Sottopassaggio (13 page)

I nod.

“With black coffee,” he adds.

The guy behind takes a step forward; I'm sure he's about to complain.

“I know,” I tell Benoit. “You said.”

The atmosphere over breakfast is strange, not only on our table but on all of the tables around.

Maybe it's Sunday hangover syndrome, maybe it's the grey sky, but everyone seems to have adopted the same hushed tone.

I alternate between making attempts at conversation with Benoit, and wondering if we'll ever have sex again, maybe even after breakfast. It seems a little trampy I guess, but I can't think of a better way of spending a grey Sunday afternoon. Benoit though, is in the same turgid mood as everyone else; his replies are terse at best.

“What did you do last night?” I attempt.

“Nothing much. Watched TV,” he says.

I wait for him to inquire about my own evening, then give up and tell him anyway. “I went out with a friend, Jenny, and Tom – John and Jean's friend – you know him?”

Benoit nods. “The guy with the Italian boyfriend,” he says, his mouth full of egg.

I nod.

“Nice,” he says, forking half a fried tomato into his mouth.

“What are you doing this afternoon?” I ask.

He shrugs. “I am with JJ,” he says.

I raise an eyebrow. “JJ?”

“John and Jean,” he explains. “I have to be at their house for three.”

I wiggle my brow at him. “Sounds fun. Another party?”

Benoit forks a fried mushroom into his mouth then pauses, staring at me.

“I'm having
tea
with them,” he says with a sigh. “You are obsessed, no?”

I shrug. “Maybe,” I say. “You may be right.”

Benoit swallows his mouthful of food and runs his tongue around the corners of his mouth and pulls a slightly vulgar, very masculine expression as he does so.

“Are you horny or something?” he asks matter-of-factly.

I grin stupidly.

Benoit wipes his lips on a napkin, glances at his watch and swigs the last of his coffee and stands.

“Sorry, I must go now,” he says, looking at his watch again.

I look up at him, disappointment registering on my face.

“Don't look so sad,” he says, crouching down next to me.

I force a smile.

“Come round tonight, if you're free. About seven?”

I smile and shake my head in disbelief. “As easy as that huh?”

Benoit shrugs, then spins on one heel and starts to walk away. Then he pauses and glances back. A dirty grin spreads across his face.

“Sure,” he says loudly. “I would love to have another go with your dick.”

I hold my breath as the words sink in. Heads turn first towards Benoit to see where the words came from, then to me, the blushing victim.

“And bring condoms,” he says. “I'm all out.”

All desire fades in my embarrassment.

I finish my breakfast as fast as I can and, to avoid the accusing glances of my fellow diners, I escape along the seafront towards the pier.

Slowly my embarrassment turns to amusement, flattery even.

When I get back to Owen's, BT tells me I have two messages. The first, from Jenny, simply tells me she's home, not to worry, and not to call. She'll see me, she says, next weekend.

“Next weekend!” I think. “Jesus!”

The second message is from Benoit.

“I'm sorry, but I'll have to cancel for this evening,” he says. “I'm going to be tied up with JJ.”

I pout in disappointment and think the obvious thought,
“Tied up by JJ is more like it.”

As the week drags by, I think sweet thoughts about Tom, and then dirty thoughts about Benoit and then back to Tom again, and then back to Benoit, over and over, round and around.

I try to think of an excuse to call Tom but other than a rather lame, “I wondered if you got home OK,” my mind's a blank.

Finally, on Wednesday, after rehearsing the conversation a thousand times I decide I'm ready and dial his number.

The call is answered by his voicemail, a simple, “Tom says leave a message,” followed by a beep.

It's a possibility I stupidly failed to imagine, and the message that I leave is so pathetic, so stuttering, so mind numbingly awful that I actually pray to God to wipe it out before he hears it.

Benoit however picks up immediately. He sounds unsurprised by my call, in fact, if anything, he sounds bored.

“Hello,” he says. “I'm sorry about the other day.”

I can hear the TV playing in the background, peals of recorded laughter filling the air.

“No problem,” I say. “I was feeling kind of lazy anyway.”

“Yes,” Benoit replies. “Me too.”

I can tell his mind is half with the TV, half with me.

“You have fun then?” I ask.

I hear Benoit's lighter, and even the crackle of tobacco as he drags on the cigarette. It makes me want to smoke, makes me suddenly, desperately, passionately want to smoke. I haven't smoked since the accident.

“Fun?” he asks.

“At John and Jean's,” I say.

Benoit coughs phlegmily; my cigarette desire fades.

“Yes, it was good,” he says. I can hear from his voice that he's smiling. “We had tea.”

“Yeah?” I wait for him to continue.

“And those things with the holes in them;
crumpets
?”

I smile. “Yeah, and?”

“And then…” he says temptingly. “You are sure you want the details?”

I grin. “Yep. I've been imagining it. Lets see if it holds up.”

Benoit drags on his cigarette again. “Well, then…” he pauses and sips a drink. Amazingly I hear the ice cubes tinkling against the side of the glass.

“You are sure you want to know?”

“Oh come on!” I say.

“Well then, and this is the exciting bit…” Benoit coughs on his own laughter.

“Yeah?”

“Well, after that…” Benoit says. “I took them to Gatwick airport.”

“Oh,” I say. “Is that
it
?” I hear the tinkle of ice cubes again.

“Yes. You sound disappointed. What were you
imagining
?”

I sigh. “Well, lets just say something a little more exciting. You took them to the airport? Where have they gone?”

“Grande Canarie,” Benoit replies. He says the name French-style. “You
do
sound disappointed. Were you going to visit them again?”

I laugh. “Maybe,” I say.

“Hmm,” Benoit says, sensuously. “Now there's a thought. I didn't think you would have the courage,” he says.

“Yeah, well,” I say. “Hey, are you drinking something with ice?” I ask.

Benoit pauses, then replies, his voice bubbling with amusement. “You are a psychic now, yes?”

“Nah, I can hear the ice,” I say. “It's amazing actually, I can hear everything. I can hear you breathing in through your cigarette.”

Benoit laughs. “Wait,” he says. “So what can you hear now?”

I listen, but hear nothing.

His voice returns, “So?”

“Sorry, nothing,” I say.

“Again,” he says.

For some reason, I start to get an erection.

“Ah,” I say. “I heard it then… A zip?”

Benoit laughs. “Maybe you should come round and check,” he says.

By the time I have cycled to Benoit's he has turned the lights low, lit a few candles, and put on his magic chaps. He pulls me through the front door into the apartment and kisses me deeply.

“I'm glad you came,” he says. “I was working on these,” he points at his computer screen; it's filled with black and white photos.

“They make me very horny,” he says.

I lean towards the screen and peer at the pictures. They show a man with a tight muscled body being strapped up in a harness.

“Those taken at JJ's?” I ask.

Benoit nods and looks at the screen with me.

“They're great pictures,” I say. “Very beautiful actually. Was that the birthday party?”

Benoit laughs. “No, these are art shots. He's a model. It's for a book I'm contributing to.”

I smile at him and look back at the screen. “They're great,” I say again.

Benoit nods. “There's something very sensuous about the skin and the leather, the light shining off the chrome… It works especially in black and white. I tried colour first, but black and white is
much better.”

He rubs a hand over my crotch.

“Humm, they have the same effect on you as on me,” he laughs.

I roll my head from side to side. “Erm, how
couldn't
they?”

Benoit shrugs. “Not everyone has the same trips,” he says. “You'd be surprised.”

He leans over and clicks on the mouse. A second page of photos appears.

In these the model is being strapped onto a cross. His perfectly formed arse juts out, caught in the contrast of light and shadow.

“Wow,” I say.

Benoit nods, and slips a hand down the front of my jeans. “It's a shame,” he says. “I could have had the keys to the dungeon if I had known.”

My heart jumps a little at the thought. The idea of being alone in Disneyland with chunky hairy Benoit is much more exciting than being there with John and Jean.

I look him in the eye. “Now that
is
a shame,” I say.

The sex with Benoit is amazing. We roll around in the bed, rubbing and growling, and laughing. He produces a constant stream of toys from a drawer beneath the bed, and whether he reappears with a dildo, or with nipple clamps, or with a dog collar, I fake outrage, playfully resist, then finally give in, and game by game, inch by inch, my body becomes one huge erogenous zone.

Finally, with more fingers up my arse than I like to admit, a screamingly pinched nipple, and Benoit's tongue teasing and probing and encircling my cock, I break into a screaming, back-arching orgasm. Benoit, whose only pleasure it would seem, is my own, watches me excitedly.

“Yes!” he enthuses.

After the briefest of cuddles and a whisky, I am ejected from Benoit's flat with a simple apology that he has to work, and the order to call, “any time.”

As I cycle back along the seafront in the fading light, I wonder why the sex with him is so free, so wild, so satisfying.

Is Benoit is just exceptionally good in bed or have I somehow changed?

Perhaps it's simply the isolation of my sex with Benoit that changes everything, the fact that what we do in bed is disconnected from everything else in my life.

Maybe sex exists more easily in its own space, without the expectation, judgement and disappointment; without the constant interpretation that we apply to every act committed by those we love.

Whatever the reason, not caring what Benoit thinks about me, not worrying about him judging me, not giving a damn what he tries to stick inside me or how loud I end up screaming feels good. It feels
orgasmic
.

I switch on the kettle, and log onto the Internet to check my French bank account. When I return to the computer with my steaming mug of tea, my mouth drops.

I stare at the screen in disbelief. Sure I was expecting this, but the size of the payment, and the reality of it in my bank account is a shock.

I bite my bottom lip to suppress a greedy smile. Eleven thousand Euros!

I sip my tea and stare at the screen, and watch my mind as the emotion shifts from surprise to joy, and on through to guilt.

I force myself to acknowledge that this money is payment for my injuries, not for the loss of Steve, but the two are somehow impossible to separate and I hover on a knife-edge between relief – for I truly need this money – and sadness.

Finally, as the what-ifs slither down the muddy slope and into my mind, I sink into a numb fug of depression. What if we had stopped at the services? What if I had been driving? What if we had stayed an extra half an hour on the beach?

I so don't want to go down this road.

I glance around the room, desperate for a distraction, any distraction. My eyes settle on the phone.

Jenny says she's bored and would like nothing more than to “crank up the hippy bus” and “chug down the motorway.”

It's only Jenny, but hell, I need company and I need to be busy. I actually pace up and down the lounge until I see the orange of her van roll into the street below.

The poor girl barely has time to dump her bag before I rush her back out the door.

The Barley Mow already has a weekend buzz about it even though it's just before seven.

Jenny and I take seats facing the door. I left a message on Tom's mobile in the hope that he'll join us. Our Friday nights together seem almost a ritual now.

“Pub's OK,” Jenny says, looking around.

I nod. “It's just Owen's local,” I say. “I like it though.”

She nods, sips her beer and then licks her lips.

“So tell me about your home life,” I prompt. “It all seems very mysterious.”

Jenny frowns. “Mysterious?”

I nod. “Yeah, you never seem to mention… Erm…”

“Nick?” she says.

I nod. “Yeah, see. I don't even know his name.”

Jenny shrugs. “What about him?”

I puff with exaggerated frustration. “I don't know… How did you meet? How long ago? What does he do?”

Jenny sips her drink and stares into the middle distance, apparently thinking about her reply.

I shake my head. “Look, if you really don't want to ta…”

“We met in the local pub,” she interrupts. “Nearly two years ago.”

I nod.

“He's a builder.”

“A builder?” I repeat. “I didn't imagine…”

“Well, he's more of a manager now really. It's his own company.”

“So what's he like?” I ask.

Jenny leans across the table and stares into my eyes. “Generally, or right now?” she says.