Crush

Crush

Crush

AN EROTIC NOVEL

Cécile de La Baume

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH BY

RAMONA DESFLEURS

GROVE PRESS

New York

Copyright © 1997 by Cécile de La Baume

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of such without the permission of the publisher is prohibited. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or anthology, should send inquiries to Grove Atlantic, 154 West 14th Street, New York, NY 10011 or
[email protected]
.

English translation copyright © 1997 Grove Atlantic

French copyright © 1996 Éditions Grasset & Fasquelle

Originally published in France by Éditions Grasset & Fasquelle under the title
Béguin.
The author wishes to express special thanks to Tatiana de Rosnay.

Published simultaneously in Canada

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

La Baume, Cécile de, 1960–

Crush: an erotic novel / Cécile de La Baume; translated from the French by Ramona Desfleurs

p. cm.

ISBN 978-0-8021-3595-7 (pbk.)

eISBN 978-0-8021-9319-3

I. Desfleurs, Ramona. II. Title.

PQ2672.A162174B4413      1997

843’.914—dc21
97-21266

Designed by Laura Hammond Hough

Cover design by Wendy Halitzer

Cover photograph by Robert Farber

Grove Press

an imprint of Grove Atlantic

154 West 14th Street

New York, NY 10011

Distributed by Publishers Group West

www.groveatlantic.com

Crush

CHAPTER ONE

T
he avenue at the edge of the Bois de Boulogne was deserted, dimly lit. It was the kind of place where you’d expect a proper woman to hasten her step. Amélie had just left a dinner party. She walked toward her car, keys in her hand, sensuously breathing in the fresh air. The wind rustled the leaves with the sound of crushed silk. Her pace slowed.

Her children were on vacation; Paul, her husband, at a symposium in the tropics; she was off the following day. Oh! She didn’t anticipate anything extravagant or daring! She was simply enjoying letting her mind wander. All she wanted was a respite from her obligations. The extent of her daring might perhaps be limited to not going home to bed immediately.

She loved driving. She decided to drive to her parents’ home two hundred kilometers away. She’d go in stealthily, surprising her children at breakfast the following morning.
The idea delighted her. But there was no reason to hurry. She had plenty of time. One had to admit this plan lacked boldness. Her vivid imagination covered up a lack of daring.

Making a short stop home, she got into her jeans, and a thick mottled wool sweater, then wavered in her choice of hat. On days she felt unattractive, she’d try all her hats on, one by one, looking for a shape or a shade to cap the grey silhouette she appraised severely in her closet’s full-length mirror. She needed something witty for Lady Luck to be on her side, something like a boy’s rakish visored cap, or a saucy beret. She’d play at being a woman of mystery in a three-cornered hat, or pose as an adventuress in a Borsalino. Nothing doing! No head cover found favor in her critical eyes. She saw herself as a ludicrous masquerader, too wan for these powerful disguises. Peeved, she slammed the closet door shut.

On up days she enjoyed game-playing, wearing a poor orphan’s bonnet on a summer morning, or a coquette’s veil to go to market. Some of her hats did not fulfill any of her desires, remaining where they were, condemned as a result of their failure to be nothing but samples of mistakes made by an amateur collector.

Tonight she chose a man’s felt hat. She admired her reflection, bolder than usual with that hat trimmed with a black grosgrain ribbon. It gave her a smart-ass, get-a-load-of-that look. She was on her way.

She might run out of gas, but figured on getting some at Porte d’Orléans. There seemed to be some sort of commotion all around the gas station. Some kind of wrangle, she figured. She didn’t care for emergencies, but there was nothing to be done. She slowed down. A young man came up to her:

—You can’t drive in.

—What’s up? she inquired.

—We’re making a movie. We’ve got to reshoot this scene.

—Will it take long?

He’d turned his back on her, walking away.

Annoyed, Amélie was drumming her fingers on the wheel of her car, trying to keep cool. Silly to have a clock ticking in one’s belly and be incapable of taking advantage of the unexpected she was hoping for five minutes ago. She stepped out of her car. Why not find something out about this movie?

Nothing exciting was going on. Some crew members were moving threatening poles, while others were setting up spots. The rest of the team seemed to be waiting. But where were the makeup people, and the stars she’d have found enthralling?

David had taken notice of her. He told her this much later. He gave himself the span of reshooting to find an approach. She was exactly the kind of woman he was waiting for. He observed her searching look of the scene, noted her disappointment. She was walking back to her car. He was ready to leap, but she sat patiently at the wheel. Good! There was a bit of time.

Amélie felt herself observed. She had the same feelings when she wore a hat; as if this attribute set her apart from the crowd of bareheaded women. But the looks she got were directed at her hats, she thought, so that she never bothered to check out, this night included, who might be staring.

The line of cars started moving. Amélie drove up to the pump. She had always been awkward. Glasses fell from her hand, her feet caught in the carpet, she had no sense of direction, could not read a road map. With no attendant to help her
she was struggling with the cap of her gas tank, turning it the wrong way. David came close:

—Your cap? he inquired. I’ve got a suggestion. I’ll get you out of this mess, but then you must drink with me one of the revolting cups of coffee from the machine.

—That’s blackmail! she exclaimed with feigned indignation.

—Correct! David agreed ironically.

She was examining his face for disquieting signs, as though a glance could reveal a possible risk of madness or perversity. She had made up her mind to accept. He looked pleasant enough, and after all this was a public place. He couldn’t strangle or rape her here.

—All right. You first! she suggested.

David turned out to be disconcertingly skillful. He unlocked the cap, filled the tank in the twinkling of an eye. All that was left for her to do was to park and join him. She searched her pocketbook for cigarettes, needing a countenance.

David came back, bearing steaming cups; tall, so dark that he appeared somber, and big, as though he had suddenly acquired substance, unless Amélie had failed to appraise him correctly a moment ago, when scrutinizing his face. Thoughtfully he held her hat while she removed her sweater, which he folded with care.

—How motherly of you! she exclaimed, masking her apprehension by the lightness of her tone.

His was polite, pleasant, a shade timid:

—That’s the least I could do after being the cause of your delay. You didn’t seem favorably impressed by my shoot.

—So it’s your film? inquired a surprised Amélie.

—Yes, but no big deal. David was brushing this aside so as not to get bogged down in boring curriculum vitae shoptalk.

He had to mollify her, win her over. He went on:

—Let me tell you something. I’m strictly an off-key singer, but you inspire me. I’d like to serenade you.

—Right now, here? Amélie sounded disconcerted.

He started singing in a low voice, a weary smoker’s growl: drinking songs, ditties from his childhood, refrains from popular tunes, an old-fashioned repertoire of Piaf, Brassens, Maurice Chevalier. Not bothering to hum discreetly, he sang at the top of his voice, unconcerned by the reaction of his team taken aback by this performance.

Amélie found it vastly amusing. She was taken off guard by his aplomb, and charmed by the ease with which he indulged in this exercise, without being in the least ridiculous. The night was taking on a surrealist coloring.

This reassuring clowning masked David’s growing desire. However, he was getting restless with his mountebank act, realizing it wasn’t getting him anywhere. All he knew of this woman was her first name. Alleging delicate vocal cords, he took a break. He began questioning his companion as to her status, place of birth. These narrowly targeted questions had the dispassionate quality of a poll. He was moving deliberately slowly, but Amélie remained tight as a clam. She was probing the flesh of his intentions.

He took the plunge, listing every step of his professional evolution, chronicling his love life, his marital situation. He was hoping that by opening himself wide, without cushioning the truth for the sake of decorum or personal vanity, he’d rise above the suspicion of voyeurism she might harbor when
confronted by his curiosity in regard to her life. Also, he figured it would be damnably insensitive on her part to remain aloof in the face of this outpouring, indeed monstrous to avoid the obligation of reciprocity.

As for Amélie, she was trying hard to unravel the tangled skein of David’s memories with their confused chronology. She was a good listener, fond of dainty romantic tidbits. Often, observing the silhouettes or faces of passing strangers glimpsed on city streets, or when she sat at one of the tables outside the cafés, she’d make up imaginary lives replete with secrets and all kinds of dramatic circumstances.

With David, however, there was no need for fantasizing. He was willing to spread his whole life before her, eager to surrender. Perhaps too much so.

At three in the morning, David relaxed, relieved to know her name and telephone number. His tone became playful. He suggested a deal. He’d narrate three of his love adventures in exchange for three of hers. She pleaded for a fair balance, since he was twenty years older. They struck a bargain: two of hers for his three. He was to begin.

At four in the morning, David inventoried the clues furnished by Amélie: married for the past ten years, residing in Paris, employed in a publishing house. Two children, no thought of divorce, and a great show of independent spirit. He was hooked, in love. He would have liked to elope with her at once; he suggested dinner the following day.

—I’m not sure I’ll be back . . . , Amélie hesitated.

David stopped her:

—Listen, I’ll put you at ease. I’ll be at Lipp’s tomorrow at nine. I’ll wait, and if you can’t make it, I’ll have dinner by myself.

—So that’s what you mean by putting me at ease! she guffawed.

His team had packed up hours ago. The cashier was dozing behind the cash register. Now that they were no longer scrutinizing one another, the place seemed deserted, strangely quiet. They went out, shivering with exhaustion.

As Amélie reached her car, she was startled by a rude shout.

—Hey, lady! bellowed the attendant, you’ve forgotten to pay for the gas. His dozing interrupted, he was in a vile mood.

Amélie and David exchanged amused glances, then burst out laughing. David took her arm:

—Go on. I’ll take care of it. It’s awfully late. If I were your husband, I wouldn’t let you drive now. Be careful. Drive slowly. I don’t feel like eating alone tomorrow night.

—Good night, she whispered then drove off.

—See you tomorrow! David added.

W
hen she awoke, Amélie tried to minimize the importance of this meeting. After all, nothing forced her to have dinner with this man. By hesitating the previous evening, she had managed a way out for herself. He couldn’t take offense at being stood up. Of course she had foolishly given him her address and telephone number. But were he to call, she could always send him packing. He wouldn’t insist.

Having dealt with the pressure of her anxiety, she felt relieved, as when she removed from a slice of pizza the anchovies she couldn’t stand. What did they have in common, after all? He was fifty, with a checkered past; she was thirty, with a
clean slate. His manner was instinct and strife rather than the gentle art of conversation. As for her, she felt no inclination for power plays. When contradicted, she yielded, then regained ground by analyzing situations, turning them into anecdotes.

Glimpsing their mother’s car parked in front of the stoop, Clémence and Fanny dashed up to her room, hurling themselves upon her bed. They smelled of sleep. Amélie covered their sweet, plump baby bellies with resounding kisses. Nuzzling their necks, she whispered the string of endearments that ritualized each reunion, however brief the separation. Armed with books, the girls were making sure Mother couldn’t avoid the ceremony of storytelling by invoking a lapse of memory. Lying in a supine position, Amélie, each of her two daughters in the crook of an arm, began the reading while gently stroking their hair. The girls’ sated bodies were sinking into well-being. However, her mind continued to wander; she had David on the brain.

She had to admit to herself he had aroused in her impulses akin to feelings of love. Upon reflection, she decided they were stronger than common character traits or affinities.

Back in Paris, Amélie was dying to keep her dinner date. However, she couldn’t give in to this without setting her mind at rest about the platonic character of this adventure. She set up a fail-safe situation: She’d go, but to make sure they wouldn’t sleep together, she’d have to feel unattractive. She would never give in to his desires unless she was dressed up, perfumed, ready for everything. She wouldn’t dare. She delighted in her strategy, which made it a point of honor to use no makeup, select frayed underwear, and slip into an ordinary dress.

Stepping out, she assumed a resolute walk, satisfied with the informal image that confirmed her integrity. Coming close to the brasserie, her guts twisted by the concern she felt over her trivial appearance, she was sorely tempted to step into Le Drugstore’s ladies’ room to put on some makeup. At that very moment she saw David walking across the way, down the boulevard.

Sitting at the table, her stomach knotted, her fingers tightly gripping her knife and fork, Amélie realized her mind was a void. Generally she did not have to reach far for a subject of conversation, but she wasn’t a bit hungry, not even for the steaming leg of lamb on a bed of spinach set between them.

She hated herself for her barely contained embarrassment, while David calmly conjured up all kinds of recipes in the pleasant, relaxed manner of a friend free from ulterior motives. Of course his carving the meat, feeding her like a baby bird in its nest, made her uneasy. The heavy, lustful looks directed at her by the men at the other tables accounted for her discomfort: clearly David wanted her, and everyone was privy to this secret.

Amélie had to acknowledge the obvious: Their tête-à-tête was of a libertine nature. In some fashion she bore a measure of responsibility, since both of them exuded a sexual murkiness, attracting heavy looks. She felt that their light chatter sounded fake in its disregard for their mutual attraction. She called David’s attention to their gawking admirers on the one hand, and the scandalized witnesses of their provocative twosome on the other. Relaxing into the heady atmosphere, they savored the knowledge of being the main event in the restaurant’s hidden nook.

David proved himself to be exquisitely thoughtful. Why not stretch our legs? he suggested after dinner. The quays along the Seine, the Tuileries gardens, rue de Rivoli . . . She allowed him to guide her through her city, arm in arm. It was like being a tourist, a stranger. Hidden within the folds of that sweet moment, her desire seemed weightless, almost effortless.