With Men For Pieces [A Fab Fifties Fling In Paris]

by Sophie Meredith

  He winked broadly and I noticed that Jean-Christophe and the girl were locked in a passionate embrace in the kitchen. I was shocked. The lad was barely fifteen and Nathalie looked nineteen going on thirty—and there was something—lewd—about the way she behaved with Jean-Christophe. They came into the living room and she stayed for another half hour or so. They were standing close but not touching, she was taking part in a coquettish conversation with Alain, Jean-Christophe watching her besottedly. Then suddenly, she wrapped herself round him and pulled his head down for a kiss. He responded hungrily and she pulled away, and continued talking to his father. I was relieved when she left.

  “He’s never had anything to do with girls,” said Alain, while Jean-Christophe was seeing her out. “As I’ve told you, his mother and her mother keep a strict eye on the poor fellow. I’m pleased with the way those two have hit it off. Don’t you think it’s splendid?” he asked.

  Fortunately, he did not wait for a reply. I didn’t think it was at all splendid—I was repelled by the artificiality and the idea of Alain’s initiating his own son in this way. Was he so desperate that his son should not be besmirched by his own weakness that he had felt obliged to push him into a heterosexual relationship?

  I had another disturbing insight into his character when he showed me my bedroom. It was dominated by a huge four-poster brass bedstead, the draped pink hangings at the head reflected in an enormous mirror on the wall opposite the foot. I tried not to look at the obscene, gilt-encrusted, narcissistic object, installing myself rather pointedly in front of a much more modest looking-glass on a table in a corner and combing my hair vigorously. Alain looked at me thoughtfully.

  “This is my room, normally,” he said. “Perhaps you’d prefer the guest room…?”

  I felt a little fearful as to what exactly he was trying to establish. I liked him a lot, but I had never found him attractive physically, and he had never made an intimate move until that light kiss on our arrival.

  At one point in the evening, while a re-instated Nathalie watched us consume the choucroute her mother had sent over, I wondered if an orgy was to be suggested after supper with her leading the proceedings. She seemed to have come this time only to serve up our meal and collect the empty dishes into her basket however and she left early. Alain did not even tap on my bedroom door. I could hear him snoring two rooms away.

  I felt ashamed of all my disgraceful thoughts on that Saturday. Nathalie’s family, who were utterly charming people, along with Alain and Jean-Christophe could not have been more solicitously correct and attentive. They gave me, between them, a wonderful day.

  First there was a long, leisurely breakfast by the log fire. Alain was dressed in a superb, purple kaftan which suited his great bulk, when Nathalie arrived with the croissants and warm rolls. She seemed much more subdued in the day-light. She was extremely obsequious to me and I was beginning to deeply relent of my initial opinion of her when she rather spoiled the effect by confiding her aspirations to become a fashion model and asked me what I thought of her chances. Unfortunately, I still saw her as more suited to the Pigalle than the Rue du Faubourg-St-Honoré, but as I could hardly say so, I tried to be non-committal and explained that I had little to do nowadays with the hiring and firing on that side of the business.

  Her mother was a real surprise—lady-like and refined. We were invited to their villa for dinner and Alain persuaded me that they would be deeply offended if we refused.

  “I know you hate meeting new people,” he said. “But you won’t be the least bit mortified in their house—it’s always filled to overflowing with youngsters.”

  It was true. Twenty people sat down at the dining-table, all its extra leaves inserted and Nathalie’s parents, Alain and I were the only ones there over twenty-one. I gave up trying to remember how everybody was related to everybody else and settled for addressing all the young people as Cousin, which amused them all a lot. Nathalie’s father was an entrepreneur with unspecified interests in England as well as France—he was as gracious and dignified as his wife, and I spent a relaxing evening in their company. The young people all piled into three cars at eleven and went off to visit a nightclub which had just opened for the season and would surely welcome such a crowd to get it going. Alain and I sat sipping a fantastic thirty-year old armagnac with the parents till midnight: then we walked along the sand to the cottage. There was a full moon, the wind had dropped; I felt calm and a little drunk.

  Suddenly, a young couple arose from a hollow in the dunes. They were strangers: at first I’d been embarrassed in case they were a pair from the party. Their clothing was very disarranged; the girl’s face raw where her lover had kissed away her make-up. They were completely unaware of us and soon, moaning, sank to the ground unable to refrain from a continuation of their love-making. Alain put his arms round me; he was trembling. I put my hands on his broad chest and gently thrust him away.

  “Don’t try to—prove yourself,” I said, though I did not want to be unkind. He stepped back.

  “I’m sorry,” he breathed. “I don’t want you to be insulted—either way. You must know you’re—very attractive. If I seem—laid back, you can put it down to the restraints of knowing you’re—the boss. I don’t—go with men—now.”

  “Please, Alain,” I begged. “Don’t think you owe me any explanation of your personal life—it’s none of my concern. To me—you’re a good friend—let’s forget this—incident.”

  “But I want you to know,” he insisted. “I bring women up here when Jean-Christophe isn’t with me. Nice women, too—not prostitutes. I could hardly present that sort to my neighbours, could I?”

  He seemed desperate to convince me and unaware that the more he did, the more insulting was his reluctant advance in my direction.

  “Race you back home,” I cried, and flew like the wind over the sand.

  He did not mention the incident again and I tried to put it from my mind. But later on I could not help but feel a little hurt that I’d been found wanting—was I finished with Romance for the rest of my life, I wondered. Surprisingly, I slept better than I had for some weeks—the armagnac must have won over the fumbling failure.

  Sunday proved too wet to take the boat out—much to my relief, as I had been wondering how to get out of going. Alain said he must go down to the boathouse in any case and he left me with Jean-Christophe, Nathalie and one of her boy cousins. We stoked up the fire and had a hilarious game of Monopoly. After lunch, during which Alain was rather withdrawn but not, I hoped, enough for it to be noticed by the others, we set off back to Paris. Jean-Christophe was travelling back with us. For some reason, Alain had decided to make it one of the rare occasions when he delivered him right home. He and I played “I spy” during the journey and Alain brightened up enough to join in from time to time.

  Just before we reached the Péripherique, Alain suggested we drive round it to the Bois de Boulogne and have tea or chocolate at one of the salons de thé. I was not keen—it was too cold to sit outside and I was anxious to see how Michel was, but I could hardly argue if Alain was trying to postpone the parting with his son. When we got back in the car it was dusk. I was the first to spot one of the famous prostitutes. I was green with envy as she stepped from behind a tree to accost the kerb-crawler in front of us. She was absolutely lovely—deeply-tanned, smooth skin, magnificent bosom, wonderfully-shapely legs—her mini skirt hardly reached down to the tops of her firm, slim thighs.

  “Brazillian,” said Alain. He wound down the window so we could eavesdrop on the transaction. Sure enough, the voice was unmistakably masculine. We roared with laughter at the thought of the revelations to come as she/he disappeared down the woodland path with her/his client. It was not until I was back home, smothering my little boy with kisses, that I shuddered at the thought of what Jean-Christophe’s aristocratic grandmother would say if she knew where we’d taken him. And there had been a strange look in Alain’s eye that made me sure now that he fully intended to return
later to the Bois alone.

  It was partly so that I could deliver my thank-you present for the weekend that I went into the office on the following Tuesday. Mabiche looked at me, and the tennis racket I’d bought for Jean-Christophe, with disapproval.

  “You never used to spend so much time at the Business,” she sniffed. “And from what I’ve heard that young man is already quite spoiled—does he really need another tennis racket?”

  She was afraid I was getting involved with Alain—soon I would put her out of her misery telling her of the abortive attempt he’d made to pretend an amour he didn’t really feel to someone who didn’t desire him….

  “Ah—Madame…” said the Receptionist in the outer office. “Monsieur Leboeuf asked me to speak to you the moment you arrived. He would like to see you on a matter of urgency. Could you please go to his office?”

  There was a tiny room in the building that was kept as my office though it was embarrassingly empty of the usual paraphernalia. I assumed Alain wanted to show me some file, but I was still a little surprised for although it did seem more logical for me to go to his office, he would normally have done me the courtesy of bringing whatever it was along to me, however cumbersome.

  He sat behind his desk, his face chalk-white, his hands out of sight—normally they would be rapidly moving over his calculator keys even as he greeted people.

  “Please close the door,” he said.

  I did so and when I turned he had a revolver pointing to his forehead.

  “I’ve embezzled—from the firm—from you—for two years now,” he said. “It’ll be discovered today when the Auditors arrive—I covered it up last year, but I won’t get away with it twice.”

  My first reaction was utter astonishment, tinged with a sneaking admiration for his courage. That he had shown himself here today instead of making his confession by telephone—or running away altogether! But then I was angry—with myself for being duped—with him for taking advantage of our friendship. As I stood there clutching the gift for Jean-Christophe I remembered the bewildered innocence on the boy’s face as Nathalie embraced him and his father looked on. I knew he worshipped Alain and that all his blasé participating in our amusement at the male prostitute had been put on to try to please his father—to assure him that he was a man, a whole man. I wondered if he suspected Alain’s weakness—and what this new revelation would do to him. I recalled how he’d been happiest playing Monopoly and I Spy and watching the dessins animés on the television. It would destroy him if Alain were to kill himself.

  “It’s so stuffy in here,” I said. I pretended to make for the window, turned suddenly and snatched at the gun. We struggled, there was a sharp little snap of a noise like a car back-firing, then the window-pane splintered where the bullet had hit the glass. I got the gun away and I wondered from the way he had waved it around if he had really intended to commit suicide. If not, he was doubly irresponsible, putting my life in danger. Perhaps he hated me—maybe I was supposed to have taken him on as a token lover, giving him access to my private fortune. I thrust the weapon into my handbag.

  “How did you do it?” I asked coldly.

  He showed me the cheque stubs and the bank statements where he had cleverly added a figure 1 and a word—mille—after his salary cheque had been signed by the other directors. He showed me a sheaf of falsified expense sheets.

  Then he picked up the telephone and dialed his friend Gérard at the police station. I began to feel that I must be dreaming: this was too much like a stage farce—no-one would have believed the conversation I was overhearing. He asked what was the correct procedure when the Controller of a company had confessed to cheating. He listened to the reply. Then he said, “Thank you—and by the way, old friend, the person in question is me.”

  He relayed the information to me that it would be necessary for one of the other directors and myself to accompany him to the police station, where we would make formal statements.

  There was another farce on the way out. We met “Flossie”—as the personnel had christened the young accountant who had come to check the books. Alain paused on the stairs and briefly told him where we were going and why.

  “Ha! ha!” laughed the young man. “It’s not April the First, by any chance is it?”

  His face was a picture as he found it suddenly incumbent on himself to switch from amusement at a silly joke to the grim realisation that his hero was telling awful facts.

  I didn’t see Alain again. He had managed to steal and dispose of a million francs in eighteen months. I was told that in the prison at Evry during his first custody he quickly lost his brioche—six kilos melted away in as many weeks. I did not have to attend the trial—two of the other directors represented the firm. He was sentenced to three years imprisonment and our Insurance Company immediately brought proceedings against his family in the south to reclaim part of the money.

  Jean-Christophe had been spun some yarn, foolishly in my opinion, about his father having been sent on business to the Far East. The boy telephoned the office continually and my house once. Mabiche refused to put him through to me. Again she was wearing her smug look. Her peasant cunning, from which Alain had instinctively shied, had smelled him out for the rat he was and it was clear that she thought I had escaped a fate worse than death on a personal level.

  A Man to Inspire Confidence

  by Gabrielle Parker

  Helen had been charmed by Philip from the start. Other colleagues her husband had brought home—not to be vetted exactly, but hopefully to win her approval—had not had the same impact.

  Yet he was not the type of man who would normally have attracted her: one had to admit it—he was downright ugly. Grossly overweight, his stomach bulged over the top of his trousers. His features were irregular and the beard with which he had attempted to soften them threw his face even more out of balance. But he had twinkling eyes, an engaging grin and a personality as oversized as his body. He was immaculate in grooming and dress—and he was generous to a fault.

  He arrived that first evening behind a basket of wine-red roses, the like of which Helen had hitherto only seen as the centrepiece of a florist’s window.

  “Philip Grainger, my dear,” said Bill, peeking out from behind the bulk of his guest and the flowers combined. “My new Chief Accountant.”

  “Mrs. White!” cried Philip. “It’s so kind of you to invite me to your lovely home.”

  It was not long before he returned the invitation, but he took the Whites to a restaurant, explaining that as he had been recently divorced, he was not equipped for entertaining at his small flat. He wined and dined them extremely well, and there was a corsage for Helen on the table.

  Bill enthused about the meal on the way home and about Philip’s savoir faire and excellent manners.

  “I hope the poor chap can afford it, though,” he added. “We can’t pay him all that well at the moment, and he must have quite a few commitments. There’s a child, I think, as well as the alimony.”

  “What’s his work like?” asked Helen, her nose buried in the fragrant little bouquet of freesias she had been delighted to find on her plate.

  “Very good, apparently,” said Bill. “Though you know that side of things isn’t quite in my line. The general consensus at the factory is that he’s qualified for something a lot bigger than our modest family concern.

  It seems he’s been deeply hurt by the divorce and wanted somewhere to lick his wounds.”

  “Where was he before?” asked Helen. “And why did he leave?”

  “Oh, he’s been with some huge concerns—an American bank, a big chain of garages. But he and his wife had their own business eventually—office furniture, I think—and he turned his share over to her.”

  They saw him once or twice a month after that. Sometimes he came to them for the evening, but more often, he arranged an outing to the theatre or a club. Once he brought his daughter, a shy pretty girl of sixteen. She had just had her “O” level results and he w
anted the Whites to share the celebration. He gave her a very good camera and promised her a course of driving lessons for her next birthday. She looked at him adoringly the whole evening and the Whites agreed afterwards that it seemed a shame that her mother did not allow her to see her father more often.

  The White children also fell under his spell. Bill had never been too keen on football so he was glad to accept Philip’s offer to take the boys to the local matches. Helen protested when he kitted them out in the full supporter’s gear—scarves and hats in the team colours, wooden rattles and sweaters with Derby County emblazoned across the font. But Philip retorted that it gave him great pleasure to be in the company of children and Helen felt waves of pity well up when she thought of him compensating for the loss of his family life.

  Later, when he exchanged his battered old car for a better roomier model, he took young John and Charles to away matches.

  Helen agonised over ways of paying him back, showing her appreciation of the time and money he spent on the youngsters for they came back full of enthusiasm for the hamburgers, cokes, sweets and other treats he had provided. The trouble was she did not want to be indiscreet: she wondered whether to ask tactfully if he needed cushions or curtains—she could easily run some up for him and these bachelor quarters were always so stark and bare. But she did not like to seem to be angling for a visit to his home. Also Bill had asked her to go easy on her spending for a few months.

  The firm, left to him by his father, was just beginning to pick up after a difficult period; he did not want to push their luck. So, while not expecting his family to live frugally, he had curtailed their original plans for a holiday abroad and put off for another year having an extension built on the back of the house. His fellow-directors, both elderly men inherited from his father, were of the opinion that White and Sons should be well on its feet again within eighteen months. The yearly Audit seemed to confirm their estimation and the team who came in was full of praise for the work done by Philip Grainger in his first six months. They had great confidence in his ability.