Sin City (64 page)

“Can't I help?” I call, though I'm rather enjoying my role of pampered princess.

“You can come and keep me company.”

I dislodge the cushions, stroll into the narrow passage of the kitchen, stop in shock. Pots are bubbling on all four gases on the stove, every surface piled with food – fruits and salads, breads and cheeses, a luscious-looking gâteau – everything but scrambled eggs, in fact. Victor stopped
en route
to buy what he described as a few basics, must have bought the shop.

“Good God!” I say. “Expecting company? I thought you said you couldn't cook.”

“I can't. Try this. Think it needs more salt?”

“No, it's great. What is it?”

“Victor's Standby Beef. There's chicken too, if you prefer. Oh, and I tried to make a soup, but it's gone kind of weird. Sit down, Jan. Want another drink?”

He sounds flurried, yet elated. He's no longer pale; cheeks flushed from the gases, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, tie askew. It's a feast he's preparing in my honour, the tiny table laid with plates and dishes, royal blue serviettes, enticing smells of sizzling butter, garlic.

“Oh, Victor …”

“What?”

“Finger-bowls!”

He shrugs. “Just a joke.”

Not a joke. They're beautiful, a slice of lemon floating in each one and sprinkled with real flowerheads. “You're quite an artist.”

“Well, you're my inspiration.”

Silence. We're both embarrassed by the compliments. Victor turns his back again, starts stirring vigorously.

“Is there nothing I can do?” I ask.

“Not a thing.”

Even after the meal, I'm not allowed to lift a finger, not wash a dish nor scrape a plate. We're both feeling floaty from the wine, so it seems entirely natural to move from kitchen chairs to sitting-room rug. Victor pillows my head with his arm as we stretch out on the floor. Still another treat – Godiva chocolates, which I know from the advertisements cost thirty bucks for just a tiny box. Victor feeds me strawberry creams and nougats. I've never seen him so relaxed. Shoes off, tie off, shirt flecked with butter where he sautéed onions too enthusiastically. The room is dim, just the subtle coloured lighting of the fish tank glowing in our faces. The only noise is tank noise, the bubbling of the aerators, a sudden tiny plop as a batfish breaks the surface of the water.

I suck chocolate off my fingers, realise I'm happy. The last time I felt happy was early New Year's Eve, so the feeling's quite a shock, like swallowing food again after days and days of fasting.

The meal itself was great. Okay, so the soup sort of curdled and I've tasted better beef, but Victor took such trouble. Every course was homage to me, every dish precious because he lavished so much care on it. Jon would have sloshed baked beans in two chipped cereal bowls, burnt the toast. I've never met a man before who's so obviously devoted. I lapped up the devotion; lapped up cream and coffee, felt like a fat cat. I'm purring still. All my fears and conflicts seem to have been left behind with Carl. It may be just the wine, acting as a tranquilliser. I doubt it. Victor always had the gift of making me feel peaceful. He's like a happy-drug, with no dangerous side effects.

I close my eyes. His arms are wrapped around me. He holds me very carefully, as if I'm made of glass. He smells innocent; no swanky aftershave, no strong French cigarettes. I pull away a moment, touch his face. “Alvin,” I tease.

“Adorée,” he counters.

We're giggling, both of us. “It doesn't suit you, Victor.”

“No. Adorée does, though.”

“What, suits you?”

“No, you.”

“I've got something to confess.”

“What?”

“My real name's Carole.”

“Carole?”

“Mm.”

“Carole Jan?”

“No, Carole Margaret. Do you mind?”

“No. I'm just surprised. Any more names?”

“Only Joseph.”

“That's a guy's name.”

“No, a surname. Carole Margaret Joseph. Is your name really Victor?”

“Yeah. Victor Brown.”

“Brown?”

“Boring, isn't it?”

“No, I like it.” Brown's real and sort of solid, much safer than Ben Schmuel. I feel incredible relief that I'm Carole now at last. It may be stupid, but that Jan kept getting in the way. I was even jealous of her because she wasn't me. Now Victor knows the real me, or some of her at least. I daren't risk the rest yet – Reuben, the swiss roll. I could admit my age, though. It hardly matters any more whether I'm twenty-one or not. We're not in Vegas, not buying drinks, or gambling. And it would be one less lie between us.

“Hey, Victor …” I try to make a joke of it. “Carole's a bit younger than Jan was.”

“What d' you mean?”

“Well, I'm … eighteen, not twenty-one.”

He looks a bit bewildered. I can hardly blame the guy. All these sudden changes. “I'm sorry, Victor, it's just that I thought they … you …” I fumble with the pronouns – “wouldn't let me try the games or buy a drink or anything, if I admitted I was underage.”

He says nothing. Have I shocked him with my fabrications? They're only fibs, footling little fibs. “I'm nineteen fairly soon. Well, not that long. My birthday's June – June 19th. I'm Gemini. What sign are you?”

He doesn't answer. He's staring at me, seems really quite upset. It can't be that important, surely – two and a half years?

“Victor, don't be cross. Please. It was stupid to pretend, I know. I was just scared I'd miss out on things, that's all.”

“It's okay.” He still sounds a bit uptight, but he offers me a praline, tries to force a smile. “I'm Libra. Gandhi was a Libran, and Alexander the Great. Oh, and Brigitte Bardot. So I guess we can't be that bad. Are Gemini and Libra meant to get along okay?”

I've no idea. I've never met a Libra guy before. “Oh, yeah,” I say. “Terrific. They're made for one another.” I snuggle close, let myself relax again, lie back against his arm. He brushes one soft finger across my closed lids.

“Tired, darling?” he asks.

Darling
? Perhaps it's just the easiest solution after Jan and Carole Margaret, but all the same I treasure it. I nod. I am tired. We've spun the evening out as far as it will go and it's now the wee small hours. “Shall we go to bed?” I whisper.

He doesn't speak – I think he's nervous still – just helps me to my feet, removes our cups and glasses, then takes me down the passage to a simple whitewashed room with toothpaste curtains striped white and minty green.

“I'm afraid it's rather small, but that bed's real comfortable and you'll get a great view of the mountains in the morning.”

I stare at him. Surely he's not suggesting that we should sleep apart – when we've got so close, just weeded out the lies; eaten our supper holding hands so we couldn't cut our meat up; shared our piece of gâteau – which meant I got all the cherries and the cream, and Victor just the stodgy bits. He ate nothing much himself, in fact, just consumed me with his eyes, hoarded all my words as if they were precious truffles or rum-soaked petits fours. So what's changed now? Oh, I understand he may not feel like sex. He probably had the works with Suzie and older men need longer to recover. That's okay by me. In fact, it's quite a treat these days to go to bed to sleep. But why not
his
bed? Wouldn't that be cosier, more friendly?

He's still cossetting me, lending me pyjamas, leaving cookies by my bed, offering me hot chocolate. But those are all child things. Is that the problem? He's still upset I lied about my age, thinks eighteen is too young. That's ridiculous. Most men like me young, choose me for that reason. Maybe he's annoyed and wants to pay me back for lying – bed on my own as a penance for deceiving him? No, Victor's not like that, and anyway, he's always played the suitor rather than the stud; the chaste and bashful suitor who wouldn't go too far. It's beginning to annoy me. It's great to be adored, but how can I be real with him if he keeps idealising me, making me a nun? All through the evening he's avoided certain topics. If I ever mentioned Carl or Angelique, or any aspect of the Silver Palm, he'd tense and change the subject.

He kisses me goodnight, a child's kiss on the cheek, softly shuts the door. I feel banished and rejected as I listen to his footsteps fading away. I strip my dress off, stand naked on the little bedside rug, squeeze my breasts together so they look bigger than they are. Big or no, they're obviously not wanted. I shrug, lose them in his oversized pyjamas, climb into the chilly narrow bed.

Sleep won't come. The room feels strange and I'm suffering a sort of mental indigestion – dregs of happiness fermenting in my gut along with confusion, disappointment, self-doubt (again), and even a touch of sheer contempt that any man should be so ludicrously old-fashioned. I mean, imagine paying Carl a fortune to keep me for the night, then shutting me in here alone. I just can't make him out. He seemed so jealous of Snake Jake, so furiously possessive, yet now he's got me to himself, he doesn't want to know.

I fumble for my cigarettes. He bought me a huge carton. Whatever else, he does allow his little girl to smoke. Little girl. Is that it? Perhaps he wants me as a child, is glad I'm even younger than I said I was; has some hang-up about school-kids like those weirdos at the Silver Palm. Except they were wild to screw me, and he's not; doesn't even want me in his bed. Okay, then, Victor, separate rooms. Goodnight, sleep well, and where's my teddy bear?

By half past five, I'm still awake and freezing. I'm tempted to wake Victor up as well, but it seems unfair when he looked so tired and drawn. And what's the point when he's already made it clear he prefers sleep and solitude to any kind of contact? Perhaps I'll make a cup of tea, find a book or something, even watch TV. I creep out of bed and down the passage, put the kettle on, take my cup to the sitting room where at least I've got the fish for company. They don't look all that thrilled about it. I think most of them were dozing and the harsh light woke them up.

I turn it off again, switch on just a lamp, trail over to the window, lift the curtain. With the garden lights turned off, everything looks completely blackly barren. This is still the desert – arid, ruthless, bitter cold at night. I shiver in my thick blue-striped pyjamas. I keep tripping on the legs, losing hands and fingers in the sleeves. The pyjamas are well ironed, very crisp and clean. Does Victor iron his clothes himself? I can't see him with a maid. He seems to have put himself in quarantine, bought a house which is miles from any neighbour, along a bumpy winding dirt track, and in a tiny hamlet which is too small to be even a dot on any map. He hasn't bothered much about comfort – things like scatter-rugs or cushions, and if his bedroom's much the same as mine, then there's nothing but the basics: bed and cupboard. All his care and skills have been poured out on the garden, the aquarium. That tiny square of lawn has been nannied like an invalid, and he spends two hours of every day on just his tanks – cleaning them, testing the purity and balance of the water, preparing special feeds for faddy prima donnas.

I mooch back to admire them, lay my hands against the glass which is really basking warm. That water must be kept at over eighty. Chilly for mere humans, tropical for fish. I'm getting almost jealous of these fish, the time Victor spends with them, the finger-flirting, pet-names. Some of them are ugly, even monstrous, with huge negroid pouting lips or spiny beards. I've forgotten all their names now, except the clown fish which I remember because of Norah. They're really comic and so bright they seem unreal – a show-off dayglo orange which makes marigolds and tangerines look pale, with three wide bands of Persil-white gleaming round their torsos. I touch noses with one through the glass. It darts away, startled, conceals itself behind a piece of coral, itself a fiery red; stays there, shy and cowering.

“Better call you Norah,” I say out loud. I wonder when I'll see her. It all depends on Victor, how long he wants me, what he plans to do. Perhaps he was just tired last night. Men of his age are always better in the morning; fresher, recharged after sleep. I suspect he's also shy, or even scared. It's surprising how many men are nervous, even regulars, whom you'd imagine would be hardened. At first, it used to throw me, make me jittery as well, but now I've learnt to handle it. At least, I can with
other
guys. Victor's different, special, which makes me nervous too. I'm not sure how to deal with men I actually feel fond of. If he does want sex, will I be able to respond? I've faked so much, I'm no longer all that certain I can do the thing for real. Do I even want to? I let rip with Reuben – heart and soul and body, gave him everything, and look what happened there. Anyway, I'm still a bit on edge that Victor may be kinky in some way. Oh, I know he seems quite normal on the surface, in fact exceptionally sensitive and gentle, and he's never done the slightest thing to give me cause to worry, but I've learnt already that you can never tell. My most brutal client yet was wearing a tee shirt which said “My second name is Love”.

I flop down on the carpet. There's not a sound outside. Victor's house is off the road, so you don't hear any traffic. The birds are still asleep, if any bird is fool enough to live here. Why did Victor choose a place like this? Okay, so he's keen on peace and quiet, but you can find those just ten minutes out of Vegas, without holing yourself up in the back of beyond.

I switch the TV on, tune into a party – couples dancing, chatting guests. Nobody alone. I loathe the early hours. Things seem so depressing then, and empty. Las Vegas solves the problem by outlawing the night – a twenty-four hour city where nothing stops or fades. I wish we'd gone for dinner there, stayed out on the town. If Victor sleeps till nine or ten, that's four more hours cooped up here on my own. I'd feel more at home in my poky litle boxroom at the Silver Palm. At least I've made it cosy. I glance around the room again. That one marooned armchair looks quite pathetic, as if Victor never shares his life, or has company or friends in. I keep wondering why he never married. Perhaps he's gay. No – gays don't go for Suzie. They've got their own special brothel, ten miles up the road. It's funny, but I can't get rid of Suzie. She keeps popping up to bug me, remind me she's had Victor when I haven't.