Maestra (25 page)

‘Do you like that?’

I nodded to Saint, reached for my clit, closed my eyes and lost myself in him pounding me. The second man’s hands were stroking my back, the insides of my thighs. I tightened the muscles of my cunt, flattening my thumb against my clit, dark red and black waves at the centre of me, deeper, harder. I came, ramming my hips down on his cock, and felt the swell of his own orgasm before they changed places.

‘You want to fuck some more?’

‘Sure.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘I don’t have one.’

‘I want to fuck your arse. May I?’

Saint was lying back, on one elbow. He handed up a little porcelain dish of lube and propped himself up, watching avidly.

‘Go ahead.’

I took a deep breath and bit my lip, readying myself for the first quick shot of pain. He was a beauty, obviously proud of his unexpected treasure, and he eased himself in skilfully, not pulling back until he was fully inside, his fingers working deep in my pussy until they rested against the wall of flesh that separated them from his cock. I moaned a little, pushed myself back and started grinding him, answering the pressure. I felt glutted, crammed. I wanted him to get me off before he came. I loved this. I love being mined by a hard cock; I like it better without a condom in the arse, the balm of the sperm after that first hot wrench of opening. He slapped me, hard across the buttocks with the flat of his hand.

‘Again.’ I felt the blood rushing in, the exquisite heightening in my nerves.

He knew what I wanted, did it again, putting his back into it this time, so that I tottered and spun on my strap.

‘Like that?’

‘Yes. Yes, that’s what I –’

The cuff came from nowhere, a boxer’s jab across the jaw. I felt my eyelids judder.

‘And that?’

‘Thank you.’

‘Spread wider, good girl, like that.’

My hair was tumbling down; he looped it into a knot around his fist, pulling my head back, giving it a tug as he slammed into me, so that I felt his cock was going all the way into my throat. He was fantastic. I worked two fingers inside myself, feeling that swollen head through the fine wall of flesh. He slammed me until I came, once, twice, three times. I was sweating, sagging like a broken marionette on the leather. He pushed me forward and hooked the straps under my arms, harnessing me, fucking me the whole time. He lifted my thighs around that thick waist, one arm tight against my ribs, so that I was suspended against him, the angle taking him even further into me. I couldn’t keep my fingers off my clit; I had stopped counting now. I was gasping, growling in my throat, wanting him to come, to flood me, but then I felt his hands releasing my wrists from the straps, lowering me, spread-eagled, to the divan, where Saint was waiting on his back, ready again. He pulled out. I was soaked, so wet that the first push took Saint into me with a speed and depth that made me grunt, then I sat back and found the sweet spot, riding him with my face bowed beneath the curtain of my hair, his friend’s voice murmuring rhythmically in my ear yes, like that, like that, darling, take that cock, take it in you, until I came, as I felt him jerk and give inside me and I rolled off him, slick with sweat beneath my robe. The friend reached across us for a glass, filled his mouth with wine, pulled me to him so I could suck it from his lips, its coolness spreading through my lungs. I took three cigarettes from a case which had appeared on a side table and lit us one each. The friend took my hand, turning it until my wrist was exposed to his kiss, then wandered off to the drawing room. I rested against Saint’s chest while we smoked, his hand playing gently on my neck. I felt glorious, molten gold inside. He took the stubs and leaned forward to tamp them out, releasing me. I gave him a soft kiss on the side of his mouth, scenting the fresh tobacco, restored my hair, pinned back the fallen flower.

‘
Ça a été?
’

I leaned back down, put my mouth by his ear. ‘Thanks. You were fucking great. But I’m busy now.’

‘Go ahead, darling. Have fun.’

So I did. Until I felt – what was the right word? Slaked. When Yvette and I wandered out hand in hand onto the pavement several hours later and a thousand euro poorer, I felt a rush of soft affection for her, gratitude for her having given me so exactly what I needed. Julien’s card was in my bag, along with the crushed silk flower.

‘We can go down to the boulevard, look for a cab.’

‘I think I’ll take the Métro. It’s still running.’

We were sober and oddly polite, as though what each of us had seen the other do had occurred in a dream, far from us. I wanted to do something for her.

‘I’ll lend you the fare. Sorry I haven’t got anything smaller. You can bring me the change another time.’ I shoved a crumpled 500-euro note at her hand. The bells of Sacré-Cœur chimed three. We were passing a boulangerie that was spilling out yellow light and the thick sweet scent of butter and flour as the ovens were started.

‘Take your shoes off.’

‘What?’

I took a quick peek round the door, grabbed a few hot
pains au chocolat
and threw them into my bag, pastry flaking everywhere. ‘Breakfast. Run.’

We scuttled down towards Rochechouart barefoot, carried by the steepness until we couldn’t stop, Yvette started laughing and so did I, our dresses flapping round our knees, until the running and the laughing were the same, and somewhere above us a man’s voice shouted what was going on, which made us laugh and run harder, until we clutched each other to a stop at the edge of the road, gasping and rubbing our eyes. The gutter was swirling with purpled water; we sat on the kerbstone with our aching feet in the blissful dirty stream and stuffed scorching handfuls of dough and chocolate into our mouths, spluttering and swallowing, sucking the butter from our hands.

22

It was some months later that I first noticed him, at the café on the corner of the Place du Panthéon. From the moment I set eyes on him, I sensed something odd. There was no reason for it; he was just another customer in another pleasant Parisian spot. Over the sticky city summer, I’d made a routine of starting my day there, after my laps of the Luxembourg and a shower; it was a short walk from Rue de l’Abbé de l’Epée, with a fantastic view up to the severe monument on the right and down to the gardens on the left. It was always full of university students, huddled in a fug of Marlboro Lights in the enclosed smoking terrace, not hipster types but bourgeois bohemians from the sixth and seventh
arrondissements
, their wealth subtly visible in their complexions, the turn of their collars, the girls with shiny hair tucked into vintage Hermès scarves. I never failed to take pleasure in how perfectly I fitted in, though equally I never spoke to them. A couple of times one of the guys would nod to me, and I exchanged ‘
Saluts
’ with some of the girls, even, but that was all. I couldn’t have those sort of friends, even if I wanted them.

When you’re no one from nowhere it’s best to know your limits. Rich kids can play at bohemia, but wealth has long tendrils – it twines into a safety net which can also be a trap for the unprepared. Rich kids have families and backgrounds and connections, they ask questions, because their world functions on being able to place people. I couldn’t expose myself to that. Still, I ordered my
grand crème
and an
orange pressé
, and after a while the waiter brought them without asking, with that familiar Parisian efficiency which made me feel again, pleasingly, that I belonged. I usually brought a couple of auction catalogues with me, as well as the
Pariscope
to catch up on shows and private views and
Le Monde
for conversation. In case I ever needed conversation. Of course, every day I did a scan of the press online for safety.

He didn’t stick out immediately amongst the early crowd; I think it could have been several days before I became aware of his presence. But again, when I did, my body registered a tension that I realised had been there for some time. Not a polished lawyer or banker, but one of those awkwardly dressed French businessmen whose jackets are always too boxy, ties too bright for a nation with such a reputation for chic. A civil servant or middle manager of some sort. His blue shirt had a monogram over an unhealthy swag of stomach that looked recently acquired, the fat of an active man who is too busy or unloved to care anymore, but the shirts themselves were cheap, button-cuffed, the initials an affectation stitched on at a dry cleaner’s, probably. I began to watch him. No wedding ring, bad shoes, usually a copy of
Le Figaro
. He ordered double espresso which came with a glass of water he never drank. He looked as though his breath would be dry and stale. How long did it take before I realised that he was watching me?

At first, I simply assumed that he fancied me. I didn’t acknowledge it with my eyes or a polite nod – he was hardly my type. Then I thought he might have a little crush – he was there whenever I arrived and remained at his table until I had smoked my luxurious after-breakfast cigarette, gathered my things and placed six euro fifty in the saucer. I began to look over my shoulder as I made for the door and turned right up to the square. His eyes were always on me, hovering on the horizon of his folded paper. So then I got scared. I took a snap of him with my phone while pretending to make a call and studied it. I was still telling myself it was just a precaution. Nothing. Completely bland face, no one I recognised. Just a middle-aged sentimental nutter with a secret passion for a girl with swingy hair and good taste in newspapers.

I knew he was following me when I went out to the Arab convenience store on my street corner for cigarettes one evening and saw him at the bus stop down towards the boulevard, still reading his bloody paper. I tried to tell myself it was a coincidence – this was Paris, after all, a city of neighbourhoods where one did recognise people from one’s own
quartier
. He could perfectly well live round here, in a twenty-three square-metre studio with a huge flat-screen and the photos of the children of his divorce on an Ikea bookshelf. But I knew. In that tiny, plenteous moment of recognition, the monsters swarmed, chuckling and gibbering, tweaking at my chilled flesh with severed thumbs. He saw me, and in the line of his vision I watched the walls I had so carefully constructed around my life suddenly disintegrate, their solidity spun intangible as air.

I felt savage, hunted. I had a crazy urge to rush down the pavement and push him into the traffic. Of course I didn’t. I went into the shop and lingered, buying a few things I didn’t need, cleaning liquids, gum, a packet of string dishcloths, took my time finding the change, exchanging the time of day pleasantly with the leather-jacketed son of the couple who kept the store. As I looked down the street when I left, a bus was pulling away from the stop, but he was still there. He could be meeting someone, waiting? No. He was only waiting for me. I tried to keep my breathing smooth, but I couldn’t help looking round as I punched in the door code. I called ‘
Bonsoir
’ to the concierge, although I’d only just done so on the way out, letting him know another human was there, in case he was lurking behind me, in the twilight. I let myself into the flat, dropped the thin plastic bag and leaned against the wall. I didn’t turn on the light. Whoever he was, did it matter? I could call a cab to the airport right now.

Every day, after I’d scanned the international news on my laptop, I checked the bag, a plain leather holdall I’d bought from a Tunisian street vendor. Five thousand euro cash, the same in American dollars, carefully changed in small amounts in the tourist den of the Latin Quarter, wadded in towelling sports socks. A few changes of clothes, toiletries, a couple of paperbacks, a steel Rolex still in its box and some gaudy gold earrings in case I wound up somewhere money didn’t work, photocopies of my documents and the papers for the paintings. Not a professional’s scarpering kit, but I thought it would do.

Yet I had a sick feeling that wherever I took a plane, I would turn round as the seatbelt signs went off and see him, watching me. Stop. This was insane, stupid. If he was following me it was because he wanted something. Always, desire and lack. Find the space between, Judith. I took out my phone and scrolled back to his photo, scrolling through my memory at the same time, my excellent recall of faces. Still nothing. I poured myself a whopping cognac, got a cigarette started. My phone blinked dumbly up at me, maddening. Who are you going to call, when you’re alone in the night? No one, that’s who.

The sound of the street bell was so loud its wire could have been connected direct to my tendons. I stubbed out the fag, set the glass carefully on the floor and crawled to my window. One of the things I loved about the flat was the recessed window seats in the thick eighteenth-century walls; now I angled myself over the cushion, squinting down into the courtyard, trying to see without showing a silhouette. The bell rang again. I had time to count to ten before I sensed, rather than heard, the low electric pulse of the buzzer in the lodge. The door clicked, swung heavily back. He was in. I saw his shape in the entry of the lodge, outlined in the rays of the concierge’s TV. Impossible to know what he was saying. Then I saw the concierge heave herself with maximum Gallic disgruntlement from her comfortable chair, pass through the lodge door and cross the courtyard to the staircase. I held my breath. She trod heavily up the stairs; I could hear her muttering to herself in Portuguese. She buzzed my door. I held myself as tight as a cat before it pounces. One more buzz, then her weight in her sloppy Dr Scholls receding, a creak on the banister, and she reappeared, returning to where he waited. I saw her flip her hand contemptuously, shake her head. He stepped back into the courtyard, careful, I noticed, to stand directly beneath the security light so that his face would be invisible. But I could feel him looking. He called ‘
Merci, madame
’ to the concierge, pressed the illuminated release button next to the street door in its plastic envelope, and then he was gone.

It took me a while to stand up straight. I felt like an old woman. I closed the bathroom door before turning on the light and took a long shower, as hot as I could stand, mechanically going through the motions of soap, body scrub, cleansing oil, facewash, exfoliator, shampoo, conditioner. I shaved my legs and underarms, applied a moisturising mask, spent a few minutes rubbing in body cream, monoi where it mattered, deodorant, scent. I made up my face – primer, foundation, concealer, bronzer, blush, eyebrow gel, eyeliner, mascara, flipped my head upside down and blew out my hair. None of that stopped my hands shaking, but it calmed me enough to think. I chose a short trapeze-line grey dress from APC, black hold-up stockings, added ankle boots, a scarf, diamond studs, my Vuitton raincoat. I called Taxis Bleus and drank a glass of water while they put me on hold, ordered a cab from my building, locked the door, lost my keys in my bag, went back to check the lock.