Hotelles (33 page)

“I didn't. It's been going on since late April.”

Or shortly after I'd first met David, when our relationship was still a secret . . . and well before Louie had sent any presents to my mom—as far as I knew, in any case. What had been the nebulous pretext under which he had first entered into contact with her? And why had she agreed to converse with this faceless interlocutor?

 

AFTER A BRIEF SNACK WITH
the voluble Albane, the afternoon unfolded like a dream, with all manner of activities that I performed like a robot.

Two p.m., Chloe had said: Rehearsal on set with Stan, our director, who would lead me through the blocking for the show. The bucolic set had been put together in haste. The only part of Chris's work that they had managed to salvage was the logo, which was printed on a large cardboard sign in the background and lighted to stand out.

Four p.m.: Practice reading the cue cards Albane's team had made for me. I was glad to learn that she had been sure not to make me into one of those petulant bimbos like the ones so favored by our competitors' shows. My script was sober, concise, succinct but not too much, fairly close to what I would have written myself if David's confidence in me had extended to that task, too.

Five p.m.: Meet my two guests—a star bookseller who was going to give his list of must-reads for the beach and a professional dancer who would give us a demonstration of a “killer move” for summer—and chitchat “informally.”

Six p.m.: Tea and biscuits, followed by what seemed to me like an endless session of primping, wardrobe, hair, and makeup. I felt like a cream puff getting bigger and bigger.

This doll caked in foundation, this porcelain being about to go out into the spotlight wearing a floral dress . . . Was this really me?

“Pretend you're twelve years old and playing television host with your girlfriends,” Albane said, dispensing some last-minute advice.

“At twelve I wanted to be Marie Curie or Françoise Giroud, but okay . . .”

“You know what I mean: act the part. All the big people in TV today were once kids making faces in a mirror. The rest will come later, with practice.”

It wasn't very reassuring, but maybe it would take the wind out of my detractors' sails. There was no doubt they would lambaste me for my inexperience. So goes the world. Everyone is so quick to forget their own faux pas, and eager to trip up anyone new whose youth might outshine them.

 

SEVEN-THIRTY P.M.: A WHOLE HOUR
to wait. I pretended I needed to be alone so that I could wander the deserted halls of the nineteenth floor in my floral dress, primped and proper, looking for an escape that I would never dare take. Fate led me by an office that had recently been vacated.
alice
simoncini
, read the white plastic sign that was still posted to the right of the door. I lowered the handle: it was open. The only thing that struck me in the soulless space was the lingering odor. I detected the beautiful blonde's perfume, floral and sweet, and a hint of other, more acidic notes. Was it the smell of love? The bouquet created by their respective sexes? How many times had she and Chris cavorted in here, just a few paces from David's office? I tried to imagine the two of them, the tall, flaccid body of her lover with his buttocks pressed against the bay window, grasping at her vagina with an excited hand, drooling his desire on her delicate neck, and so proud of his prey.

 

One should never surprise one's friends when they are in the midst of making love  . . .

Before Sophia, my best friend was Sabina. People thought we were twins we looked so alike; it was even troubling for us. We spent hours together looking at ourselves in the mirror, hunting down our differences. The only trait that distinguished us was her pair of bright blue eyes. It was an advantage over me, in terms of seduction, and she used it to the best of her abilities, attracting the hottest boys in high school.

One Wednesday afternoon she invited me over to her house. I got there fifteen minutes early, thinking I'd find her watching TV or reading one of her vampire books—“They're so sexy!”—that she loved so much. The door to the parental home was open. So was the one to her room. For good reason, since at this time of day in the middle of the week, she was supposed to be alone at the house. But that was not the case. From the staircase, I heard moaning—almost meowing—that told me what was going on upstairs. But I couldn't resist the temptation. I tiptoed up the steps and peered into her bedroom, admiring Sabina's prowess for the entire quarter hour before we were supposed to meet. Her way of arching her rump to the point of breaking her back while the boy was going down on her. It seemed totally indecent to me back then.
Her
shocking use of language, in which he was reduced to
his “cock,” and she called herself a “bitch,”
a “whore,” and “the biggest slut in school.”
The voracious way she swallowed her partner's member, all the way down to its hilt. The hyena's cry at the moment of ecstasy  . . .

I left without making a sound, no questions asked. I was still a virgin, and the scene had ultimately been disturbing. I didn't speak to her for the rest of the year. She probably guessed the reason behind my sudden coldness but never dared address the issue head-on. I've thought of that image of my friend, fucking like an animal, raw, on numerous occasions while pleasuring myself. It is also the last memory I have of her.

 

Handwritten note by me, 6/13/2009

Where are you? Luc, Stan, and I are going over a few last-minute details. We're waiting for you. Get your butt down here, you diva!

Albane's text message brought me back into the present. And as she would have said herself, I got my tush downstairs in double time. As soon as I arrived, I could feel that particular tension that precedes the launch of a new program. David himself was present, an extraordinary occurrence judging from the terrified and excited murmur of the troupe.

Meanwhile, one absence had not gone unnoticed: Louie, I was told, had not been seen in the building all day.

I pretended to watch the eight o'clock news with my team, who were acting like a bunch of schoolkids—to lower the stress, I imagined. As for me, my mind was far away from Barlet Tower.

Where could he be? At the Hôtel des Charmes? Haunting Mademoiselle Mars's old house, ambling through the construction site? Or at home in front of his television, waiting like any other viewer for the fateful hour of my televised doom?

 

WHAT FOLLOWED WAS A COLORFUL
nightmare in pop culture, replete with forced laughter and artificial enthusiasm. As Albane had intimated, I was to be something of a ridiculous mime whom everyone pretended to take seriously, though my delivery was too supercharged to be intelligible . . . Not to mention my one hundred fifty “So, nows.”

The script prepared by the editorial team burned in my hands. My eyes glued themselves to it as a kind of crutch for my stress. And I could not listen to a single word of the reports off set. I even missed a few cues, despite Stan's reminders in my earpiece and the red light on the camera.

“Breathe, it's not a race!” the director whispered several times into my hearing device. “At this pace, we'll be done in a half hour. Stay cool!”

Five minutes before the end, during Louie's spot, the last one, I got a touch-up on my makeup and a bathroom break. After that all I had left was a brief conclusion to read off the teleprompter, and this ordeal would finally be over.

“You're doing great!” Albane said encouragingly while I made my way to the restroom. “Slow down a little, though. Let your guests talk. You'll always have time to cut things short at the end if they go on too long.”

Alone in the bathroom stall, my bladder was about to explode, but I could not release even a drop. I tried to suppress the strong desire to empty my stomach.

I didn't want to leave. Never. I wanted to stay in my little floral dress, smelling pee in this warm, protected world. Here there was no husband, no lover, no viewers to laugh at me.

“ . . . No, I started by accident, I didn't really have a choice . . .”

I caught more or less intelligible scraps of sound from the speakers on set:

“I don't mean to pry, but do you ever feel any pleasure when you're with these men?”

“Yes, of course. Rather often, in fact . . . It's not just a job.”

It was true. Being a Hotelle was not just a job. I could attest to that.

Prudence, even fear, should have kept me where I was. And yet I left the bathroom, curious to hear what this girl had to say. Her voice, which had been distorted to protect her identity, had a cadence that was not unfamiliar. When I got back to the set, where two dozen screens featured the same masked face, I thought I might collapse and vomit all over the technicians.

I recognized the mask: it was an exact replica of the one Louie had given me once before.

But there was something even more familiar: the broad gestures, the shoulder-length chocolate curls, and that direct way of speaking  . . .

“I mean, it's not just about the sex. Not at all!” the modified voice twanged. “We talk, we discuss our lives. Sometimes there's a connection . . .”

The only words to come out of my mouth, in a thin and desperate voice that only I could hear:

“Fuck, Sophia . . . No. Not you.”

Her face white with stupor when Louie had introduced himself to us on our jog in Bois de Vincennes.

Her sincere interest, her bawdy laughter, when I had told her about the trap in which Louie had been ensnaring me day after day: “Will you introduce me to him?! . . . I love that kind of playfulness in a man!” Her obsession with my Ten-Times-a-Day, which she had been sure to mention would have suited her far more than me.

One by one, these memories resurfaced, tearing the mask from the woman everyone saw on the screen.

Why had she put on such an act? And above all, what had been her price for betrayal? Just enough to make ends meet, perhaps. A couple of big bills like the ones he had slipped me at the gallery or for my erotic shopping at the Musardine bookstore. Or maybe—and this thought killed me more than anything—they were lovers? Did they make fun of me, of my gullibility, when they were between the sheets? Did they have a laugh over my virginal awkwardness, my silly trepidation, when they rolled on top of each other in boundless ecstasy, the perfect couple in their unquenchable thirst for passion?

Since when had he possessed her?

“Back on in thirty,” Stan cried from somewhere in my vicinity.

“Elle! Elle, you okay?”

Albane's voice did not penetrate the thick cocoon that was weaving itself around me. Was I okay? How could I answer that?

Her hand squeezed the nape of my neck, but it wasn't I who shuddered at her touch.

“Elle! Elle, crap! Are you with me?”

No, sweet Albane, I haven't been with you for several long, long minutes now. I had lost all contact with reality. Mine was a long, cold sob that engulfed me like an icy cloak. A giant Eskimo in the middle of the studio. I saw the world outside through a foggy porthole. Everything was muffled. Nothing could get through to me.

“Back on in twenty! Girls, get your butts on stage . . . Now!”

“Shit, I don't know what's gotten into her . . . ,” Albane stammered, panicked. “We've lost her. Call the doc!”

On the monitors, Sophia was answering the interviewer's—Louie's—last question:

“I hear you call yourselves Hotelles, is that right?”

“Yes, exactly.”

“Can you explain for our viewers in two words what that means?”

“Well, ‘Hotelle' is a portmanteau word. First, there's the adjective ‘hot,' I think that's fairly clear . . .”

“It is!”

Another desperate call from Stan:

“Back on in ten! What do we do?”

“Go to credits! Whatever!” Albane bellowed. “I don't care!”

Through my tears, the mask was melting.

“ . . . And then there's ‘Elle,' which is the name of one of the original girls. Our mascot, if you will . . .”

“That's very pretty. And how about you, do you feel more hot or more like Elle?”

“Oh, I'm definitely hot!” She burst out laughing. “Elle . . . I'm not an Elle. I have a friend who's Elle . . .”

 

JINGLE. SHOT OF THE SET.
Without me.

Credits.

28

June 14, 2009

W
hen I finally came to, everyone pretended nothing had happened. They'd have just as soon forgotten my freak-out. They no doubt thought that for now denial was the most charitable reaction.

Better, everyone was really complimentary about my “amazing performance,” even Luc, Philippe, and Stan, who were all excessively enthusiastic, despite the fact that they had the most to lose and would certainly take heat for my professional inexperience. I may not have been their first choice, but it had been up to them to transform my rough self into a little soldier who could go into battle. I wasn't supposed to freak out or act like a diva. And judging from their crestfallen faces, over which they had plastered smiles, I could tell David's wrath would fall on them. My failure was also theirs, and they couldn't hide it.

 

“ALBANE! DO YOU KNOW WHERE
David is?”

I grabbed my friend by the arm. Her eyes were a mix of disappointment, pity, and compassion. Albane was not an affectionate person, but she was independent enough of spirit to commiserate. She was pretty, young, competent . . . Would this incident put her out of a job?

“In his office. Why?”

“I want to speak with him.” I met her eyes proudly.

“Not possible. He asked not to be disturbed by anyone.”

“I have to explain to him what happened . . .”

“I know, I understand . . . but he was clear, ‘absolutely no one.' I presume that includes you. Sorry.”

A lord in his castle, David was probably letting his anger steep and deciding how to react. On the one hand, he had to handle this at the station, where he could not lose face or show any signs of weakness or favoritism; on the other hand, there was our relationship, and though this incident was not a direct threat, it had put a chip in it. One could have imagined a better wedding present from me . . . A luxury watch, for instance, which seemed to be disappearing bit by bit from the window at Antiquités Nativelle, like a receding memory.

I braced myself for anything: kingly contempt, a sign of his clemency and generosity, or, rather, a proper repudiation and anger unfurling on me like a torrent. How much did he want to preserve our relationship? How much did he want to maintain his image as an inflexible boss? One thing was sure: he could not show himself to be softer on me than on his other employees. The nepotism he had shown in hiring me was already a major source of reproach. If he afforded me any special privileges, he would lose all credibility, and his authority would wither under the sun of his love for me.

 

I WENT HOME ALONE TO
Duchesnois House, jostled in the back of a taxi that seemed to cross the city in the blink of an eye. I found a busy, almost excited Armand, clearly unperturbed by the drama of my day. He was so preoccupied with other things, in fact, that I did not dare ask what he'd thought of my show. He jumped on me with notes and papers in hand.

“I finally have the definitive menu. Do you want to see it, Mademoiselle?”

I acquiesced with an absent smile. My eyes skimmed over the paper more than they read the impressive courses of food. From the depths of my stupor, it seemed that Armand had more than accommodated my tastes. Much of the menu was devoted to seafood, and in the desserts red fruits dominated.

“It seems perfect.” I forced delight.

“Are you sure? We can still make changes, you know.”

“No, no, don't change a thing. I am sure it will be . . .”

Do not say “sublime” or “splendid” or “magnificent” or any of the superlatives David tends to overuse.

“ . . . divine. Yes, it will be divine.”

He met my compliment with a gracious smile, which quickly twisted, however, into a scowl.

“I hate to bring it up . . . but the notary keeps asking for your signed copies.”

“My copies?” I asked.

“Of the prenup . . .”

“Oh, yes . . . the prenup.”

“Everything has to be decided before the civil wedding; otherwise the terms of the agreement will be voided. And we'll have to redo the whole thing.”

“Of course, I understand. I'll get it to you tomorrow.”

“Signed?” he insisted, raising one of his bushy eyebrows.

I got the feeling he wasn't just expressing his need to get things done properly. Beyond the interests of his master, he seemed personally invested in my accomplishing this task.

“Yes, of course,” I answered. “Signed.”

 

I BELIEVE EVERYTHING HAS BEEN
said and written on the comforting power of cats. Their contagious sense of calm, their sweetness, their apathy, their rhythmic purring that can put you to sleep  . . .

I glued myself to Felicity in the hope that she would bring me a little peace, even fleetingly. I wrapped myself around her as though I were her mother. I used to do the same thing as a kid when I needed consoling. Once or twice, I interrupted this outpouring of warmth to call Sophia, but of course the traitor did not pick up. At last I fell into a disturbed sleep. I dreamed Albane was chosen to replace me on
Culture Mix
, and she decided to do it in the nude, and the technicians and viewers were strangely indifferent.

When I awoke, there was still no sign of David. No balled-up towel on the floor, not a hint of his cologne. Had he even come home? Again, I called and there was no answer. Then, midmorning:

“Elle? Hello, it's Chloe.”

“Chloe . . . you work on Sunday?”

“No. I had the line transferred to my house. I always do that when I think the weekend might be hectic at the station.”

I presumed it had been an order from my fiancé and not her personal initiative. Even on days of rest, his army needed to be at the ready.

“Okay . . . Why are you calling?”

“David asked me to contact you. He spent the night in his office.”

I remembered the sofa facing his work table. It looked uncomfortable but doable for a night. I figured it had never dissuaded him from ending long evenings there. Chloe probably kept one of his drawers stocked with clean shirts and underthings so he could dive into work the next day.

“He would like you to join him,” she added, and she wasn't asking.

My heart skipped a beat. This was it. And it occurred to me that my procrastination over the prenup had been a sign of prudence on my part rather than flippancy.

“When?”

“Now.”

The noose around my neck got tighter; I had just enough air to murmur:

“Okay. I'm just going to get dressed . . .”

“Super. I'll let him know.”

However, David could wait, and Chloe could deal with his ensuing reprimand, because I was in no more of a mood to be scolded like a child than he was to let it go. Oh, I would show up to his Sunday summons, of course. But I would do it on my time, and when I felt ready to deal with him. Not before.

I lazed a while in bed with Felicity, my Ten-Times-a-Day open on my thighs. I tried to write, but my mind was miles away from sweet thoughts of sex. My pen scribbled over the blank page, and I crossed out every word I put down. Like Louie, I would have loved to capture traces of lovers before me, in all places and circumstances. To fill myself with their moods, to sigh as they had once sighed, to shiver with them in unison. But nothing came that day in Duchesnois House, in spite of all the suitors whose shadows still haunted this place—including the emperor himself.

Is sex always
better
stronger than everything? Can the mind become so tortured by serious and urgent preoccupations that all our risqué thoughts disappear? Or does the libido always end up submerging the rest, like an endless torrent?

 

Handwritten note by me, 6/14/2009

 

AS THE MORNING WENT BY,
I expected to start receiving angry calls from David. But though this gentle time seemed endless, nothing disturbed the spring day's tranquility, which blew a cool and calming breeze through the half-open window. What I found even more surprising, considering my television appearance the night before, was the silence from all my friends and family. That Mom hadn't hurried to hash out what I knew was a historic event for her, that a few old girlfriends from college hadn't taken advantage of this moment to call . . . that Rebecca hadn't exploded in anger over the fact that I had broken my promise of confidentiality—it was all so strange . . . almost suspicious. Had my absence at the end really been that obvious? Had it really hurt my image that much? Perhaps it had made waves? I preferred not to waste what pride I had left by exposing myself to their fake compliments.

It was Sunday. A day of rest in this country. The one day of the week when there wasn't a recap of all the best moments of television from the day before. No one would publicly notice my disappearance until the next day. Except maybe online, that hive of useless activity?

No, nothing on the station's official Facebook page, nor on my personal page, which had been transformed, at Louie's request, into a professional tool with my public name: Elle Barlet. The most recent messages dated back two days, and were from Louie's subordinates trying to create buzz.
Culture Mix
did not yet have a cultural presence, and for good reason, considering the haste in which it was born.

With nothing else to distract me from what was awaiting me, I killed time digging through the pile of books I'd bought at La Musardine. Dreamily, I skimmed a line here, a paragraph there, not really focusing on anything. Everything slid under my eyes like a scene after a disaster.

The fact that Louie had not made a peep did not surprise me, though it was disappointing. If he saw me as anything but prey, a new cog in the alarming erotic machine he used to obliterate his melancholy, well then, now was the time to show his support. Or more, who knows  . . .

I ended up reading the preface of the Divine Marquis's
Philosophy in the Bedroom
, a book he wrote for his mistress. In it, he addresses “libertines” in these terms:

Libertines of all ages and sexual persuasions: to you alone I dedicate this work! Feast upon its principles: they champion the passions that frigid, insipid moralists would have you despise, passions which are merely Nature's way of guiding man to her ends. Listen only to these delicious longings; for only your passions can lead you to happiness.

Lascivious women: look to the voluptuous Saint-Ange for inspiration; like her, scorn all that contradicts the divine laws of Pleasure, which enchained her all her life.

Young girls too long constrained by the absurd and pernicious bonds of Virtue and disgusting religion: emulate the hot-blooded Eugénie; destroy and trample those ridiculous preconceptions that your imbecilic parents have instilled in you—and do it as fast as she.

I imagine that Louie would not have written otherwise if he had wanted to express his ideas for me—I, who may have been his thing but not yet his mistress. As apt and virtuosic as these words were, they also seemed quite vain. I wanted neither discourse nor speeches. Neither lessons nor remonstrances. I did not want to be treated like a princess, much less a slave, a simple object of pleasure or a decorative piece. What I wished was for one or the other, David or Louie, to take me in his arms and offer me love. I would give him my faith. And the past in which they were holding me captive and which had nothing to do with me would be swept away. I wanted to exist before them, for them, against them. I didn't want to be a series of concepts in a skirt or an abstraction of their family strife.

 

It's a debate I have never been able to resolve for myself: To what extent is it pleasurable to be a sexual object for your partner? By that I mean, being a toy for him, an instrument that he uses depending on his needs.
A whore at his mercy.
The way one of my few clients at the Hôtel des Charmes once used my mouth was painful; it even kind of disgusted me. He didn't penetrate it with care, as ordinary lovers do. No, he fucked it hard, violently plunging his shaft between my lips, his lower abdomen knocking into my nose, obviously trying to hit my glottis with his enormous gland, which seemed on the verge of coming with every thrust. I was suffocating, and there was something degrading about his brutal invasion of my mouth. I felt objectified, as though his cock were trying to silence me forever, obliterate my words, so that he could use my mouth as he pleased: just another orifice to ravage.

Would I have been as disgusted if I had loved him? Could I handle being my lover's thing?

 

Handwritten note by me, 6/14/2009

 

THIS THOUGHT REMINDED ME OF
the telephone conversations Fred had discovered between Louie and Mom. Why had he been interested in her all this time? What could have motivated such a surprising and inappropriate course of action, if not his interest in me and the construction of this enormous scheme to undo me—to destroy me?

Can I call you?

Fred was at last resurfacing. But I didn't have the heart to listen to his sarcastic remarks or the ones he might have heard the night before with his new coworkers.

Around noon, another message, this time more glacial, reminded me of my obligations.

I'm waiting for you. D.

 

I quickly showered and threw on my outfit number one, the pantsuit, pearl necklace, and low heels. Sober and professional.

After a twenty-minute taxi ride, I arrived in front of the glass tower, which shimmered in the sun. Yet from that angle outside, there was nothing in the world so opaque as those immense glass surfaces. Under all the flash, the Barlet mystery was decidedly well preserved.

 

WITH CHLOE GONE, DAVID'S OFFICE
door had been left ajar, a clear invitation to enter. I slipped through the crack, trying to be as slim and discreet as a sheet of paper, when suddenly a cork flew past my face, moments after its telltale pop.