The Sexopaths (31 page)

In this regard stands one small
curiosity – something he’d wished to ignore, had it not rung in his ears
before he could close them to its message – which in its diminutiveness
was all the greater, the sibilant punctuation of the humble triangle about
which revolves an entire orchestral manoeuvre.  Amidst their free-ranging
yet disjointed conversation, perhaps by then less guarded, lulled by his
neutrality, she had made a slip – too authentic to be affected, outwith
the context of any joke – it could only be that. 
‘I’d not spoken
to nobody.’
 Two letters where there should have been three, and
fleetingly he’d glimpsed a vision, a slice of life: a skeletal tower block,
ply-boarded windows, litter, the evening summer heat on concrete, yellowing
weeds, a mongrel pausing to sprinkle urine, a girl on the corner, bronze legs
slick, cocked head framed by graffiti, chewing gum, cars slowing, accent East
End.

While he’s mulling over this
conundrum a familiar scene comes upon him and he realises he’s completed a
circuit.  He lingers for a second or two near the entrance to Xara’s
apartment, but rain is starting to fall.  He dodges the traffic and vaults
the low wall bordering the supermarket lot; his car is nearby, patently not a
shopper’s, parked distant from the store entrance, and well out of reach of
those heavily laden trolleys that become pressed into service as battering
rams.  He drops inside the cockpit and feels the sudden grip of the chill
that has been creeping upon his torso, inadequately clad against the elements. 
He cranks the engine, turns the heater to maximum, switches on the heated seat
– but already a reflex has kicked in, a violent shivering designed by
ancient genes; he has no choice but to let it run its course.  He yields
to the discomfort, allows his teeth to chatter; then he revs the engine to
accelerate the onset of its tipping point, when a chain reaction will finally
despatch hot air to relieve his discomfort.  But as his shaking slowly
subsides he realises he craves not the warmth of the cockpit, but the heat of
her body.  His first thought is to return across the street and hang upon
her intercom – but that’s not her system: a dozen drunks a week buzz the
wrong flat, and kids do it out of devilment, so her internal chimes are disconnected;
gentlemen callers must telephone for admission.  Instead he clicks the
paddle of his carphone and selects the last number dialled.  She responds
almost instantaneously:

‘Adam?’  She too sounds
handsfree – it would explain the fast reaction time.

‘Oh – hi.  Look
– sorry to bother you.  Are you around for a bit longer?’

‘Adam – I’m sorry –
I’ve already left.  I’m on my way to the airport.’

‘Oh – sorry… I, er… I
shouldn’t have bothered you.’

‘It’s okay.  I guess we were
a little longer than I’d expected.’  The giggle.

‘Sorry about that.’

‘Don’t apologise.  It was my
doing.’

‘Look – are you…
flying?’  He’s uncomfortable asking the question, prying.  Evidently
one of her regulars (he of the fifty proposals), she usually collects at the airport
and chauffeurs to heaven.  He knows this courtesy of the field reports:
the smart little sports coupé, the car park deep underground, the private lift
to her apartment: presidential anonymity.  He guesses this could be her
mission, but she answers his question in the affirmative, contradicting this
hypothesis:

‘Yes.  I’ve a four-fifteen
departure.’

‘Oh, right.’  So there’s no
chance she’ll be free again today.  He checks his wristwatch.  ‘You
should be okay – I think the traffic’s fine at Gogar at this time of
day.’

‘I hope so.’

‘When will you get back? 
I’m away myself from Friday night, for over a week.  I have to go to China
for a conference.’

‘I’m not sure… it depends on a
few things.’

Now there’s a faint hint of
guardedness in her tone; and he feels a twinge of disappointment that she fails
to comment upon his jet-setting.

‘Well – shall I phone you
or text you when I’m… home?’

‘Sure.’  Her response lacks
the enthusiasm he would wish for.

‘Great.  Well… have a good…
trip.’

‘Thanks – and you.’

‘I’ll try.’

‘Take care, Adam.’  A sudden
softening.

‘Bye…’

He wants to complete his farewell
with her name, the forbidden fruit she almost handed to him, before second
thoughts and self-preservation intervened; instead he chokes on the alias
Xara
,
swallows on the dry aftertaste of awkwardness, the ‘nice to have met you’
mouthed in lieu of the name of someone just introduced, instantly
forgotten.  But she’s gone, perhaps irked that he’d contrived a second,
unscripted farewell.  Annoyed at himself he kicks the car into gear and
departs untidily, catching an exit-kerb with a precious alloy, the scraping
sound causing him to cringe like someone has run a fingernail down a
blackboard.  He gains the main street where he is obliged to halt at the
junction in view of her apartment block’s main door.  Again he feels the
magnetic pull, the futility.  Is this what she does – entices the
unsuspecting, brainwashes them in her own special way, releases them tagged for
recall whenever she desires?  Or is he willing it to be thus –
conscription to the elite order?  He recalls the girl Victoria’s remark
about Xara being able to hand-pick her clientele.  Perhaps there’s a
vacancy in the ranks – maybe one of the associates has resigned… or
died?  (Death seems the only permissible excuse.)  But this is just
his ego playing tricks: it’s not a fellowship he came for, but freedom –
and he’s sure that’s exactly what she granted him, oblique though her pardon
was.

Give or take the odd amber gamble
he gets green lights almost all the way up Easter Road, London Road and through
onto Queen Street, and in ten minutes he’s signalling to turn into a
fortuitously vacant parking space beneath his office on The Mound.  His
attendance, even this late in the day, makes good diplomatic sense: though his
partners are accommodating of his idiosyncratic timekeeping, and his
extra-curricular publicity good for the firm’s profile, it’s a busy period and
he’s about to be away again – this time for longer than usual.  But
switching off the ignition reveals an inertia about his person, and he senses
he’s unprepared to fashion a lively entrance and join in whatever banter or
bonhomie is currently accompanying work in progress.  Then he has the idea
of making a phone call – he can steal past reception and through to his
desk under the cover of a conversation, required only to nod here, wink there,
able to duck any jibes about long lunches, settle in immune from interruption,
shielded from attention until he’s ready to engage.

In the lift he dials Monique’s
mobile number, but her line diverts straight to voicemail; he’s forced to
listen to the message he despises.  Upon its conclusion, he says:

‘Hi – it’s me.  Just
phoning to see how you are.  The visas were ready.  I’ll try you on
your office number.  Love you.’

He ends the call and dials again,
heads into the main office, keeps moving fast, minimising eye-contact,
acknowledging where necessary.  He reaches his desk and slumps down, spins
to face the windows.  Now Monique’s direct line diverts, too.

‘Hello, Monique’s phone.’ 
The voice is female, friendly – it sounds familiar though he can’t put a
name to it.

‘Oh, hi – it’s Adam here
– I was trying to get hold of the missus.’

‘She left about noon –
she’s not back yet.  Can I take a message?’

‘It’s okay, thanks – I’ll
try her mobile.  Cheers.’

He can’t recall her saying she
had a meeting today.  He’d noticed – his newly acquired vigilance
– this morning she’d left for work dressed in a relaxed fashion, jeans
and a loose-fitting top, as if in anticipation of a day indoors at the
agency.  The girl minding her calls – it wasn’t Monique’s usual PA
– hadn’t volunteered her whereabouts, while he shied away from further
interrogation, feeling his casual concern would transmit through his questions
and embarrass him as suspicion; with her PA he could have chatted more
informally, complained of Monique’s penchant for shoes and handbags and the
credit card bill she was no doubt running up.  Now in his mind he runs the
familiar scenarios: could she be meeting with Jasmin-Sharon – for coffee,
for coke, for worse?  With Lucien – for the unthinkable?

He gives a little shake of the
head, as if to dislodge the thoughts that descend upon him like persistent
flies whenever some obstacle slows his pace.  Come on Adam, Monique must
have half a hundred reasons to pop out at lunchtime (including to shop) –
and has probably been doing so without troubling his antennae since long before
they became acquainted.  For all he knows she has regular lunch
appointments – isn’t it how they do business in advertising?  He’s
guessed it’s part and parcel of her job without ever quizzing her about it:
that clients dangle their juicy budgets in return for unlimited Chardonnay and
her delightful company.  Some perhaps hope for more – in fact, knowing
Monique, some probably think more is on the cards – but until recently
he’d never even had to bother his head with such a notion.  He’d always
taken her to be a big girl, professional at what she did, setting clear limits
(in her own mind at least, even if potential suitors didn’t quite see things
the same way); he remembers that from his own first encounters; although the
barriers did of course break down.  Of late… he’s not felt so sure. 
Could there have been other Luciens, other Jasmin-Sharons?

His mobile rings: it’s her.

‘Monique – are you okay?’

She says she’s fine, my darling,
how is he?  He hears background noise, the hum of traffic, the clank of
building work, she’s a hint breathless as if walking.

‘Er – yeah, fine – I
was trying to get you.’

She says she had to switch off
her phone – she was at the hospital.

‘Really?’

He pictures her together with
Jasmin-Sharon, sitting either side of a bed tenderly holding a hand each of the
grandfather whom he had correctly predicted had the powers of a latter-day
Lazarus.

But she says she is fine. 
She?

‘
You
are fine?’

He listens, concentrating, guilt
seeping into his gut.  She tells him it was just a regular check that she
was scheduled for… women’s stuff, you know.

‘And – is everything
okay?  I mean –
are
you okay?’

He nods.  She says
absolutely – they inform you immediately if there’s any trace of a
problem – although of course there are some routine tests they send for
further analysis and mail you the results later.

‘Monique, you should have told me
– I could have come with you.’  His words concern him.  Why
didn’t he say
would?

She tells him it wasn’t necessary
– repeats that it was just routine – she hadn’t felt
concerned.  In any event she’d forgotten until she checked her diary at
the office.  He’s alarmed by this whole revelation – how would he
have handled it if she’d mentioned the check-up this morning?  Surely the
only thing to do would have been to insist he accompanied her, slapped down her
protestations, cancelled his engagements.  Or lied.  The prospect
disturbs him – where would the greatest loss have been incurred? 
Monique speaks his name to break his silence, repeats that she is fine –
as if she imagines in his silence he’s worried and lost for words.  He
asks:

‘What are you doing now?’

She says she’s not going back to
her office.  They need some groceries… and she’ll collect Camille… so if
he has to stay a little late at work it’s no problem.

‘Okay – well, look –
I’ll call you about six if I’m not leaving then.’

She says she looks forward to
later.

He agrees, then logs on to find
Xara7 dot com.

Blog by Anonymous – 8

OMG!  Sarah
has made me an offer.  I’ve said I’m going to take her up on it.  It
could mean everything changes…
el milagro!

Adam can’t help noticing that the
two good-looking girls in the front row near where he’d awaited his
introduction to the stage now appear to be asleep.  Indeed, among the
audience of three hundred or so, it seems that at least a dozen are indulging
in the post-lunch power-nap that Lifen had warned him about – advice he’d
only cursorily listened to, thinking it surely couldn’t happen during his, the
keynote speech.  Although the spotlights are upon him, and the onlookers
in relative darkness, he can just make out a number of dark glossy heads laid
upon the paler flip-over desktops that form part of the conference seating
arrangements.  Meanwhile the wakeful majority are staring and still as if
concentrating hard on the translation, an incessant chatter that escapes in
minute fashion from the scattering of headsets that have been discarded by the
more able linguists.  For a moment he feels disconcerted and hesitates
over the transition to his next slide, but Lifen’s assurances come back to him:
‘It is custom in China to eat lunch at one’s desk and then put one’s head down
to sleep for a few minutes – please do not take offence.’  Still,
it’s curious, he thinks – he’s been flown business class halfway round
the world, various employers have paid handsomely for their staff to benefit
from his wisdom… and here they are having a kip at the crucial moment. 
Fingers crossed that the official photographer, whose blinding flashes burst
from random points in the darkness, doesn’t get any shots that include a sample
of those enjoying a sojourn in the land of Nod.  Now he clicks on an
animated section of his presentation, and moves away from the rostrum while the
video sequence plays.  He spots Monique sidling up beside the left-hand
wall of the auditorium.  She too has a camera and appears intent on
framing an angle that will certainly capture some of the dozing
delegates.  Oh well, it will make a good story when they get back home.