Platform (27 page)

It was getting dark; he turned on a lamp on his desk, was silent for a moment.

'For the others,' he went on, 'I don't feel the slightest remorse. They're all pretty much the same. They're all former reps, they joined at the right time, they got to have it off with anyone they wanted without doing a fucking stroke of work and they thought that becoming manager of the resort meant they could bum around in the sun until they retired. Their days are over — tough. Now, I need real professionals.'

Valerie crossed her legs and looked at him in silence.

'By the way, the meeting with Italtrav?'

'Good. No problems. He knew at once what I meant by 'friendly tourism', he even tried to make a pass at me . . . That's the good thing about Italians, at least they're predictable . . . Anyway, he promised he'd include the clubs in his catalogue, but he said we shouldn't get our hopes up: Italtrav has a strong presence because it's a conglomerate of a lot of specialised tour companies; in its own right it hasn't got a very strong image. In fact, it operates as a distributor: we can get on their list, but it will be up to us to make a name for ourselves in the market.'

'What about Spain? How far have we got?'

'We've got a good relationship with Marsans. They're much the same, except they're more ambitious: for a while now they've been trying to get a foothold in France. I was a bit worried that we'd be competing with their products, but apparently not, they think what we're doing is complementary.'

She thought for a moment and then continued:

'What are we going to do about France?'

'I'm still not sure . . . Maybe I'm being stupid, but I'm really worried about stirring up a moralistic press campaign. Obviously, we could do some focus groups, test the market . . .'

'You've never believed in that stuff.'

'No, that's true . . .' he hesitated for a moment. 'Actually, I'm tempted to do a minimal launch in France, just through the Auroretour network. Put ads in a couple of carefully targeted magazines like FHM or L'Echo des Savanes. But really, for the first stage, I want to focus on Northern Europe.'

The meeting with Gottfried Rembke took place the following Friday. The night before, Valerie made herself a cleansing mask and went to bed early. When I woke up at eight o'clock, she was already ready. I was impressed by the results. She was wearing a black suit with a short, tight skirt which hugged her arse magnificently; under the jacket, she was wearing a lilac blouse in lace, close fitting and, in places, transparent, and a scarlet push-up bra which showed off her breasts. When she sat opposite the bed, I discovered she was wearing black stockings, faded towards the top, held in place by suspenders. Her lips were emphasised in a dark, almost purplish, red and she had tied her hair up in a chignon.

'Does this do the trick?' she asked mockingly

'That does it in spades. Well, well, women . . .' I added, 'when you show yourselves to your best advantage . . .'

'This is my corporate seductress outfit. I put it on for you, in a way, too; I knew you'd like it.'

'Re-eroticising the workplace . . .' I muttered. She handed me a cup of coffee.

Until she left, I did nothing but watch her come and go, stand and sit. It wasn't much, I suppose, actually it was quite simple, but it did the trick, no doubt about it. She crossed her legs, a dark band appeared high up on her thighs, accentuating the contrasting sheerness of the nylon. She crossed them a little more, a band of lace was revealed a little higher up, then the fastener of the suspenders, the bare, white flesh, the curve of the buttocks. She uncrossed them, everything disappeared again. She leaned over the table: I could feel the palpitation of her breasts through the fabric. I could have spent hours watching her. It was a simple joy, innocent and eternally blessed; a pure promise of pleasure.

They were supposed to meet at 1 p.m. at Le Divellec, a restaurant on the Rue de 1'Universite; Jean-Yves and Valerie arrived five minutes early.

'How are we going to raise the subject?' Valerie asked anxiously as she stepped out of the taxi.

'I dunno . . . just tell him we want to open up a chain of brothels for Huns . . . Jean-Yves gave a weary grin. 'Don't worry about it, don't worry about it, he'll ask all the questions.'

Gottfried Rembke arrived at 1 p.m. precisely. The moment he walked into the restaurant, handed his coat to the waiter, they knew it was him. The solid, stocky body, the gleaming scalp, the open expression, the vigorous handshake: everything about him radiated ease and enthusiasm; he was precisely what one imagined a head honcho, more especially a German head honcho, looked like. You could imagine him eagerly throwing himself into each new day, leaping out of bed, doing half an hour on an exercise bike before driving to the office in his spanking new Mercedes, listening to the financial news. 'This guy seems perfect. . .' muttered Jean-Yves as he got to his feet, all smiles, to greet him.

For the next ten minutes, in fact, Herr Rembke spoke of nothing but food. It turned out that he knew France very well, the culture, the cuisine; he even owned a house in Provence. 'Perfect, the guy's perfect. . .' thought Jean-Yves as he studied his consomme de langoustines au curacao. 'Rock and roll, Gotty,' he added to himself, dipping his spoon into the soup. Valerie was wonderful: she listened attentively, her eyes sparkling as though charmed by him. She wanted to know where, exactly, in Provence, whether he had time to visit often, etc. She had chosen the salmis d'etrilles aux fruits rouges.

'So,' she went on without changing her tone, 'you'd be interested in the proposal.'

'The way I see it,' he said thoughtfully, 'we know that "friendly tourism"' - he stumbled a little on the expression - 'is one of the primary motivating factors of our compatriots when they holiday abroad - and, moreover, one can understand why, after all, what more delightful way to travel? However, and this is somewhat curious, up until now, no major group has actively taken an interest in the sector - apart from a number of attempts, all hopelessly inadequate, marketed to a homosexual clientele. Essentially, surprising as it may seem, we are dealing with a virgin market.'

'It's much discussed. I think that attitudes still have a long way to go . . .' interrupted Jean-Yves, realising as he did so that what he was saying was ridiculous. 'On both sides of the Rhine . . .' he concluded miserably. Rembke gave him a frosty look, as though he thought Jean-Yves was taking the piss; Jean-Yves hunched over his food again, determined not to say another word until the meal was over. In any case, Valerie was getting along brilliantly. 'Let's not project French problems on to the Germans she said, ingenuously crossing her legs. Rembke fixed his attention on her once more.

'Our compatriots,' he went on, 'forced to fend for themselves, often find themselves at the mercy of intermediaries of dubious honesty. More generally, the sector remains marked by rank amateurism - which represents a considerable loss of earnings for the industry as a whole.'

Valerie agreed eagerly. The waiter arrived with a saint-pierre roti auxfigues nouvelles.

'Equally,' he went on having glanced at his dish, 'your proposal interests us because it represents a compete reversal of the traditional view of the holiday club. A formula which was conceived in the 1970s does not correspond to the expectations of contemporary consumers. Relationships between individuals in the West have become more difficult - a fact which, needless to say, we all deplore . . .' he continued, glancing again at Valerie, who uncrossed her legs with a smile.

When I got back from the office at a quarter-past six, she was already home. I felt a twinge of surprise: I think this was the first time since we lived together. She was sitting on the sofa, still wearing her suit, her legs slightly apart. Staring into space, she seemed to be thinking of happy, gender things. Though I did not know it at the time, I was witnessing the professional equivalent of an orgasm. 'Did it go well?' I asked.

'Better than well. I came straight home after lunch, I didn't even bother dropping into the office; I really couldn't see what else we could do this week. Not only is he interested in the project, but he intends to make it one of his key products as of next winter. He's prepared to finance printing the catalogue and an advertising campaign targeted specifically at the German market. He believes that, on his own, he can guarantee to fill all the existing clubs; he even asked whether we had any other projects in the works. The only thing he wants in return, is exclusivity in his own market - Germany, Austria, Switzerland and the Benelux countries; he knows that we've been in touch with Neckermann too.'

'I've booked a weekend,' she added, 'in a thalassotherapy centre in Dinard. I think I need it. We could drop in on my parents as well.'

The train pulled out of the Gare Montparnasse an hour later. Quite quickly, as the kilometres passed, the accumulated tension faded and she was back to normal, that is rather sexual and playful. The last buildings of the outer suburbs disappeared behind us; the TGV approached maximum speed just as we came to the Plain of Hurepoix. A sliver of daylight, an almost imperceptible reddish tinge, hung in the air to the west over the dark mass of grain silos. We were in a first-class carriage arranged in small compartments; on the tables which separated our seats, small yellow lamps already glowed. Across the corridor, a woman of about forty, very upper-middle class but pretty stylish with her blonde hair tied up in a chignon, was leafing through Madame Figaro. I had bought the same paper and was trying without much success to interest myself in the financial supplement. For some years I had nurtured the theory that it was possible to decode the world, to understand its evolution, by setting aside everything dealing with current affairs, politics, the society pages and the arts; that it was possible to form an accurate image of the thrust of history purely by reading the financial news and the stock prices. I therefore forced myself to read the Figaro financial section daily, supplemented by even more forbidding publications like Les Echos or La Tribune Desfosses. Up to this point, my theory had remained impossible to judge. It was possible, in other words, that historic news was concealed within these editorials, with their measured tones, their columns of figures; but the reverse might just as easily be true. The only definite conclusion I had categorically come to: economics was unspeakably boring. Looking up from a short article which attempted to analyse the fall of the Nikkei, I noticed that Valerie had begun crossing and uncrossing her legs; a half-smile flitted across her face. 'Descent into hell for Milan stock exchange,' I managed to read before putting down the paper. I suddenly got an erection when I discovered she had found a way to take off her panties. She came and sat beside me, pressed herself against me. Taking off her suit jacket, she draped it across my lap. I glanced quickly to my right: our neighbour still appeared to be engrossed in her magazine, specifically in an article on the garden in winter. She too was wearing a suit with a tight skirt and black tights; she looked like a posh tart, as they say. Sliding her hand under her jacket, Valerie placed it on my penis; I was wearing only a pair of thin cotton trousers, the sensation was terribly precise. It was, by now, completely dark. I sat back in my seat, slipped a hand under her blouse. Pushing her bra aside, I encircled her right breast with the palm of my hand and began to stimulate her nipple with my thumb and forefinger. Just as we reached Le Mans, she undid my flies. Her movements were now absolutely brazen, I was convinced that our neighbour was missing nothing of our little game. As far as I'm concerned, it is impossible to resist masturbation by a truly expert hand. Just before Rennes I ejaculated, unable to suppress a muffled cry. 'I'll have to get this suit cleaned,' Valerie said calmly. Our neighbour glanced across, making no attempt to conceal her amusement.

Even so, at the station at Saint-Malo I was a little embarrassed when I noticed that she was boarding the same shuttle bus for the thalassotherapy centre; but not so Valerie: she even struck up a conversation with her about the various treatments. For myself, I've never really worked out the respective merits of mud baths, high-pressure showers and seaweed wraps; the following day, I was happy just to mess around in the pool. I was floating on my back, vaguely aware of the underwater currents supposedly massaging my a back, when Valerie joined me. 'Our neighbour from the train . . .' she said, all excited, 'she came on to me in the Jacuzzi.' I registered the information without reacting. 'Right now she's alone in the hammam,' she added. I followed her at once, wrapping myself in a bathrobe. Near the entrance to the hammam, I took off my swimming trunks; my erection was visible beneath the towelling robe. I followed Valerie in, letting her make her way through steam so dense you couldn't see a couple of metres ahead of you. The air was saturated with a strong, almost intoxicating scent of eucalyptus. I stopped and stood still in the hot, whitish emptiness, then I heard a moan coming from the far end of the room. I untied the belt of my robe and walked towards the sound. Beads of perspiration formed on the surface of my skin. Kneeling in front of the woman, hands placed on her buttocks, Valerie was slowly licking her pussy. She really was a very beautiful woman, with perfectly rounded silicone-enhanced breasts, a harmonious face, a wide, sensual mouth. Unsurprised, she turned to look at me and closed her hand around my penis. I came a little closer, went behind her and stroked her breasts, rubbing my penis against her buttocks. She opened her thighs and bent forward, leaning on the wall for support. Valerie rummaged in the pocket of her robe and handed me a condom; with her other hand, she continued to masturbate the woman's clitoris. I penetrated the woman ma one swift thrust, she was already wide open; she bent ' forward a little further. I was thrusting in and out of her when I felt Valerie's hand slip between my thighs, then close over my balls. Then she leaned forward and began licking the woman's pussy, with each thrust, I could feel my cock rubbing against her tongue. I desperately tensed my pelvic muscles at the point when the women came in |a series of long, contented moans, then slowly I pulled lout. My whole body was sweating, I was panting |j involuntarily, I felt a little faint and had to sit down on a bench. The clouds of steam continued to undulate I through the air. I heard the sound of a kiss and I looked | up: they were entwined, breast to breast.