .

He went on praising his property with all the smooth sales talk of a real estate broker, listing the various advantages of suburban existence, particularly west of Paris, with its spacious houses and conveniently close shopping malls.

Amélie couldn’t help spotting the clichés in his chaff as if she were drawing up a detailed inventory. Her own fierceness
troubled her. She saw herself as a once-domesticated hunting dog, returned to its true nature. Was she disappointed? With David living outside of Paris, they’d see each other less frequently. Or was she vexed not to have been consulted? Cutting remarks were clogging the back of her throat. She kept herself from voicing them, back pedaling so as to reestablish a climate of loving goodwill.

After all, she reasoned, David was entitled to a change of opinion, to living where he saw fit. They had made no plans for a life together. In that house he probably felt at home. Perhaps he wanted to change his lifestyle. He surely was going to explain, displaying a touching sincerity.

But David persisted, enumerating the positive aspects of suburban living: the elimination of the exorbitant rent on his Paris apartment, the excellent railway network and highway system between the capital and the outlying districts. He assured her of his neighbors’ good manners, not sparing her a single trivial detail.

His vocabulary was as poetic as an administrative report. Amélie felt like the echo chamber for a lexicon of tedious terminology. David, she decided, was not about to say anything more because he had nothing to say. This vulgar street-hawker patter took the place of inspiration.

She kept silent. Her irresolution was suspended between disbelief and amazement, as though above a badminton net. What good would it do to express it? The only result would be a series of misunderstandings. David would attribute her hostility to his decision to move, not to the pitiful reasons he gave for it. She’d fly into a temper. They’d quarrel. Her wise and cowardly silence struck the right note: that of a discreet compromise.

—You’ll still come to see me? he inquired anxiously.

—Of course, my love. Perhaps a little less frequently, but I’ll find a way . . . I’ll manage to do so.

Amélie hung up. She sat immobile at her desk, stiff with wary anticipation, like a patient expecting to feel the cold smoothness of a steel stethoscope. She could feel herself opening the door of the room in which she kept her feelings for David. A musty smell mixed with the odor of moth balls hovered over the slip-covered furniture, filling her with dread. She quickly moved away.

D
avid put down the receiver with a sigh of relief. The hardest part was over. He had told her his intentions. She could have put him back in his place, bombarded him with questions, or reproached him for his decision. But she had said nothing, even though, in his desire to make her understand, he had never stopped talking. The essential lay in the answer she’d given him. She would come.

How could he explain to her the conflicting, passionate connection he had to the house in Saint-Germain-en-Laye? It was much like the bond between a son and a possessive mother. He had admired this house when he was a penniless immigrant. To have been able finally to afford it was his victory. It lasted only a short while. Paris, he came to realize, was more elegant, more trendy. Everyone told him so as soon as his first films became hits. He moved after his divorce.

Then Amélie appeared. He started dreaming of a future. How could he, camping out in a studio on the Right Bank, expect her to leave a conjugal home? Were she to do so, it
would be the rash act of an unthinking person, and she certainly was no idiot.

No sooner had he considered selling his house than he felt stripped of his good luck, as though he had lost a fragment of his foundation. He felt a nomad again, limping through life. Amélie seemed out of reach. She never spoke much of her husband, who appeared to be pressed for time and engrossed in his work. Hadn’t she felt abandoned, having to bring up her daughters alone, sleep in an empty bed, go out to dinner by herself? Most certainly. Otherwise she would never have looked at him twice. He could never have seduced her.

The house had a large garden, made for laughter and children. The owner of such a house could be a suitor. There he’d be sure of himself, able to convert her to a peaceful kind of happiness. Now that he had completed his film, he was free for a time of any obligations, and would go out as little as possible. She could count on him to be available at any moment. She’d notice how serious and loyal he was, and in the long run he’d win out. He was tenacious, and determined to be patient.

A
few days later, the alarm clock rang at seven. Amélie was alone in her bed. Awakened by a fit of insomnia, Paul must have been in the living room for many hours. But Amélie’s difficult awakenings did not dispose her to conjugal benevolence: she realized she was irritated by the thought that her husband was expecting her to prepare his breakfast, instead of satisfying himself the demands of his appetite. She went to the kitchen, heated the coffee, toasted bread, and took the tray into the living room.

—Thank you, dear, Paul said absentmindedly from behind his newspaper.

The girls were still asleep. Amélie threw a toilet kit, big as a new born babe, into her bag, and drew her bath. Let’s see, she said to herself: what’s today’s tall tale? Oh, yes, an obligation in a provincial city! She was going to spend the night at Saint-Germain-en-Laye. David had just moved in. She was curious to get to know his house.

Stretched out like a hammock suspended between two trees, the nape of her neck resting on the bathtub’s edge, the tips of her toes upon the enamel, Amélie was amazed at her calm; and yet it was exciting to vanish for a day from the account books of her organized existence! She was free. She could have driven to the coast, caught the first plane leaving Roissy, gone to the movies or the antique shops . . .

Staring ahead, she left her body and mind in her bath’s warm water, grown milky from the piece of soap slipped out of her fingers. The sight of her creased fingers, like those of a drowned woman, brought her back to consciousness. David was expecting her. She had lingered much too long. Her comatose dream state affected her like an intake of fresh country air, which suddenly makes the city atmosphere unbreathable: her double life revealed itself as one more obligation.

This is normal, she said to herself, in search of reassurance. Her profligacy had deprived her of all lightness of being as day after day, since she’d met David, she raced through all her activities. No time for the hairdresser, lunch with girlfriends, or relaxed conversations with writers. She had to organize things in order to be free for a long lunch or manage the traditional five-to-seven slot. Setting up each rendezvous
demanded such effort that she ran her feet off organizing them, never once questioning what she was doing, or allowing her desires to ripen. No wonder her lust for fantasy still thrived, she concluded.

She felt faint as she stepped out of her bath on faltering legs, her face beaded with sweat. “That bath was too hot!” she said to herself, as if to avoid answering the question spread out upon the bathroom walls. Was she pursuing this affair because of love or lust, or had the obstacles along the way made a liaison, reinforced by habit and cowardice, more appealing?

Once in her car, Amélie feigned good spirits so as to experience a measure of optimism. She felt she fully deserved the right to enjoy the day, having gone to such trouble to entrust her daughters to friends and to organize Paul’s evening.

She avoided the banks of the Seine in order to meander through the streets till she reached the
périphérique,
the beltway around the city. She got lost in the maze of access routes to the highway. Feeling dizzy, she drove round the traffic circles that had replaced former crossroads. Finally, on the
route nationale,
she struggled to differentiate between various commercial centers, attempting to follow David’s directions.

Amélie was lost in a Bermuda triangle of neon signs: carpet dealers, leather merchants, sportswear shops, and factory outlets; all seemed dangerously similar. Sweating profusely, led astray by the slapdash, repetitive architecture of garishly-colored warehouses, she held on for dear life to the succinct itinerary David had scribbled for conscience’ sake only, since for him the trip held no hardship. Finally she recognized the sign of the do-it-yourself shop, which announced the end of her troubles.

She slowed down upon approaching the pebble-covered drive. Her car’s wheels crushed the neatly arranged stones with a crunching noise that sounded like the comforting promise of a rich, well-kept family estate.

David’s house was not the awful villa she had expected. It was much in the style of Frank Lloyd Wright’s architecture: two storeys without frills, pebble-dash, or climbing ivy. There were large bay windows, cement walls, a love of light and design.

A spruced-up Amélie stepped out of her car. David had taste. This subversive building, standing amid aggressively pretty whereabouts, was proof positive of it. He greeted her with a grandfatherly chaste kiss.

—Let me show you the place.

Together, they walked through the reception rooms stretching out between glass and brick. Amélie applauded, pleased with the simplicity of the design, which reminded her of an unfinished garment’s tacking. To think she had lived in fear of exposed beams, and tapestry snakes placed at the bottom of every door to keep out the drafts!

She kicked off her shoes, feeling the flat coolness of travertine tiles. David’s furniture looked elegant, even precious in this simple décor. Everything was dust-free, enameled.

—Where are the boxes? she inquired.

—The boxes? David sounded surprised.

—The movers’ boxes! I expected to unpack, put away . . . I thought we’d hang paintings, picnic on the floor. You’ve been here for only three days, and one would think you’ve lived here for the past ten years.

David was blushing with pleasure.

—Quick work, right? I didn’t want to greet you in a house turned topsy-turvy. I wanted everything neat, impeccable. I wasn’t about to make you work, when we have so little time together.

Amélie kept silent so as not to deny the disbelief full of admiration, the dazzled astonishment David assumed to have detected in her voice. Actually she felt no such emotion. She had traveled to his house in order to roll up her sleeves and set the place to rights, looking forward to wild outbursts of laughter, and a healthy stiffness due to the strain of physical labor. This could have been a welcome hiatus in their erotic transports.

The whole subject of housework was a contentious one. Early on, Amélie had confessed to performing domestic tasks with neither savoir faire nor a taste for it. She had also asked David to expurgate from his conversation all practical considerations, acting as an invalid who feels his aches increasing twofold at the slightest mention of his suffering. Actually, it was a delicate way of asking him to avoid a subject he found to his liking.

Thus David, always thoughtful, got into the habit of taking care of everything when they were together.

—Leave it alone, I’ll take care of it, he’d say, as soon as she made a move to peel a potato, wash a dish.

It lasted only a short while. Pretending to forget that she knew how to cook, vacuum, or even drive in a nail, he would assume the role of a victim:

—All right! I’ll make dinner, he’d snort, balking at this chore.

Yet, he wouldn’t let Amélie perform any task.

—Leave it to me, he’d insist in a peevish tone, as soon as she tried to lend a hand, whisking away the frying pan or the dish rag.

Nor could she ignore or remain indifferent to his required service. David in the kitchen, David cleaning house, expected Amélie’s compliments. Such was the present state of affairs. Forced to listen to the exegesis of domestic labor, and the running commentaries of David’s talent and kindness, Amélie had given up on all her obligations.

O
nce again David had demonstrated his good intentions. Once again she was at the end of her patience. But wasn’t she overestimating her enthusiasm for manual labor? Why did she feel so disappointed and angry?

Soon she realized she had put herself through a workout, like an athlete getting ready for a championship event. Fearful of hating every instant of this day, she had pumped herself up, exalting the good-humored simple pleasures she’d savor with David, the harmonious turn in their relationship. Having forced herself to put her best foot forward, she pinned her faith to the spontaneous character of this sentiment.

Without acknowledging it, she had intended to purchase for herself a line of conduct. She’d have turned this move into a dream of unison and gaiety. Charmed, David couldn’t have failed to stay madly in love. Now, with this program change, she had to improvise. Deprived of the boost in energy she would have experienced during these domestic tasks, she was not certain she could rise to the occasion.

David interrupted her musing:

—Come, he said.

The command rustled with echoes of David’s erotic instructions. Amélie was filled with sudden desire. To state it point-blank during this solemn visit was too risky. A disguised, treacherous attack would be better strategy. She had to make him want her.

Concerned with Amélie’s reactions, David had gone to a lot of trouble in order to create an excellent first impression. All traces of his marriage, of his past in the house, had been carefully eliminated. He had taken down the draperies with the floral print beloved by his wife, and ordered a Scotch plaid instead. He moved heaven and earth to have these curtains delivered before his move.