Hotelles (6 page)

“You heard me: close your eyes. Just for a few seconds.”

“What are you—”

“Don't be scared,” he instructed, with all his natural authority.

Marchadeau ended up popping his head into the dark dining hall to lay claim on what was rightfully his for the night: me. Maybe it was his way of standing up to his old friend. Maybe it was his way of saying that freedom of the press was not completely dead.

David gamely accepted defeat:

“You know, as much as the exploitation of interns disgusts me, I might just change my mind, François. Especially since you choose such nice ones.”

“You think so, too, do you?” The other grimaced, annoyed.

I could tell he wanted to reveal the exact nature of my function with him that night. But for the second time that evening, he was kind enough not to say anything.

“See you later, Elle.”

As David handed me a business card, his jacket sleeve crept up his elbow, revealing his left forearm. It was girded by what looked like a tightly cinched silk armband the color of pearl. I stared at it for just a second too long, and David suddenly became more forceful:

“If you don't take this right now . . . Lord knows when we'll see each other again.”

“Yes, of course,” I muttered. “Sorry.”

He left in a halo of light, half convincing me that the whole evening had been but a dream.

 

“ELLE? WOULD YOU MIND GIVING
me a little more of your time?”

My client's invitation was perfectly polite. But to me it seemed completely inappropriate. As uncalled for and vulgar as someone who grabs your behind at a garden party. I could only imagine sharing my bed with one man in the whole world. Only one man could make me lose control. And that man had just disappeared into the night.

“Why not . . .” I hesitated.

“Rebecca Sibony said something about the Hôtel des Charmes. It's supposed to be really trendy. Have you been?”

I had gone once or twice over the past few months, lured by my need for extra cash and even slightly aroused after a few too many glasses of champagne. It was no big deal. I hadn't made it a habit.

Maude, Fred, Sophia, Rebecca . . . David. An image of their faces raced across my mind. What would they think? What would they tell me to do? Take the money, no matter its source? Or go home in the taxi that my date would surely hail me?

I couldn't help dreaming of the four hundred euros he'd leave on the nightstand at the end of the evening. Suddenly, my phone started vibrating.

The text message was from an unknown number, and it sealed my decision:

Let's not leave things like this. No, what I mean is: let's never leave each other.

6

June 4, 2009

H
ow do you measure the inviolability of your darkest secrets? Perhaps by the fact that they become so much a part of you that you actually forget about them. You become so used to keeping them to yourself and pretending that they end up escaping your conscious thoughts.

 

AFTER OUR MAGICAL AND UNEXPECTED
meeting, David and I got really close. As his first text message suggested, we never left each other's side. Occasionally, I would go home to see Mom in Nanterre and spend the night. But not a day went by that David and I didn't see each other. Sometimes just for a quick lunch at a restaurant near Barlet Tower, an ultramodern steel-and-glass structure that David had commissioned ten years earlier. Located in south Paris, it housed all of his company's activities.

“See you tonight?”

“At Le Divellec,” he'd said from his car earlier in the day. “Do you know where that is?”

I knew where it was, yes. But I had never had the chance to dine there. It was considered one of the best seafood restaurants in Paris, and had been a favorite of President Mitterrand, who would eat there with his secret daughter, Mazarine.

“It's on Rue de l'Université, right?”

“That's right. I have a reservation for eight thirty. Does that work for you?”

David knew I had way less to do than he. Still, he was gallant enough to respect my schedule. Meanwhile, every second of his time was worth a few hundredths of a point on the stock exchange. He had been so attentive the past few weeks: so considerate, sensitive, and full of surprises. Everything was so enchanting and refined with David. He also knew how much I loved scallops and lobster cooked in salted butter. His choice of restaurant wasn't random. It was a sign of his budding love.

 

THE EXTRAORDINARY HAD BECOME MY
ordinary, with exquisite meals at Michelin-starred restaurants. But I hadn't become jaded to luxury. I was too familiar with the other side of the coin, I thought, when I spotted the restaurant, whose blue awning was visible from quite a distance.

“Good evening, Mademoiselle. Monsieur Barlet is waiting at his table.”

The maître d' carried out David's instructions with zeal, and had not failed to recognize me immediately at the entrance. I followed him through the hushed room, which was occupied by a handful of graying diners and a few celebrities and politicians whose names escaped me at the time. I was distracted by the thought of the man I was about to meet.

David was sitting at the table in front of a bottle of white wine on ice. His contemplative gaze rested on the lobster tank and its unsuspecting inhabitants. My appearance roused him from his rare stupor. His spontaneous smile was genuinely beguiling.

“Darling!”

He wasn't one to use terms of endearment. I took it as a sign that tonight wasn't just another dinner. The scent of his custom-made cologne had grown stronger after a day of activity, and I could smell him as I reached the table. It was like a familiar welcoming committee.

“This place is fantastic.”

“Yes, it will do,” he said indifferently. His mood brightened as he kissed me.

“Don't play innocent. You know exactly why we're here,” I said, my head gesturing toward the lobsters tied up with blue bands.

His Hollywood smile suddenly froze. He looked like he was in pain, as though he were afraid I would find out who he really was. No, Sophia, David Barlet had not yet given me an earth-shattering orgasm, the kind of erotic roller coaster you rode every night of the week—or practically—with a different partner. But his face was always so open and frank, so charmingly young—like the actor whom nature had modeled him after—that any girl in my place would have followed him to the end of the world.

First course: “A whole blue lobster,” the waiter announced, carrying two artistically arranged plates.

He fished David's crustacean from its juices. My eyes shone, and I could not suppress my childish excitement. This variation on my favorite dish was so thoughtful of him. David was always finding ways to please me, but this meal went above and beyond all our other forays into Parisian gastronomy.

“Mmm . . . It's gorgeous!”

“Lobster served room temperature, Jerusalem artichoke, and beet fries,” described the man in the black vest, an immaculate towel draped over his arm. “Bon appétit, Madame. Bon appétit, Monsieur.”

“Thank you.”

Don't worry, I'm not that rough around the edges. I know you're not supposed to thank the staff in that kind of restaurant. You're not supposed to let them think you're on the same level. But I didn't care. I felt carefree in my little black dress—Rebecca had suggested it for “a night when you want to end up in his arms.” It was probably much too tight and much too short for this kind of establishment. I figured that was why the other guests kept stealing looks at us between bites of sweet potato. Or were they surprised to see Paris's most eligible bachelor with such an ordinary creature as myself? David dismissed this kind of assessment, but it was a critique I had overheard on prior outings with him.

I couldn't care less. I felt happy, and the fine wine my man had chosen was already going to my head.

“It's delicious,” I exclaimed after I'd taken my first bite. The flavors and textures were divine.

“Your mother doesn't mind that I've stolen you this evening?”

He put his hand over mine on the table. I liked feeling his weight on me. It foretold another configuration, another weight, the weight of his body crushing mine. I shivered in pleasure at the thought. But I wasn't brave enough to take the initiative and tear him from the dinner we'd just begun.

 

I wish he would have led me to the restroom and taken me there. My panties on his ankles. His impatient member pressing into my behind. No formalities. Just the urgency of our desire.

I've never been taken by a man in a public restroom before. Usually I inspire in them feelings of love and other noble sentiments. I want these things, too. But for once I would like it if one of them took me in haste and ravaged me. I want to be made an object for his desire. I want to feed his raging hunger. I would go down on my knees before him, on the defiled tiles. His engorged tip would open my lips and enter. He would fist my hair and push his hard member deep into my throat, fucking my mouth like a whore, faster, faster, hurrying to finish before the next guest arrived in the bathroom. He would come quickly in several spurts, and he'd let out a muffled cry. I would have just enough time to rinse my mouth and wipe off the traces of semen. But the smell of his cock would still linger on my lips. I would be able to taste it with every bite of my dinner.

 

Anonymous handwritten note, 6/5/2009—Would I really find that exciting? I guess so . . .

 

I HAD NOTICED THE COINCIDENCE
early on, and over time it was becoming increasingly apparent: my harasser's licentious missives reflected events in my life. They tried to integrate themselves into my thinking, to give a detailed and realistic account of the kinds of ideas that crossed my mind. Where was this stranger? Was he in the restaurant now? Was he watching me?

Just as I could not bring myself to admit to David what I did at Belles de Nuit, I did not have the courage to tell him about my guilty relationship with the crazy poet who had plumbed my innermost depths. In a way, the poet had already won; I had let him penetrate my whole being.

 

“YOUR MOM . . . YOU DIDN'T
want to stay with her?” David asked again.

“No . . . No, not at all,” I lied, my mouth full.

I was the queen of compartmentalization. With Maude, I had barely mentioned the marvelous irruption of David into my life. I had been especially careful not to mention his last name, for fear she would make the connection with the glittering businessman she sometimes saw on the eight o'clock news. For now, she only knew the bare minimum: some rich and charming guy named David had taken Fred's place. And she'd never really liked Fred much. It was enough to satisfy her maternal instincts, and had kept my two worlds from clashing. I knew they would eventually meet. It was inevitable, considering how things were developing with the man on the other side of that forkful of lobster.

“You're right; it's excellent,” he agreed, his eyes half closed in pleasure as he sunk his teeth into a beet fry.

. . . Mmm, how to rehabilitate such a lowly vegetable.

Money wasn't everything. David wasn't just a living bank account with enough to pay for this kind of banquet every night of the week if we wanted. He had something that no winning lottery ticket or profitable financial scheme could offer: he was cultivated. It was the only ingredient that Fred's pizzas would never have, though they represented so much love and sacrifice.

The following courses did not disappoint: lobster cassolette with black seeds; pan-seared lobster cooked in its own juices, served with shellfish in a champagne sauce, the effervescence of which tickled my tongue and made me groan in delight.

“It's to die for!” I whispered as David reached out to intercept a drop of sauce escaping the border of my lips.

It was obvious that my happiness was his. He was more delighted seeing me so undone by these delicacies than he was tasting all the amazing flavors himself. His enjoyment was vicarious. I for one was happy to flatter his imagination. My taste buds were so sensitive, so inexperienced. They felt pleasure in a way his could not, since for him fantastic dinners like this were so commonplace.

 

“NO, SERIOUSLY . . . I WOULD
love to know how to make something like that.”

“Really?”

“You wouldn't?”

“Sure, I guess I would,” he breathed.

His laughter winged through the air.

Since we'd started seeing each other, I had barely gotten the chance to show off my admittedly meager cooking skills, a pale facsimile of my mom's culinary know-how. Food, like everything else, was part of the whirlwind David seemed so effortlessly to create. I just let myself be carried away. Now that I think of it, “whirlwind” isn't the right word—being able to choose the perfect word or image to fit a given situation is essential for a writer in training like me. “Tornado” is better, considering its dizzying power. I was being sucked up into his magical world.

David called the waiter with an almost imperceptible hand gesture and leaned to whisper something into his ear.

“Don't tell me you're ordering another bottle of wine . . . I'm already feeling blotto.”

“ ‘
Blotto'
?!” he repeated, bursting into laughter. “If you keep using your mother's expressions, beware: next time, I might just invite her to dinner instead of you.”

The waiter, who had left during our brief exchange, suddenly reappeared holding a folded note. To my surprise, he handed it to me, gesturing with his head that I should indeed take it:

“Mademoiselle . . . Compliments of the chef.”

“Thank you . . . ,” I stammered.

A murmur swept through the restaurant: famous chefs never revealed their secrets. Especially not in gastronomic sanctuaries like this. But David had only to express a wish, and management would grant it, even if it went against all the rules. All to satisfy my little whim. I blushed, feeling both pleased and confused.

“Now you don't have any excuses: tomorrow I'll have Armand make the kitchen available to you,” said my enchanting king.

Armand was his jack of all trades. He was also his personal chef. Thanks to him, Monsieur Barlet's everyday life went off without a hitch. Armand attended to everything, at any time of day. I twisted my mouth into a pout I knew would make him melt.

“I might disappoint you.”

“Hardly. Shall we go?”

That was David. He was already standing, the moment he'd just created over. He was the genie in the lamp
and
the gust of wind capable of blowing all the magic away.

Our fellow restaurant patrons were staring more intently than ever when the staff discreetly whisked us out a back door. I imagine my date had left a more-than-generous tip as we were leaving. Outside, the valet was tapping his well-shod foot against the asphalt. He did not rush to greet us, as one might have expected. He held no ticket or key, but instead handed David a light blue-and-white-striped sweater, which he unfolded and firmly placed around my shoulders.

“We're not taking your car?” I asked, surprised.

No sign of his black Jaguar.

“No. Let's walk a little, shall we?”

The sun had set during our lobster orgy, and though there was a slight breeze, the evening was inviting. David put his arm around my waist, his beautiful hand resting just above the curve of my hip. He led me down Rue Fabert toward the docks, the sparkling dome of the Invalides behind us. I, who had made it a rule never to let other people manage my life, was quickly learning to enjoy letting go. It didn't seem like much of a risk, not with David. He had all the self-assurance and easy confidence of his class, a giant air bag of money, loads of connections and self-confidence. He flattened all obstacles and hardly even broke a sweat.

I liked that he took charge. But once again I longed for more . . . at the very least, a kiss.

When we got to the Quai d'Orsay, he wordlessly guided us toward the Pont Alexandre III, one of the most beautiful bridges in the city. I couldn't help but notice the
Ronde des amours
, three happy cherubs dancing at the base of each lamppost. We walked over the elegant steel-and-stone structure, which had been built for the World's Fair in 1900, and reached the Right Bank, where a few stairs led us to a pier.

“You know,” I said ironically, “I may be from the suburbs, but I have actually taken one of these tourist boats before.”