had changed, for her, all of a sudden.
She and Morgan descended the stone stairs down to the pavement. As the taxi driver opened the back door for them, they turned towards us to wave goodbye. As they did so, I saw Tatiana bring one of Morgan’s hands to her face, sniff at it. They exchanged a look, then, and a thrill rippled through me: Morgan’s fingers, I thought, must still bear the scent of me.
They looked back towards us. ‘Thanks again, Kyle,’ said Tatiana, but her eyes were not on him. She was staring at me.
‘Lovely to meet you, Rochelle,’ she said. She waved the piece of paper with my details on.
‘I’ll be in touch,’ she called, and in the chill night air her laughter rang out like broken glass.
***
When they’d gone, Kyle and I sat down to finish up the coffee. I knew I should go easy on the caffeine, but I was already resigned to not sleeping that night. I was just too wound up. I wondered what I was going to do when I left here. I couldn’t imagine going back to Rachel’s flat. I’d climb the walls.
I looked at Kyle, wishing I fancied him, wishing I went for the sensible options. It had always been like this, since I was a teenager and felt the first inklings of desire. I’d only ever wanted the bad boys or girls, the dangerous ones who would lead me into darkness. Anybody clean-cut, polite and kind was an immediate turn-off. And if they wanted me, that was a turn-off too, unless – as with Morgan – I’d seen an opportunity to use them for my own ends. I could do that with Kyle, of course, but I didn’t want to. Kyle wasn’t playing the kind of power games with me that Morgan had wanted to. Kyle wasn’t a taker.
What I really wanted now, if only I’d acknowledge it to myself, was to fall into bed with Kyle for a good, long, sexless, matey cuddle. I never did that with anyone these days, and suddenly I regretted it – and pined for it. For so long it had all been about the sex and desire. Even with the girls at the club, for many of whom I felt genuine affection, and who I believed felt affection for me, there was a frisson. After all, we shared a dressing room, saw each other naked night after night. And familiarity couldn’t take away from the eroticism of my colleagues’ lovely bodies. I admit that I often thought of some my colleagues’ beautiful tits and pussies as I wanked myself to sleep at dawn.
We sat together for a long time, much of it in a companionable silence. Kyle obviously didn’t suspect that anything had gone on between me and Morgan, despite his and Tatiana’s weird behaviour as they climbed into the taxi. In some ways, I thought, he must be a true innocent. They’d been so blatant, even I was shocked. But then of course I knew what was going on in their heads. Kyle didn’t.
‘So,’ I said finally, stretching. ‘I’d best make a move, I guess.’
Kyle turned to me. ‘You don’t have to,’ he said.
‘Do you have a spare bed?'
He placed one hand on mine. ‘No,’ he said.
For a moment the thought played around my head: What the hell? We could fuck, and nothing need come of it. Just a friendly fuck, and then never again. It might not be the best fuck of my life, but it would stop me wandering about the streets, meeting the wrong kinds of people, getting into trouble.
But then I looked into his eyes, and I knew that he was a gentle, sensitive soul – the very antithesis of Morgan – and that it would be very wrong of me to hurt him.
I shook my head gently. ‘I like you too much,’ I said softly, pulling his head to my shoulder. There was something childlike about him, something that needed protection. But I was the last person to be able to protect anyone.
For a while we just sat there, unmoving, and then Kyle stood up and went over to the window.
‘I wonder,’ he said, looking out into the blackness, ‘what Rachel’s doing now.’
Chapter 7: Rachel
When I opened the door to Rochelle’s friends, I didn’t know that I was opening the door to another world – a world that would change my life forever.
There were six of them, all but one of them guys, all of them gorgeous. The guys, it turned out, were fashion models. I’d never even met a model before – my photos are always of real people – so I immediately felt out of my depth.
The leader of the pack, it was clear from the outset, was Konrad, a too-cool-for-school half-German guy of about twenty-five, with cat-like green eyes that twinkled behind a curtain of chestnut hair and the squarest jaw I’d ever seen. I surmised pretty quickly that he was Rochelle’s boyfriend from the way he took ownership of the flat, lounging around on her – my! – bed, rifling through a drawer for something he said he’d left behind.
I was feeling a bit crowded in by all these strangers taking over my new space. They all seemed a bit manic too, and I wondered if they were on something. At any rate, I was glad when they suggested going out for a drink nearby. I’d been cooped up in the apartment for too long anyway – spying on other people, mainly. It wasn’t healthy.
We didn’t go far – just around the corner to the rue de Navarin. One of their friends, explained Konrad in excellent English, was the mixologist in the bar of the Hôtel Amour, and they often drank there.
I hadn’t heard of the ‘Love Hotel’, but Konrad quickly filled me in. It had opened a few years before, he said, in a former brothel – and you could still rent rooms for a few hours in the afternoon if you wished.
I didn’t know what to expect, but once inside, I discovered that the vibe was minimalism meets kitsch rather than seedy bordello. We sat out in the courtyard with its bright chairs, little metal tables and abundant foliage, and Konrad ordered us all caipirinhas. It was starting to grow chilly, but heaters kept us toasty.
The one girl in the party sat next to me, blowing smoke out into the air, seemingly oblivious to me, lost in her own thoughts. She was exotic-looking – possibly North African by origin, I thought, or with one North African parent. She had somewhat melancholic dark eyes and lustrous black hair.
I listened to the guys chat away in French and studied Konrad from a distance. There was something fascinating about his rampant self-confidence. Having little myself, and having been surrounded by people much like me, I was intrigued by those who had it in abundance. Of course, being model-level gorgeous must help one’s self-esteem.
‘So,’ the girl said suddenly, finally coming to life. ‘How are you enjoying life in Paris?’
I paused. ‘It’s too early to tell. I’ve only been here a couple of days. And this is the first time I’ve properly been out.’
She exhaled more cigarette smoke. ‘You’re a photographer, right?’
‘I am.’ I patted my camera bag on the table in front of me. ‘What about you?’ I said.
‘I dance,’ she said. ‘With Rochelle. My name’s Lisette.’
‘Oh, you’re …’
‘A stripper?’ She let out a slightly bitter laugh.
‘I’m sorry – I wasn’t going to say …’
‘It
