Lace (50 page)

“Why don’t you let me buy you a decent dress? I’ve only seen you in one sweater and one blouse since we met, and always that same navy skirt.”

“Oh, I couldn’t let you buy me anything! Madame would see it.”

“Well, what about these little red suede shoes?”

“No, I couldn’t hide them, they’d want to know where I got the money.” But in the stone arcade of the rue de Rivoli, Alastair bought her a heart-shaped locket on a fine
gold chain that she could hide under her mattress. He’d never met such a trusting, affectionate, undemanding girl; even the youngest ones were usually after something, especially once they
knew who he was. Then there were always demands for jewelry, money, sometimes even marriage. Skinner, his mother’s attorney, handled them if things became difficult, particularly if a father
turned nasty. Lili suited him admirably, and, as yet, few people knew him in Paris.

In the taxi Lili threw her arms around him and thanked him for the locket, affectionate as a puppy. But when they got out in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, she looked up and asked in surprise,
“Where are we going?”

“To have a drink, kitten, in this hotel. I often come here.”

Behind the desk, a bored, fat concierge was knitting a gray tube that might have been a sock or a sleeve. Alastair passed her a note, and she slapped down a key. “Number nineteen. First
floor. You’ll have to pay extra if you stay longer than two hours.”

Lili followed Alastair up the stairs: he usually took her to much smarter places. “Is it a floor show? Why did you have to pay?” she asked.

Number 19 was a dim shuttered room containing a large bed with a faded pattern of pink shepherdesses on the counterpane, a collapsible tin bidet and a washbasin. Lili looked uneasy.

“I wanted to be alone with you, kitten.”

“But there’s a bed.”

“It’s difficult to find a hotel room without a bed, kitten. Now, let me put your new locket around your neck.” He lifted her hair and kissed the nape of her neck, then slid his
hands under her arms and over her breasts, feeling for the nipples under her thin blouse, then slowly unfastened the small rose buttons down the front.

At the mercy of her innocence, of the newly roused passion stirring in her body and her longing for love, Lili offered little resistance. Soon, to her surprise, she lay naked among the pink
shepherdesses, mesmerised by Alastair’s easy air of assurance and his swift, practiced hands as he stroked her quivering stomach, teased her silky pubic hair and murmured, “Now, kitten,
what’s your real age, hmm? Let’s pretend you’re only ten years old and I’m your schoolteacher, so you have to do everything I say.”

He bent his head and gently bit the tip of her nipple. “Because if you
don’t
, you’ll be punished. I’ll have to telephone Madame Sardeau and tell her what a naughty
girl you’ve been, and you wouldn’t want that, would you?”

Lili stiffened with fear. “Don’t worry, I was only joking, kitten,” he said. “Now lie back and relax, because I’m going to make you feel wonderful.”

He slid his hand between her thighs and stretched out on the bed beside her. His fingers danced, probed, burrowed insistently between her legs. He kissed her on the mouth, hard. Then he suddenly
thrust his fingers into her body, and, as it jerked in pain, his body jerked in ecstasy. “Keep quiet you little fool, stop that noise,” he whispered. He played his trump card, saved
against this. “It’s because I love you, Lili. This is grown-up love, kitten.”

“But it hurts,” she whimpered.

“I’ll kiss it better,” he promised, and gently kissed her nipples, her breasts and her face, shedding his clothes as he did. Then he slid on top of her and inside her body. It
happened so quickly that Lili, bewildered by her conflicting emotions, hardly even knew what was happening. She realised only that she ached again, then ached unbearably as Alastair straddled her
small body, shuddered in his climax, then rolled off to lie beside her, exhausted.

Later he mumbled, “That was wonderful, kitten, let’s have you in your school clothes next time.” After a bit he started to stroke her pink breasts again, then the rest of her
body, until it stopped shaking. Softly he spoke words of love. She wanted him to love her, didn’t she? Slowly, patiently—thinking of the following afternoon—he won her confidence
again, soothed her with his stroking, reassured her with words of love, hypnotized her with his self-confidence, terrified her with veiled threats of love withdrawn, of telephone calls to Madame
Sardeau.

Then he relieved himself in the washbasin, dressed and left the room, while Lili washed in the bidet. She was thinking that if he loved her, he shouldn’t have brought her here. But if he
didn’t
love her, he wouldn’t
want
to, surely? He had done it because he loved her.

After a few minutes Alastair returned and sat on the edge of the bed. He pulled her onto his lap and produced a packet of pills. “Now I want you to take one of these every day. See, the
instructions are on the label.”

“Why?”

“So that you don’t have a baby. It’s the new pill. Promise you’ll take it.”

“Why can’t we get married and have a baby?”

“Because you’re too young, that’s why, kitten. Later on, if you’re good, when you’ve passed your exams, then we’ll see.”

After that there were no more trips up the river, no more strolling under the trees. Almost every weekday during that hot summer, from three to five o’clock, a frightened, timid Lili met
Alastair at the hotel. When Madame Sardeau returned, Lili explained that as it had been so hot she had taken her basket of sewing to the shady park every afternoon. Madame’s
chemises de
nuit
were exquisitely sewn and the child certainly looked as pale as milk, so perhaps the park was a good idea, provided she was back in good time to prepare the evening meal.

The early September sun crept down the opposite side of the courtyard as Lili retched for the fifth morning in succession. Panic-stricken, she crept back to her bed. She had no
knowledge of gynecology, but she knew what early morning sickness meant. Too exhausted and worried to get up, let alone sew, she heard Madame Sardeau calling her. “Lili, Lili, wherever has
that child got to, why isn’t the coffee on? So! Still in bed at seven o’clock!” But the child didn’t look well, she seemed hardly able to lift her head and the black rings
around her eyes were darkening. Perhaps she’d better call the doctor, although of course he would charge for a visit. Better see if a day in bed would cure her. There was no point in paying
for a doctor unless she was really ill.

The waves of nausea passed and by midday, Lili no longer felt ill. She was merely panic-stricken. After taking Alastair’s pills for three days, she had stopped, because they made her feel
sick. She hadn’t told him this because she was afraid he’d be cross with her.

She
had
to get out of bed. Alastair would be waiting for her at the Pam-Pam Café. Luckily, it was one of Madame Sardeau’s afternoons for bridge.

When she confessed her fears to Alastair, his usually languid face hardened. Suddenly he didn’t look at all like Leslie Howard.

“I might have
known
it! You stupid little
bitches
are all the same! . . . Are you
sure
?”

“I haven’t seen a doctor, but I’ve been sick all this week.”

“Well, it’s your own damn fault. You’re not going to pin anything on me. You don’t know where I’m staying, nobody’s seen us together, and for all I know
you’re sleeping with half the men in Paris. . . . Oh, God,
don’t
start crying!” He thought for a moment; it was better not to frighten her. He didn’t know how old
Lili was, but she was certainly under the age of consent. Skinner might not be able to swing
that
with the French police. Though the French were tolerant about these things as a rule. . .
.

“Can’t we go to the hotel?”

“No, we can’t. For God’s sake stop snivelling and let me think.” Thank God she didn’t know his real name. He must have been crazy, out of his mind, to pick her up!
Still, it was too late now. He had to get out of this immediately before anyone could pin it on him. Of course, there was the hotel receptionist, but she’d keep her mouth shut for a few
thousand francs. An idea occurred to him. He thrust his hand into his trouser pocket and pulled out fifty thousand francs, not much, about a hundred and eighty dollars, but it was all the cash he
had on him.

“For Christ’s sake, stop crying, Lili, or I’ll walk out of this place. Look, this is what you must do. Take this money and go to a doctor to make sure that you’re really
pregnant—I’ve no idea what he’ll charge, but this is bound to cover it. If you
aren’t
pregnant, then there’s been a lot of fuss about nothing. If you
are
, then go straight to the concierge at the hotel and she’ll arrange for you to see someone who’ll fix you up. I’ll see that the bill is paid. Do it as fast as you
can—
and don’t tell anyone
.” He threw a note on the table to cover their bill and stood up.

“Don’t go, Alastair, please don’t leave me, when I love you so.”

“If you love me, you’ll do exactly as I say. You’ll obey me or I’ll never see you again.”

“When shall I see you? When?” Now she was too frightened to cry.

“I’ll see you here in two weeks.” He patted her shoulder. “Cheer up! If you’re a good girl and obedient, we can forget all this unpleasantness. Now do you
promise
to do as I say?”

“Oh, I promise, but you will come back again, won’t you?”

“Of course, kitten,” he said soothingly, and he bent to kiss her wet cheek, with no intention of ever seeing her again.

He had gone before Lili ever thought of asking which doctor she should visit. She sat staring at the pile of notes, then stuffed them in her raincoat pocket and walked to the hotel. She hung
around outside, not wanting to go in, but eventually she approached the fat, knitting fingers behind the desk.

“I was told you could help me.” The woman’s eyes immediately dropped to Lili’s stomach.

“How long?”

Lili turned red and looked hard at the brass bell on the countertop. “I don’t know.”

“When were you last due?”

“About three weeks ago. But I haven’t seen a doctor yet.”

“Just as well. Sit on that chair and wait a minute.” Bare feet stuck into carpet slippers, she shuffled to the telephone booth at the back of the hall. Lili could not hear her low
conversation. Then she shuffled back and said, “Did he give you any money?”

“Yes!” She pulled out the bundle of notes and put them on the counter. The woman’s fat fingers flew through them, counting.

“That’s not going to get you far. You need another hundred thousand francs, tell him.”

“But that’s all he gave me. I can’t get any more. He said he’d see that the bill was paid.

“That’s what they all say, but the fact is, this sort of business is strictly cash in advance. Can’t your family help?” Lili’s frightened face grew terrified.
“Well, can’t you borrow from a friend?”

None of Lili’s schoolmates had ever
seen
a hundred thousand francs, let alone owned it or lent it. Slowly she shook her head.

“Tell you what,” said the concierge, speculatively. “I know a photographer who might pay you to model for him. Three thousand francs an hour, less my commission, would that
suit you?”

Lili nodded hopefully. She would have agreed to anything. The old woman shuffled off again to the phone box and when she returned she scribbled an address on the desk pad. “Serge will see
you right away, dear. Here’s the address. It’s just down the street; he’s in the attic.”

S
ERGE
,
ONCE A
famous fashion photographer, had grown fat, bored, lazy and old, in that order. He
had flourished in the traditional world of haute-couture and did not understand the unconventional, relaxed fashions of the sixties. The fashion magazines had dropped him, then his advertising
accounts had dwindled, and he’d been almost totally out of work until he started selling nude photos. They were not the sort of models he was used to, of course. You’d never find
Bettina or Ali or Fiona or Suzy stooping to that sort of thing. Most of the girls wouldn’t so much as touch an
underwear
shot until recently, and you used to practically pay danger
money to get them into a swimsuit, but these new, untidy models had no style and no shame. He’d always photographed women in the nude, of course, it was one of his pleasures, but he’d
never thought of selling the photographs until one little tart stuck his close-up of her nipple into her portfolio, after which, for a while, his pictures of naked women were suddenly fashionable.
You could seldom make out at first glance which part of the body it was, but the effect was original and often startlingly erotic. Anyway, they sold.

Serge’s eyes narrowed speculatively as he looked at Lili, then he gave her a slow smile. “Come in,” he said. “Don’t mind my judo suit, I always wear it in the
studio. A glass of wine? No, well—there’s the changing room, get ’em off, darling.”

“Get what off?”

“Your clothes, darling. What else would I pay three thousand francs an hour for? And from what I hear it won’t be the first time, darling, but don’t worry, there’s
nothing I haven’t seen before. Look, there’s proof.”

He waved a pudgy hand toward an enormous black felt pinboard, covered with nude photographs—and very good ones, for Serge loved women and was an excellent photographer.

Lili picked her way past the ten-foot-wide rolls of pink, blue and green backdrop paper, past a vast white hanging sheet and an even bigger black one, past two groups of what looked like silver
umbrellas on sticks and a forest of studio lights. She went into the small dressing room, where odd coloured pots of grease, terra-cotta covered sponges, crumpled Kleenex, dusty little brushes,
flimsy chiffon scarves and hair curlers stood on the makeup counter, above which blazed a row of naked lightbulbs.

Lili stood there, not moving or thinking, numbed, for five minutes. “I haven’t got all day, cherub.” The voice outside was cheerful, but held an underlying menace. Quickly she
undressed. The curtains were pulled aside and Serge looked through. “Good, you’re ready. Out here, please.”