The Blue Guide (14 page)

At ten to three I give up on my dreams of Daniel Lubowski. He wasn't interested enough to call me after those two nights together, and he's not interested enough to keep our date. Something better came up, no doubt. I pay for my drinks, push open the heavy glass doors and head back to Langham Place, the bitter taste of the brandy still on my lips.

THERE'S MORE BOOZE
at the hotel, in the Infinity Suite, where Paco awaits me. He's actually on the phone when I tap on his door, but he waves me towards two flutes of champagne set on a little silver tray on the coffee table, and I take one gratefully. I stand in the window, look back at him on the sofa, one leg crossed over the other, his ankle swinging jauntily. Seemingly unthinkingly, he starts fiddling with the remote control as he rattles away in Spanish, and the flatscreen TV flickers into life to show him, Paco, strutting his stuff.

I watch, mesmerised. For all I know about him from the gossip rags, I've never actually seen Paco dance, and it's true what I've read of him: he's fiery, expressive, thrilling. He positively burns, in this most passionate of dance forms, with sensuality.

Paco finishes his call, and for a moment we remain in silence, watching the rest of the performance.

Like I said, I'm no dance expert, but the combination of fleet footwork, graceful arm and hand movements, and – most of all – the surprising vibrancy of his naked upper body, which has an almost sculptural quality to it, are dazzling. The long flowing locks he had back then add to the full-bodied drama of the spectacle.

‘What do you think about?' I say at last, flicking my eyes from the image on the screen to Paco in person and back again, unsure which is the most compelling, unable to believe that I'm here with him. That I was
summoned
by him. ‘What do you think about when you're dancing?'

‘Nothing,' he says without hesitation, looking back at me. ‘You don't have room in your head for anything that's not your body, or the music. When you're dancing flamenco, you use every part of your body, and co-ordinating your hands, arms, feet, legs and upper body is pretty demanding.' His eyes roam beyond me, fix on something out of the window.

‘I don't know,' he continues musingly, ‘whether that's not part of the attraction for me. You can leave everything else behind you, in the dressing room. You go into another world – a dark, mysterious, almost operatic world with a language all of its own. Where there's only the music and the beat of your blood in your veins. It's pretty intense.'

‘So it's an escape, of kinds?' I hesitate. ‘Like sex?' I add shyly.

‘Definitely, although when I started out I was too young to understand that aspect of it.'

‘How old were you?'

‘Just nine. I lived in Seville then, and my parents took me to visit my cousin in Madrid. He was a well-known flamenco dancer, and it was he who inspired me to begin. A few years later I started training in classical ballet and that held my attention for a few years. That's when I went to the States, to train in Chicago with one of the greats for several years. But it was to flamenco that I returned after my apprenticeship. I had turned into an American boy, but I became Spanish again.'

I'm looking at the screen again, fascinated by the sinuous contortions of his bare chest as he moves. ‘How much of it is made up as you go along?' I ask.

‘Improvisation is considered essential,' he replies.
‘There are certain rules and constraints, but they are not as many or as rigid as in ballet. In fact, a flamenco piece will never be performed exactly the same way twice. That's the whole point, in a way – its very essence is passion. Its movement is supposed to be a reflection of life itself. So depth of expression is crucial.' He pauses, then goes on. ‘Many people think flamenco is lighthearted. An entertainment while you're eating your paella. But
cante jondo
– the “profound song” – is the music of the persecuted poor, who developed it out of need and hardship, to convey the pain of life.'

‘Then it's not about sex at all?'

He laughs. ‘It's sensual – that can't be denied. But more than anything, it's spiritual. At its best it's as powerful as a religious experience. Probably because of what it started out as.'

‘Which is what?'

‘Well, opinions differ, but it probably had its seed in ancient and sacred Hindu dances, which were influenced by Greek, Roman, Egyptian, Arab and Jewish cultures as Gypsy peoples passed through various countries. Finally they came to Andalucian Spain, and flamenco was born of the meeting of the two cultures.' Abruptly he stands up, flicks off the set with the remote, with a dismissive ‘Anyway, enough of all that.'

I'm still standing in the window and I don't shift as he comes over to me. Putting his hands on my waist, he looks into my eyes. ‘I'm glad you came,' he says.

I want not to succumb, but I'm weary and tipsy and more than a little heartsore, and so I bring my own hands to those hips I've just seen moving so fluidly, and then I just find myself falling into him. And he takes me in his arms as he did when he lifted me from the bathroom floor a couple of nights ago and carries me over into the guest room, where he lays me out on
the bed with the flourish of a bullfighter with his cape. This is a man who knows the value of drama.

There's the same sense of urgency as the first time we fucked, but I don't know if that's us or the fear of Carlotta returning early from the spa, or just my sense of despair at having been stood up by Daniel, making me give myself so ardently to Paco in solace. It's funny to think of it: this international sex-god and shagger of supermodels being used as some kind of consolation prize by a humble tour guide, but that's how it is, this time at least. Everything I told myself about having to have him just one last time, and it turns out not to be about him at all.

Still, I enjoy it, the feel of this hotblood's hands on me, sure, expert, pulling up my breasts to his mouth. The rhythmic thrust of him, the way his cock fills me, his hips snaking from side to side, sending wave after wave of delicious friction through me. He takes control, as if he's at the helm of a ship, steering me, directing the pace. It's as if I'm not really involved, in some ways; as if he wants nothing more of me than for me to hold on and enjoy the ride. And pretty soon I'm coming, coming hard, biting down onto his shoulder and then falling back as the contractions subside, watching him pull back and direct his jet of come all over my belly with a satisfied yelp.

There's no lingering afterwards, no post-coital cigarette or chit chat. I'm washing and dressing hurriedly, checking my watch to make sure I'm not late for Carlotta, and he's all businesslike too, taking a call that comes through on his mobile even as he's wrapping a towel around his waist and heading for the shower. He looks over as he's about to disappear, waves and mouths ‘See you later', and that's that. Paco and I are
through. I still haven't told him that, but something tells me the news won't break his heart.

Five minutes later I'm standing in front of Carlotta in the spa. She's reclining on a lounger in a fluffy bathrobe, flicking through a copy of Spanish
Vogue
as she sips a cup of herbal tea. For a moment she doesn't see me, and I have time to admire her without all the warpaint, all fresh and girly. Her skin is dewy, almost edible-looking.

She looks up at me, smiles. ‘
Holà
, Alicia,' she says.

‘How was your massage?' I ask.

‘Wonderful, thanks,' she purrs. ‘How your meeting?'

I shrug. ‘
Comme çi, comme ça
.'

‘Boring, no? Poor you. Well, I not in a hurry to leave this place now. Paco's busy all afternoon, he say. So why you not come and have swim with me? The pool is empty last time I look.'

‘I'd love to, but I don't have anything to wear.'

‘That not a problem,' she says, rising slowly and walking over to the reception, languid as a cat. She looks at the receptionist behind the desk.

‘You please send up to my room for bikini?' she says. ‘My maid know where they are. Tell her the gold one is good. And my friend need to sign in as guest.'

That done, we're off down the stairs, where a little pool glitters invitingly beneath muted lighting in a former bank vault. Like Carlotta said, it's deserted, as is the big Jacuzzi tub set on a little mezzanine overlooking it. Carlotta points out the changing rooms, and we head inside, choose a pair of lockers and strip off.

You must be wondering how I'm feeling at this moment, what thoughts are running through my mind. After all, I've just come downstairs from Carlotta's suite
and a rampant fuck with her husband. Well, perhaps my brain can't cope with the enormity and complexity of it all, but I'm not feeling as terrible as you might think. A bit numb and spacey, actually – maybe a combination of the booze and the orgasm. But not really
guilty
. That, I guess, will set in later, when I get home and have the leisure to look back on my day a little more soberly. I'm not looking forward to that, not at all – to my cold, dark, empty flat, and the sofa where I lay last night, pleasuring myself to the sound of Daniel's voice. I'll stay here as long as Carlotta will have me.

Carlotta's maid arrives, two teensy-weensy scraps of coppery material in her hands. Carlotta takes them and hands them to me.

‘Versace,' she says, with obvious relish. ‘I last wear it on beach in Rio.' She giggles. ‘It very popular.'

I laugh too, a tad nervously, but less at the thought of Carlotta wowing them on some Brazilian beach than because of the strange little frisson I feel as I pull the bikini pants up over my hips and lower my pussy into the gusset that has encased her own on at least one occasion. I can't help but touch myself when I'm sure she's not looking, at the swell of my aroused clitoris.

Carlotta turns around just as I'm struggling with the tie on the back of the bikini top.

‘Here,' she says, stepping up to me. ‘You should ask me do that.' She fastens it dexterously, then spins me round and lets out a low whistle from between her cosmetic-white teeth. ‘You are
fabulosa
,' she says.

Carlotta has somehow squeezed herself into a postage stamp of a metallic lilac bikini with thong-style bottoms. God knows how drastic a waxing she must have had to dare to wear something like that, but I'm thinking she must have gone the whole hog: a Hollywood. It's something I've often considered but never
quite had the guts for; I'm worried I'd feel a little exposed.

Carlotta passes me a fluffy towel from the pile and we head downstairs and plunge into the pool. It's a good temperature: not too hot for lap swimming. Soon we're both doing energetic lengths. We're side by side to start with, but then Carlotta – who's a real water baby, I soon see – is outpacing me.

I settle into my own rhythm, surrender to the feel of the water on my limbs, trying to let my mind drift away, alight on nothing – not Daniel, not Paco and Carlotta, not on my empty flat. For a while, I almost succeed, and then I see that Carlotta has stopped and is waving me over to her.

She's leaning against the pool edge, kicking her legs out in front of her. ‘I going up to Jacuzzi,' she says. ‘Come find me when you done.'

I do another few lengths and then I go upstairs and join her where she's luxuriating in the tub.

‘This is the life,' I say, clambering in.

She looks at me seriously, perhaps even appraisingly. ‘I suppose you get a lot of extras in your job,' she says.

‘It's not bad,' I smile. ‘There are . . . 
opportunities
.'

‘I bet there are.' She's smirking now, and I realise too late I chose the wrong word. The same expression crosses her face as when she was looking at the Caillebotte nude bather: more than a little lustful. She relaxes back against the side of the tub, letting one hand drop below the water's surface.

‘Have you ever . . .?' She stops, runs her tongue over her top lip.

I frown a little, make out I don't understand, and she knows she's onto something and is at me like a terrier its prey.

‘Come on, Alicia,' she chides. ‘We friends now. Have
you ever been –' she pauses for the right word ‘–
seduced
by a client?'

I suppose, partly, it's to stop myself feeling guilty about Paco that I start blathering on about Daniel, although there's no doubt that, like all lovesick people, I'm actually rather grateful to find someone willing to listen to me harp on about the object of my affections. I find myself telling her everything – the tour, the screening room, the dining table, the hot chocolate waiting for me on the bedside table, the boat on the Serpentine. I even confess – though it's actually a lie – that I trumped up my accountant's meeting for
him
, that I booked her in here to go off and meet him, only to be stood up. It was sort of true, in the end.

Bless her, Carlotta listens and nods and smiles sympathetically in all the right places, and I actually start to feel that yes, this woman is a friend to me. She's not even cross that I fibbed to her. In fact, she says she'd have done just the same thing under the same circumstances, that
love
– that's the word she uses – comes before everything.

I'm not even sure I am in love with Daniel. I've only met him once, really, which is not a good basis for anything. But like I said before, I felt comfortable with him. He made me laugh, he was on my wavelength, and I thought there, at last, was someone I could see myself snuggling up in bed to watch old movies with, getting old with. What a fool I was. I was just another notch on one of a thousand designer bedposts around the world.

Talking helps, and I tell Carlotta so, and she reassures me, tells me all will be well, that if it wasn't meant to be, that the right man will come along, and so on and so forth. They're platitudes, of course, but sometimes platitudes can console, can invoke an image in your
mind of a universe where everything has a reason, where everything works out for the best. We all need to believe those things, once in a while.