The Sexopaths (16 page)

A minute later, suitably attired,
he returns to the girls and scrapes a metal chair across to face them.  He
notices champagne flutes placed audaciously close to their intertwining
toes.  Jasmin lights a cigarette and offers it to him.  He takes it
but holds it at arm’s length.

‘It’s nice,’ soothes Monique.

‘But I don’t smoke.’

‘You don’t screw two girls at
once.’

But I do.

‘They’re really mild.’  It’s
Jasmin’s encouraging tone.  Outvoted, he yields, inhales, duly coughs, and
then slides back in the chair as the nicotine rush hijacks unsuspecting
pleasure cells.  Eyes closed, he holds out the cigarette, palm first, and
feels it plucked by soft lips from between his fingers, a sensuous moment,
enhanced by the narcotic.  Suddenly he wants it to be Jasmin – but
when he looks Monique is drawing on the cigarette, the hint of a smile creasing
the corners of her mouth; she seems to perceive his plight, trapped within the
transient high.  Through smoke and narrowed lids she watches him closely as
she announces calmly:

‘Sharon and I are just going to
do a line of coke.  Will you join us?’

‘What?’

Is she crazy or is the cigarette
causing him to hallucinate?

‘It’s fine.  It’s cool.’

‘What do you mean,
coke
? 
You mean
cocaine
?’

His unintentionally naïve-sounding
words make the girls giggle.  Monique composes herself and says:

‘My darling, Sharon has kindly
offered to share some with us.’

The girl hastily confirms: ‘It’s
on me – you’re such a lovely couple, it’s been really nice being with
you.’

Adam finds himself thinking that
she must normally charge for this unadvertised little extra.  He struggles
to fashion a phrase to express his instinctive opposition.  Then he
stammers:

‘We’ve got… a baby in the
house.  We can’t go taking…
Class A drugs
.  It’s irresponsible.’

Even as he speaks, in his mind’s
eye the paradox threatens to pull rank: what he’s just done with his wife and a
call girl, in his home; to object is bizarre. 
Then you turned down the
coke!
 

‘Look – I’m sorry – I
don’t want to cause trouble.’  Jasmin sounds surprisingly lucid in her
sudden retreat.  ‘I shouldn’t have mentioned it.  You’re right
– with your little girl being here… I’d better call Liz…’

Monique interrupts.  ‘It is
fine.’  She places a quietening hand on Jasmin’s bare knee, slides her
palm higher.  ‘My darling – Sharon and I will do it.  You don’t
have to – it is no problem.  Everything will be okay.  Camille
is sound, and you know she will sleep all night.’  Her voice, silky as
always, is now underscored by a steel that tells Adam this thing is going to
happen.  He’s reminded he lost control the moment the two girls embraced
– if indeed he’d possessed any control in the first place.

She rises and, taking Jasmin by
the hand, tugs her to her feet and they pass Adam – still seated –
to enter the kitchen.  She pauses to bend and whisper into his ear:

‘Come on.  You’ll like it,
my darling.’  She straightens, takes a final drag on the cigarette, and
then tosses it rebelliously over the balcony.

Adam lingers, torn.  He
knows it’s not propriety that feeds the rising shoots of his resistance. 
The blind heads swaying this way and that sense only an indeterminate,
irrational threat, a spectral presence.  Can Jasmin be laying a trail for
Monique, drawing her into some maze of her own design?  Or are they just
blundering together, arm in arm, delighting in their company, taking blind
turnings as they find them?  The latter seems more likely – the
impression he’s formed of the girl so far suggests such scheming is beyond her wit
or application.  But as nature takes its course, as they at once fuel and
satisfy their respective desires, each step seems to bind them closer.

Still, he can choose: look on
from his vantage point or rejoin them in the game. 
Cocaine
. 
How does Monique know he’ll like it?  He searches his memory and finds no
such admissions on her part.  Then again, she’s refuted ever smoking, yet
she handled the cigarettes with practised aplomb.  Tonight she’s like a
hitherto unmet racier twin, a hedonistic doppelganger dedicated to pleasure. 
Should he resist this woman, or capitulate?  A small sensible voice is
telling him he should go down and collect the cigarette butt, in case Camille
finds it while playing on the patio.  Then siren calls turn his head.

Monique and Jasmin might be conspiring
over a book of spells, matching heads touching.  He joins the silent pair,
peering over their shoulders as they sit.  They each surrender a few
degrees to admit him to their coven.  Lips forming silent incantations,
Jasmin wields a gold credit card, and hypnotically sweeps spilled white
crystals back and forth, deftly shaping the precious commodity.  Before
his eyes on the black marble three contrasting stripes materialise.  So
this is it – the roller coaster reaches its point of no return, its zenith
behind him, freefall ahead.   Now she reaches for the over-sized
handbag that dogs her ankles and rummages in its depths.  Adam is
mesmerised, though her search produces the most mundane of items: a short
length of plastic straw.  She leans forward and the first line
disappears.  Monique follows suit; she makes it look easy.  It’s his
turn.  The girls lean sideways to give him room.  He sniffs hard;
when he looks the powder is gone.  He takes half a step backwards. 
He notices a slight tingle beside the bridge of his nose, but that’s all. 
Then he touches Jasmin’s sleeve, and says:

‘Outside – a minute
ago.  Monique just called you
Sharon
.’

‘It’s my real name.’

‘Oh.’  Is that deeper into
the maze?

‘You’re such a lovely
couple.’  Suddenly she sounds intoxicated.  But she continues, 
‘I’d normally just do the job and get away – but
what
is it
now?’  She peers at their chrome-rimmed wall-clock.  ‘I’m nearly an
hour over and I don’t want to go.’

‘Stay as long as you like,
Sharon.’ Monique’s voice is calm, supportive.

‘You know – I keep this
stuff in my bag.  On a job I usually have to go to the bathroom – go
to the bag.  Tonight – not once.  I’ve not needed to go to the
bag.  You’ve seen me – not once.  That’s because you’re such a
lovely couple and it’s been really cool.  Like we’re friends as well as
lovers.’

Adam realises something is
happening.  The embryonic reservations this exchange threatened to hatch
are suddenly and powerfully engulfed by a warm, expanding current: the urge for
sex.  In the space of a few seconds nothing matters except that he must
take one of the girls: he wants the prostitute.  Vaguely conscious of
protocol, he’s reaching out equally, finding their waists, drawing them
close.  They need no encouragement, they’re both standing, facing one
another, ripping into the hot nakedness beneath their gowns, sucking the breath
from one another’s bodies.  Then Monique is hoisting herself onto the
bar-top, spreading the gown and her legs and leaning back, inviting Jasmin’s
willing tongue.  She stares at Adam; he’s momentarily transfixed; she
hisses, commands him: ‘
Fuck
her!’

***

Adam comes to staring at the LED
display of their radio alarm.  Symmetrically it reads
zero-three-three-zero – not a combination he recognises as a time of
day.  Out of habit he reaches for its sleep button, then realises it isn’t
what has woken him.  He sits upright, he’s been lying on top of the
covers, naked to the waist, jeans still on but unbuttoned.  Monique heaves
gently beside him, oblivious beneath a great drift of down.  Her mobile
burns brightly on her nightstand.  As he stretches across she stirs, but
gives only an appreciative ‘Aha,’ and burrows deeper into her dreams.  The
display shows a local landline number and the initial ‘J’ – no
name.  He accepts and answers in a low voice:

‘Hello?’

There’s a pause; maybe the caller
was expecting Monique.  Then, whispering:

‘I fucked your ass.’

‘I don’t remember that bit.’

‘Yes you do – not tonight
– a few weeks ago.’

‘Pardon?’

‘You’re Xara’s client – the
one who’s into bondage.’

A cold dread shrouds him, as if a
chilling autumn haar has crossed the town from Leith’s mean shores and
infiltrated the bedroom via windows carelessly left open.  What does she
mean?  Like in a tangled dream, her words only half make sense.  He
says:

‘Am I?’

‘It’s okay, babes. No need to act
innocent.  I shan’t spoil your little secret.  Professional code of
conduct.’

‘Right.’  Amidst his
confusion denial seems futile.

Jasmin – or should he say
Sharon? – hums along to a track that’s playing in the background,
seemingly in no hurry to speak.  After a moment she says:

‘I knew when you answered the
door.  That fat cock inside me was just confirmation.  Very nice,
babes.  But notice I never said anything.’

‘It’s, er… nearly four a.m.’

‘You mean Monique’s right there.’

‘Something like that.’

‘She’s gorgeous.’  She hums
again.  ‘I was phoning to say thanks for such a cool time.  You’re a
lovely couple, you know.  Beautiful house, lovely little girl, lovely
couple.  I’ll see you again if you want – I’ll give you a discount
– look how long I stayed tonight, hours over.  I’ll drop any
appointment if you want me – unless it’s an overnight – just
call.  And
you’re
okay – you’re alright – but you know,
babes, I must be honest – I’m only saying all this because of Monique
– she’s gorgeous – she’s the one I want to see – she’s the
one I want to fuck.  I’ll come again for her – I’m wired, babes.’

‘Who is it, my darling?’ 
Monique stirs.

He presses the mobile into the
duvet.  ‘Jasmin…
Sharon
.  She’s right off her face.’  He
curses himself for not diverting the call.  Now he realises he has no
option but to connect the pair.  He raises the handset to his ear.

‘Hi – Monique’s waking from
her beauty sleep – I guess you want to talk to her?’

‘You can trust me, babes. 
You’ve got what I want.  Put her on.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Sharon, my darling – we
were fast asleep.  You wore us out.’

Adam rolls out of bed and feels
his way cautiously to the bathroom.  Once inside, the diffuse glow of
orange streetlamp neon provides sufficient illumination for him to
navigate.  He can hear Monique speaking softly to the girl, but it’s not a
conversation he wants to sit in on.  He listens for a while: there’s an
occasional giggle, which suggests Jasmin-Sharon is keeping true to her word. 
He decides to shower.  Stumbling awkwardly into the cubicle he supposes
he’s still drunk or drugged.  Then the hot spray envelops him, shutting
off external stimuli and releasing the questions that queue in his mind. 
Subconsciously, had he in turn
recognised
her?  (Her smell, her
taste, the way she felt?)  Is
she
Ms Y?  If so, what does she
mean,
he’s the client?

***

Adam cautiously slurps hot black
coffee and distractedly browses the Sunday newspaper, gradually adding
discarded supplements to the ransacked debris of their lounge.  Eyes glued
to the tv, Camille sits cross-legged on the deconstructed wreckage of the
settee, its two main seat cushions and one of the back ones pulled roughly onto
the carpet, where after midnight cocaine-induced thrashings had spilled from
the kitchen.  His dressing gown lies trussed in an inverted bundle, like
some prey-animal overlooked by its primitive captors.  He retrieves it, on
impulse holding the garment to his face to inhale its scent – it wasn’t
Xara he’d subliminally recalled last night, was it?

He’d left the girls locked in
frenetic battle, with orders to retrieve Monique’s new rabbit from their
bedroom.  It was a mission he’d never completed.  He vaguely recalls
belly-flopping onto the bed – was it out of exhaustion, or more an act of
surrender, ceding Monique to Jasmin-Sharon’s superior force of attraction?

Now Monique appears, she’s
wearing her towelling gown.  She says, smiling brightly:

‘Bonjour Camille.’

Without looking round, Camille
raises a hand and waggles her fingers in acknowledgement.

‘Coffee, my darling?’

‘I’ve got one, thanks – but
I’ll come through.’  He tips his head towards the sofa.  ‘Looks like
we’ve been burgled, eh?’

Monique grins and shrugs. 
It’s not like her to pass a scene of domestic disorder without stooping to
tidy.  He follows and they settle in the kitchen; each sips quietly for a
few moments, listening for echoes of last night.  After a minute Adam
says:

‘Who was on the phone?’

She hesitates for just an
instant, but it’s long enough to telegraph to him that she considered a
different answer.  ‘Our friend – Sharon.’

‘Again?’

‘She was apologising for waking
us in the early hours.’

‘I’m surprised she can remember
– you know, it was exactly three-thirty when she rang?’

Monique nods.  At least she
doesn’t give the impression that she’s about to drop the cataclysmic
bombshell.  Perhaps he really can rely on Jasmin-Sharon’s silence? 
Surely if she were going to make the revelation, it would have been last night
while intoxicating substances held sway of her inhibitions.  And, indeed,
if Monique is trying to keep a lid on anything, it seems more like simmering
euphoria than some burning desire to reprimand him.  As if in confirmation
of his thoughts, she asks tentatively:

‘My darling – so what is
your verdict upon last night?’

‘You looked fantastic.’

‘Ah, my darling, thank you… and
so did you.  I think Sharon fancies you.  She told me on the phone
you are very big… imagine, from a call girl, quite a compliment!’