Splitting Up and Park Hyatt Hotel (2 page)

“Does he do the same to her?”

“She’d like him to, but the elevator doors are about to open.”

“They put their clothes back on.”

“Quick and dirty.”

“He hides his erection with his shirttails.”

“Yes, that’s very good.”

“They’re practically running to the bedroom.”

“Yes, but they make out in the hallway. Kiss me! Fuck! Now that’s what I call a goddamn kiss, honey! What now?”

“He can’t take it anymore. Feel how hard he is.”

“And how big!”

“He wants her to suck him off.”

“Can he tell her that?”

“I really want to put my cock in your mouth.”

“She can’t resist that. It’s like a magnet.”

“He’s about to explode. She’s so good at this!”

“Not in the hallway!”

“They’ve reached the bedroom. He leans against the wall. No time to reach the bed.”

“She’s sucking on his cock like a leech. She wants it, she wants it, she wants it!”

“He’s going to come!”

“He has to say it first, to let her know!”

“I’m going to come, my love! You’re so good, so good on my cock!”

“She can feel that he’s coming. His cock keeps growing. It fills her whole mouth. She’s choking on it. But that’s nothing compared to what’s coming: his semen gushing like warm springs. One, two, three times! Does it ever end? He’s grunting. She’s never heard him moan like this.”

“He never
came
like this!”

“They both drop to the floor. Exhausted, satisfied.”

“And what about her? She didn’t come?”

“That wasn’t part of the script. But she enjoyed it like crazy. Thanks for your help. I think I’ll get a good grade on that one. Could you perhaps …”

“Whatever you want, my love!”

“For next week, we have a script to write with a specific requirement. We must use a bed with bars … and a scarf. The rest is up to us. Feeling inspired?”

“We should act out the scene. You’ve got plenty of scarves.”

“And our bed has bars.”

“Now that’s pretty lucky.”

“My thoughts exactly. Shall we go upstairs?”

I have a perfect husband. Definitely.

A few years ago she’d gone to see
Lost in Translation
in the multiplex at Le Petit-Quevilly near Rouen, and it had changed her life.

On the way home one rainy November night, gusts of wind were buffeting the car as she drove through Normandy. Her husband was saying that he really didn’t understand a thing about Sophia Coppola’s film. She felt a warm glow inside her emanating from an idea, a crazy idea: she would spend a night in the same hotel as the one in the film. Meet a stranger. And make love with him.

Her salary as an accountant in a small transport company wouldn’t even allow her to buy the ticket, so she had to save on everything. No more lunches with the girls, amateur acting classes, bags, or shoes. Off-brand tennis shoes for little Felix and fewer pizzas from downstairs for the whole family.

These deprivations, combined with the inheritance from her grandmother, provided her with a little capital. She calculated that in fourteen months she would be able to buy a ticket and pay for two nights in Scarlett Johansson’s hotel room. She told her husband about it. It was incredible. Such a trip! She would be travelling to fill in for someone in the company who was getting married.

“Don’t you feel a little afraid?” her husband asked.

“Afraid? Of what?”

“Er … I don’t know … the distance … the unknown.”

Someone unknown, yes, a stranger. It would be a businessman. Not Japanese. Preferably French. Or an American? She could speak a few words. She would speak English, and he would speak French. They would touch tongues and taste the flavor of sake cocktails. What did they drink there? Gin and tonics? Martinis on the rocks? She asked her husband, but he didn’t know. So on Friday evenings, she would serve him drinks, sitting on the tall barstools in the kitchen while she caressed his calf with her bare foot.

The departure date approached. She had to find something to wear. In her fantasy, she was a businesswoman, someone not at all impressed by the hotel, preoccupied with routine. Tokyo, New York, Los Angeles, Madrid (a city she knew). Since no boutique in Rouen had what she wanted, a simple but sexy skirt suit, she took the train to the department stores located—thank God!—only a stone’s throw from the Saint Lazare train station.

Sure enough, she found a Jil Sander suit that she paired with a white shirt, Prada pumps, and a La Perla ensemble that she put on in the changing room over her mismatched undergarments. First she looked like a mother. Then a wife. Then the accountant that she was. No one would believe her. This man, this stranger drinking gin and tonics in the bar of the Park Hyatt overlooking the illuminated city, would ask her questions: “Tell me about Singapore. Where do you stay?” She felt ridiculous, even in her charming little three-star hotel in Madrid.

Except if she imagined she was no longer Nathalie the accountant but Laurie the freelance accountant. Or better: Jill, administrative and financial manager. She looked at herself in the mirror and repeated: “I’m Jill, AFM for an important company in the port of Rouen.” This mantra, repeated like so many prayers while counting prayer beads, swelled her breasts and flattened her belly. She was just a pretty thirty-two-year old getting ready to fly away to a fabulous hotel in the heart of Tokyo.

When she returned from Paris, her husband thought something about her had changed, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. It was a bit like with his boss’s secretaries whom he had an odd desire to ravish, apologetically of course.

While Felix was in bed, they kissed standing in the living room, a long passionate kiss, tongues plunged into each other’s mouths, their breathing broken, panting, hands exploring panties, breasts, buttocks, nails sinking into each other’s backs, moaning, nipples, prick, clitoris all erect as they fell to the floor, pulling off their clothes, sucking, licking, inserting fingers, tongues, and prick for pure pleasure. “Oh, darling! It’s good, so good, so good!” Then lying there stunned, in each other’s arms, they relived their pleasure.

“D’you see that? We fell to the floor. We made love on the floor! Like in a film!” Nathalie remarked.

But when they got up to go to their room, it was Jill who fell asleep last, thinking about the pleasure she would have when she made love to a stranger who spoke an unknown language in an unknown land.

Tokyo. Park Hyatt Hotel. She was there. She’d finally arrived. For two nights. A lightning-quick trip to reassure a customer. Companies do that: send off their best employees to the four corners of the world for a handshake when a phone call is no longer enough.

She had planned to sleep all day when she got there, but sleep wouldn’t come. Leaving the hotel was out of the question: she might get lost. And anyway, wasn’t Scarlett holed up in her room all day, like she was, looking at the city through the window?

She finally fell asleep after a continental breakfast (for the equivalent of forty euros), thinking about the man she was going to meet that night. Bill Murray wasn’t exactly the kind of man she imagined—more likely that actor in
Mad Men
, but more words and fewer cigarettes. Yes, she wanted someone who would speak instead of her.

She woke up nauseous and constipated and sat on the toilet in the bathroom. Was her stomach going to start rumbling at just the wrong time? Could she not count on her body in such circumstances? Didn’t desire transcend everything else?

Desire … Now what about it? She slipped her hand between her thighs to her slit, which seemed to be lifeless, even when peeing, which had always given her a certain pleasure, ever since she was a little girl. She pinched her clitoris between her fingers, then slid them farther back, inside. No reaction.

The hotel should have the solution. It was a Park Hyatt, not the three-star Alhambra in Madrid. She called the reception desk. “Good afternoon. … I want … for my bass”—she made spelling mistakes even when she spoke—“somessing very spessial.” Fortunately the receptionist spoke French.

They brought her a variety of treatments with aphrodisiac properties (for the equivalent of about sixty euros). She poured the powders into the water, rubbed the creams all over her body, smeared on a mask, and worked shampoo that felt like a hundred little fingers massaging her scalp into her hair.

At seven minutes after seven she was ready: makeup applied, legs waxed, belly empty. She was full of desire. Scrubbed, exfoliated, perfumed, and spotless from the crown of her head to her pretty little feet, now enhanced by Prada.

On the way up to the top of the hotel in the elevator, she opened a button of her shirt, crumpled her dress with her fingers, and casually turned up the collar of her jacket. She was just emerging from a marathon meeting. She needed sugar and alcohol to relax.

She was dazzled by the luxuriousness and beauty of the bar. It was exactly as in her dreams. Better than in the film. Seen from the outside, Jill cast around the blasé eyes of one who no longer needs to ask for the window seat. But inside, Nathalie’s mouth was gaping, thinking: Wow, it’s beautiful. It could all have ended there. It was probably the most wonderful moment she had ever experienced.

Sitting at the bar, she ordered a mojito—no, that’s for the Alhambra—a gin and tonic with large ice cubes, please, the kind that would clink when she raised the glass to her lips—without leaving a trace of lipstick, that’s important.

There was no one there except for a few tourists—boring—and businessmen—very interesting indeed. She had to find something to do with her hands. The way she held her
glass
, even unconsciously—especially unconsciously—bordered on the indecent. Should she take out her computer and pretend to finish up some work? And reveal Felix’s little head sitting at the kitchen table? Bad idea. Drink dreamily, she told herself, and order another moji—
Gin and tonic
!

“Coming up, miss,” said the bartender.

And then he arrived. Tall, dark, smiling, approachable, very elegant. He sat down just a chair away and said with a very slight accent, “
Bonsoir
,” because he was polite, and “You’re French, aren’t you?” because only French women wear outfits like hers, which was “really quite elegant.”

“Yes.”

He moved in closer and offered her his hand. “I’m Mike. I live in Washington. My mother was French … hence my French. … What about you?”

He was perfect—funny and attentive (to her desires?) with gentle hands.

She wasn’t bad either, come to think of it; she excelled in the role of the Parisian business woman—so much so that it was obvious they’d soon be leaving together. “Wait a moment, I’ll be back.”

When she returned, he had disappeared. She couldn’t see him at the bar. Panic. A gigolo who gets free drinks and leaves a tab behind (the equivalent of about ninety-five euros). She couldn’t believe it! As it turned out, he’d gone to make a phone call.

“Would you like to … ?” he asked.

She took his hand. He had already paid the check.

Once at her room, she opened the door.

He whistled. “Wow! You took a suite! Not me, no, my company won’t allow it—I’m impressed. You know it’s one of the best?” He was like a kid, looking out the window at the city lights. Then he turned to face her and took Nathalie’s hands. “I’m not …” he said. But she shut his mouth with a kiss.

“Undress me!” She had imagined a lot of scenarios but not that he would be so tender and gentle. For each button he opened, a kiss. Between her breasts, on the lace of her bra, over her stomach, in which she could feel her beating heart. Her skirt slipped down of its own accord and fell to the floor without a sound. She sat on the bed, stunned. He kneeled down, kissed the nylon of her stockings, removed her shoes, kissed her feet, returned to the edge that separates the elastic from the skin, and kissed her thighs. It was so good that she moaned. Those little kisses that barely touched her skin made her swoon.

He pulled aside the edge of her panties. He slipped his tongue across her quim, and it bloomed. His movements were incredibly precise, his fingers penetrating her at the same time. She came like never before. It was the pinnacle of her sex life since the age of fifteen. She couldn’t believe it. It was so powerful! She told him, laughing. No way was she going to hide it from him. She was unable to move. They’d need to take a break long enough for her to recover. She remained there like that, flaked out on the bed in her panties and bra.

He undressed without taking his eyes off her. He did it so smoothly, she didn’t see him removing his shoes or socks. What age could this naked man be? Forty? He was strong. The body of an athlete. He came back to the bed, unclipped her bra, lifted up her thighs to remove her panties—and stopped.

“What’s the matter?”

“It’s so beautiful,” he explained. “You can’t imagine!”

“And what do you see?”

“You. Everything. It’s like it’s all for me.” Which was true. “Sorry, but I couldn’t resist.” He apologized for licking her again!

His prick wasn’t far from her mouth. She took a hold of it and slipped it in. She didn’t think she was very gifted at this. She was afraid of disappointing him. But he came. Very fast and forcefully. She had no time to get ready. Usually she didn’t like it … but this time it was delicious. It was running down her mouth. He excused himself again: “Sorry. It was so good. So powerful. Don’t you want to … ?”

She turned around, up on all fours, showing him her ass and her pretty pussy.

He was hard again. He lay her down on the bed, on her back, and looked into her eyes as if it was the first time. And it was exactly like a first time. She guided him into her, gasping for air. He went slowly in the beginning, then faster. She couldn’t avoid it, couldn’t escape, she came again. This had never happened before. And it continued.

She exclaimed, “You fuck me so well! Oh yes! You fuck me so well! Your dick is driving me crazy!”

She thought she couldn’t come any more. But it was so good that she wanted it to go on and on, on and on. And it did until she fell asleep. She couldn’t remember when.