by Tessa Lunney
Jean and Max arrived with the waiters and made a great show of placing a feast on the table – rosé, bread, olive oil, four types of sausage, five types of cheese, more olives, pickled onions, prawns fried in garlic, anchovies, and chips – as well as cigarettes and matches.
‘A pauper’s feast!’ declared Max as he flourished a champagne bottle.
If this was how a pauper ate in Paris, I thought, may I never be rich.
‘Most of it is on the house,’ said Jean. ‘Well, some of it anyway – due to our illustrious guest.’
Picasso gave a mock royal bow and everyone clapped.
‘The only catch is,’ Max said with a wince, ‘Victor’s American cousin is here and wants a photo.’
‘Who’s Victor?’ I said.
‘Libion, the owner,’ said Jean. ‘Excellent man, but it seems that even Victor is cursed with vulgar relations.’
‘I’ll have Manuelle on one side and Kiki Kangaroo on the other,’ said Picasso. ‘It will be a pleasure.’
Which was exactly how it ended up. We drank and ate until most of the other tables were empty. Picasso became progressively looser, giving imitations of various Surrealists and Post-Impressionists – his Matisse was hilarious, apparently. We played a particularly artistic version of charades that involved drawing a title of a book or film or play and the others had to guess. Max and Jean held a mock battle with the anchovies that turned into a drinking game. Picasso played with Manuelle’s hair and she had her hand on my knee. The manager’s cousin took his photo, fussy and obsequious as he gathered us together or arranged us in ‘natural’ poses. I smiled for the camera as Picasso patted my bum.
The midnight hour struck and the party started to disperse. Picasso whispered to Manuelle, who turned to me. ‘We are buying some strawberries on the way back to my apartment.’
‘Strawberries? In spring?’
‘They’re special, from the south.’
‘Who sells fruit at midnight?’
‘The midnight fruit seller, of course!’ she laughed. ‘Join us?’ Her hand slipped under my dress and stroked my thigh.
How could I refuse?
We wobbled down the road like a crab, arm-in-arm, as we sang bawdy songs – I think I ended up singing ‘Never let a sailor get an inch above your knee’ in appalling French, which had Manuelle demonstrating just how many inches per verse as we walked. The midnight fruit seller was an invention and we had to shake the old man by his whiskers to wake him up. He bristled with crankiness, until he saw Manuelle, and then he grinned a gap-toothed grin and opened his cart. A kiss and a little squeeze from Manuelle got us an extra punnet of strawberries.
She had a bottle from her uncle in Cognac, Manuelle said as we wobbled up the stairs, but we never got that far. Candles lined the edges of her room, each one stuck in an old wine bottle, and as she bent down to light them her skin shone. I followed her lead, also lighting the three oil lamps that sat amongst the candles, their red shades adding a rosy glow to the room. Picasso – Pablo, I called him now – set up a running commentary on the shape, movement and intricate colours of our limbs in the candlelight, comparing them favourably with the strawberries he held. When just the right number of candles were lit, Manuelle stood in front of Pablo, blew out her match and dropped it on the floor along with her coat. Pablo took one of the strawberries and placed it just in front of her lips, teasing her with it. She leant forward and bit into it, so the juice dripped down her chin. He watched, and as he did I came up to her and licked the drop where it ran along her jawline. Manuelle took a strawberry from Pablo, teasing me with it until I caught it between my teeth, just as she had done. She let the juice run all the way down to my collarbone before I felt her lips on my neck. Pablo was covered in shadows in the candlelight. I fed him a strawberry and both Manuelle and I kissed the juice from his stubbled chin.
I followed Manuelle’s lead in everything. She fed him strawberries with one hand and took off his jacket with the other. She took off his shoes, I fed him, he took off my dress so I stood in my stockings – ‘Ooh la la, Kiki Kangaroo wears no knickers! Is that how they do it in Australia?’ – Manuelle fed him and undressed him and I undressed her – ‘Kiki, undo me, would you? Mmm, just there.’ Her skin was so smooth, her curves pushed back when I touched them. Pablo couldn’t keep his hands off her. She grabbed both of us and pulled us onto her large bed, covered in a velvet bedspread, just inches from the floor.
In bed with Pablo, Pablo was king. He directed Manuelle, I followed her, and it wasn’t long before he flopped onto the cushions and murmured, ‘I’ll be ready again soon,’ and dropped off to sleep.
Was that it? I was in bed with Pablo Picasso and he was asleep!
‘It’s all right,’ Manuelle called from where she was cleaning herself, ‘he won’t wake up for another half an hour or so. We have plenty of time.’
‘For what?’
‘For each other of course.’
She kissed me so softly, so tenderly, that I couldn’t help but lean forward for more.
She grinned. ‘We will have some fun before he wakes up.’
The room seemed to expand, then disappear, so that all I was aware of was her tongue, her lips, her fingers, her breath, and the waves of pleasure they raised in me. Pablo woke up and joined in. Seeing stars, is that the cliché? The world turned? Whatever it was, I was complete. Then he was, then she was, and I kissed her as I calmed down. We lay on top of each other, sweaty sticky limbs all over the blanket.
So, that was sex with the famous Pablo Picasso, I thought.
That was sex with a woman.
The room slowly came back into focus. A dais at one end held a chair, presumably for modelling, and a huge bunch of white lilies. Their smell filled the room. Another table held a mirror, a hairbrush, and other toiletries. Manuelle’s clothes spilled from a dark trunk. A jug and a basin, in cracked white porcelain, stood beside it. Although the room was small, the ceilings were high and bare, with huge windows from hip height to far above our heads, so from my prone position her room seemed enormous. The red lamps and golden candles made every shadow hold possibility.
It took some time before we heard the thumping. Pablo growled. ‘Is that your neighbour?’
‘Oh, she’s old,’ sighed Manuelle. ‘She’s telling us to keep going – she’d never get any fun otherwise.’
‘She spits at me when I walk past!’
‘Only because you don’t come over often enough – or last long enough.’
Then Pablo grabbed her and tickled her as she shrieked. The thumps continued from the flat below.
I watched him as he dressed. He seemed to be made of muscle, even though I was sure he did nothing but paint. This was exaggerated by his lack of height – he wasn’t as tall as I was in my heels. He had slender fingers, which I knew now were sensitive and deft. But his shoulders, back, thighs, the rest of him was powerful. As for his smell (so important in a lover), all I could detect was sweat, strawberries, tobacco and wine. He kissed us both as he left.
‘Kiki, you will model for me. When I finish this canvas with Manuelle – the day after tomorrow. Manuelle will tell you where.’
‘What about Pablo’s wife?’ I asked when he’d left.
Manuelle waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. ‘Olga’s busy with the baby. That’s why he comes here.’ She winked. ‘One of the reasons.’
She held out a bowl of water and an odd rubber contraption. ‘Do you need this?’
‘A douche? No, I’m wearing a rubber cap.’
‘Oh, very modern! So much better than this.’ She squatted over the basin as she washed herself. ‘It’s so tedious!’
‘And less than effective. And no good on the run.’
‘You make love while running?’ She laughed so hard she almost spilled the water.
‘No, I mean, in the war . . .’
‘Ah.’ She nodded and dried herself. She put her contraceptive douche away and knelt by me on the bed.
‘Tha
t is why I prefer women.’ She held my face between her hands. It was a perfect fit. ‘One of the reasons.’
She ran her tongue around my lips and we started all over again.
4
I’ve Got My Captain Working For Me Now
THANK GOODNESS it was only a few blocks, as the next morning I positively wobbled home. I needed coffee and breakfast and a wash and possibly more wine, as I couldn’t quite believe what had happened. But I had an appointment to model for Picasso – Pablo, I had to remember to call him Pablo or else forever seem like a tourist. I told myself that if I turned up at his studio and he had no idea who I was, I’d know I’d been dreaming.
Inside the front door of my building were letterboxes, each with a little key. I hadn’t checked my post for some days and in the dark wooden box were three letters. Who doesn’t adore letters? They’re a type of magic, the handwriting so intimate and the stamp indicating how far it has travelled to reach the reader. The first letter was dated that very morning. I ripped it open as I trooped up the stairs.
My Kangaroo,
Manuelle tells me that you are a type of journalist, yes? That you report on the rich and famous for some London paper. I have an urgent job for you. I need you to do a little detective work in those rich and famous apartments for something that has been stolen from me. Come to my studio tomorrow, model for me, and I’ll give you all the details.
Pablo
Detective work. For Pablo! I knew I’d say yes, even before I knew what I was supposed to be detecting. I flung open the windows and chucked my bag and coat on the bed. The little sparrows jumped around the sill in rhythm with my ragtime thoughts. Who better placed than a gossip columnist to snoop around? And Picasso! Could I really model? But then, how hard could it be? Certainly not harder than washing a half-dead soldier at 2 am with only a guttering candle to see by; surely nothing could be harder than that.
I peeled off my sweaty dress and stockings. There was a little water left in the jug, cold enough to splash some sense into me. My skin tingled as I washed my face, neck, arms and soft places.
I had a black velvet opera cape with me – I was not an advocate of ‘sensible packing’ – and I wound it around myself as I sat by the window. I lit a cigarette and watched the day stroll through its Sunday. Gossip columnist was a light job, frothy and airy, that demanded almost nothing of me. That’s what I’d searched for, after the war, after the flu pandemic, after the heavy expectations from my mother and father. A life that I held lightly. Detective work was more solid. Stronger perhaps, but also more structured. More restrictive, like all the most interesting work. I sighed. I had to face up to it sometime – I was not made of froth. A bubbly life was only mine to visit, not to live in. Whatever this job from Pablo really meant – a new life as a lady detective, as Picasso’s confidante, as simply the juiciest gossip this side of the war – I would do it.
The next letter had a stamp. I recognised the handwriting on the envelope. It was sent via London, but I couldn’t make out the original postmark. It didn’t look like Sydney GPO, or whatever tiny country town Tom had ridden his horse through. Thomas Arthur Ian Thompson, my lucky Tombola. I shivered, through it wasn’t cold. My Tom-Tom, my drumbeat – Tom always took my full attention and I could never give him anything less. To be fair, he gave me all his attention as well, in estaminet or club, at the dinner table or dining car, at the helm, at the wheel, in the saddle. It was just the way we were with each other. I itched to read his letter. But I could still smell Picasso’s sweat, I could still taste Manuelle’s olive skin. I was too full of Paris right now; the letter would whisk me away, take me back. I tucked it under my pillow as a treat for later.
The third letter made me laugh. It had no stamp, but the loopy handwriting flourished my name, Her Royal Highness Kiki of the Buttons, across the expensive paper. It was folded like a puzzle and popped open with my touch.
Kiki,
I trudged all the way up to your ivory tower, only to find my princess was still in her pumpkin carriage. I’m over here to see you and oversee you. I’m staying at the Ritz and I’ll be here all afternoon, so come and find me as soon as you can. I have the company chequebook and a bath.
Bertie xoxo
A bath – there was no better way to get me to meet him than the promise of a private soak. Suddenly I found I wasn’t worn out after all. I hung last night’s dress over a chair to try to get some of the sweat and smells out of it and hunted for something cleanish. My generally cavalier attitude to underwear meant I had some cream camiknickers that were barely worn, and I slipped an ivory silk dress over the top. It had a yellow trim at the collar, the hem, and the sleeves, little embroidered daffodils with a tiny bead inside each bloom. Just the thing for tricking the hotel staff into thinking I was sweet and respectable, right down to my two-tone shoes. My cream coat had a big stain on the lapel – white wine, perhaps, or a cream sauce, or something more carnal, I couldn’t tell – but I resolved to pin some fresh flowers over the top and no one would notice. Hopefully no one would notice that I looked somewhat under-slept either. Except Bertie, of course.
‘KIKI!’
I hadn’t even made it past reception before I saw him bound through the foyer. He was dressed in a sky-blue suit and shirt, with a navy tie and navy pocket handkerchief. He even wore two-tone blue brogues, the whole ensemble making his sandy hair look even paler. I was a cloud against his sky. We might’ve been siblings, if it hadn’t been for the big kiss he planted on my mouth.
‘What is that lozenge flavour I taste? Rose?’
‘Forget-me-not. I couldn’t wait to see you. I only got in this morning,’ he said, as he took my arm and swept me into the Ritz bar. ‘Our crossing was delayed due to the bloody English weather. Mmm, jonquils.’ He sniffed at my lapel. ‘They hide the tobacco-and-seduction smell so well!’
‘Cheeky.’
‘Now sit down and tell me, is it a champagne, whisky or gin-and-tonic kind of afternoon?’
‘Hot toddy.’
‘Goodness me, you have been having fun. You must tell me all about it as payment for your bath.’
‘Then we can have a cocktail – we have to celebrate our first Paris trip, Bertie.’
The bar was warm and dark and gave the impression of being entirely covered in velvet. The seats were dark red and brown, including the sofa-like bench I sat on. The walls had a dark striped wallpaper from just above head height, pinned down with lithographs of the Ritz, with a warm wood below it and across the floor. There was a mirror behind the bar, in true French style, that reflected the golden glow of the lamps, high enough that each face was deliciously vague. Every surface, from the golden metal of the bar-stool legs, to the wooden bar, to the dark wooden tables, reflected warmth.
‘Now, Kiki, tell me what’s been happening.’
‘I can’t here, people will think I’m boasting.’
Bertie laughed and rubbed his hands. We talked shop and London gossip until the toddy went down. He was shocked that I still hadn’t seen my name in print and promised to send me the magazine. This would mean that he’d also send me little presents from London. Shortbread and silk stockings, if I gave him the right hints. When he came back with our cocktails – a Tom Collins for me, of course, I couldn’t have anything else, not with that letter in the back of my mind – our bubbly chat became serious.
‘Now, Kiki, if I said Fox, what would you think?’
I hadn’t heard that name since 1919. But no, he couldn’t possibly mean—
‘Furry red animal, loves chickens, known for its cunning.’
‘What if I said Dr Fox?’
I froze. He did mean Fox. My hands shook.
‘Kiki, are you all right? You’ve become alarmingly pale.’
‘Light me a cigarette.’
He lit up and waited for me to gulp a few lungfuls. The tobacco smoke hung between us with everything that was unsaid.
‘Bertie . . . have you met him?’
‘I was called
to his office in Westminster—’
‘Parliament or civil service?’
‘He never said and I was too embarrassed to ask over the leather desktop and aroma of self-importance. He has the most wonderful silver hair that really set off his charcoal Saville Row suit—’
‘Did his secretary wear spectacles?’
‘Why . . . yes! How did you know?’
‘He’s a fox and bespectacled women are his hens. He likes them in his henhouse where he can get to them. Thank God I never needed spectacles.’
‘Kiki, who on earth is he?’
I gave Bertie a piercing look – what did he know? and how? – and he blushed.
‘He, ah, he gave me a message for you.’
Something broke inside me and sank to the bottom of my spine. It really was Fox. I closed my eyes and leant back against the wall. I thought I’d left all that behind. Even the scent of Gauloises and gin, the sounds of clinking glass and tinkling French couldn’t buoy me up.
‘Kiki, I didn’t think that an old government paper-pusher would be so shocking.’
‘He’s not that old. He’s had the silver hair since his twenties.’ Maybe if I kept my eyes closed, then this message would evaporate.
‘He makes you shake and go pale! I haven’t seen you like this since . . . well, you know . . .’
Since the end of the war; he didn’t need to say it, I could hear it in his tone. I also couldn’t hide from Fox forever, I had to open my eyes some time. When I did, Bertie was frowning at me. His face was so mobile that his frown was always clownish, as though even his concern amused him. It gave me hope.
‘Take me to your bath, dear Bertie. Let’s see if there’s a chance I can outfox the Fox.’
Bertie’s bathroom was a temple of marble and gold, where each gleaming surface worshipped the hot, naked body. Actual steam rose from the gushing gold taps. There was rose-scented soap and I sprinkled some drops of lavender oil into the swirling water. I sat on the toilet lid and held myself tightly to stop the shaking in my knees, to halt the cold thought that Fox had found me. The bath filled, Bertie kissed my nose and went to order room service. Thank goodness modern clothes dispensed with all the buttons and laces of my pre-war wardrobe, as otherwise Bertie would’ve had to undress me like a child. The silk fell in a pale heap on the marble and I slipped into the water.
