Rake

by Scott Phillips

  “And what do the ladies make of that?”

  Baffled, he jerked his thumb in the direction of the termagants down the hall. “Those two?”

  “No, I mean what happens when you meet a girl and bring her home and she finds out you’re planning to fuck her on the floor?”

  “Oh.” He shrugged, looking as sad as I’d seen anyone look in a while. “Doesn’t happen very often anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  “They’re all after guys with money and good jobs. Nice apartments. Cars. I work in a bookstore and I sleep on the floor.”

  “Bullshit, man. You’ve given up.”

  “Easy for you to say. You’re a big TV star, all you have to say is ‘Hello’ and bang, she’s going home with you.”

  “You’re a famous novelist.”

  “Famous? My book sold less than five thousand copies.”

  “Marie-Laure read it.”

  “She’s a statistical anomaly.”

  “Look, Fred. When’s the last time you got laid?”

  “A year ago.”

  “You haven’t been laid in a year? What kind of Frenchman are you?” He looked like he was about to cry, so I dropped that particular line of argument. “How’d it happen the last time?”

  “I was married to her.” His expression got a notch sadder.

  “So that’s it. You were married for a while and forgot how to pick up women. It happens. I guarantee I’m going to get you laid before we get any further with this project.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  I shook my head. “It does matter. At the risk of opening up a wound, why’d you get divorced?”

  He stared at the bare wooden floor, its ancient varnish mostly worn away. “Because I found out she was fucking my best friend, that’s why.”

  “Ah. Listen, here’s what we’re going to do. You know that little blond assistant of Marie-Laure’s?”

  “Not exactly, apart from having been at that meeting today.”

  “Good enough. She’s coming along tonight, and I’ve got five euros that says she’s going to take you back to her place at the end of the night.”

  “I don’t even know her. And she’s young.”

  “Young is good, Fred, not bad.”

  “I mean she’s probably into all kinds of terrible youth culture. And she’ll probably hate my book. Who knows if she even reads, working in television?”

  “Fred,” I said, straining to keep the exasperation out of my voice, “you’re not marrying her tonight. You’re going to attempt to insert your penis into her vagina and then remove it again, repeating the process until such time as you achieve a reasonably satisfying orgasm. I will attempt to encourage her to allow you to do this. After that if you’re both of a mind to do so, you can try it again. If not, you’ll fuck some other woman. Okay?”

  He answered with a joyless, resigned shrug. “Let’s go.”

  Heading for the stairs, I was terrified to hear the door to the old ladies’ apartment open. I turned to face a pair of sweetly smiling old biddies, one considerably older than the other.

  “Good evening, M. LaForge,” they said in unison. The older one squinted at me and said, “You look just like that doctor on the television.”

  The younger pointed at Fred and informed me that M. LaForge was a celebrated writer. “Author of a novel.”

  Both of them had those sweet, high-pitched voices that older French ladies get. Fred bid them good evening with what seemed genuine fondness, and we descended at a great clip as they made their way down, step by grueling step. I wondered where they were going at nine in the evening; off to feed strychnine to the pigeons, perhaps, or to some poor trusting clochard sleeping under a bridge. In any case I felt certain that they were safer than anyone having the misfortune of running across them under cover of darkness.

  •••

  We took a cab to a Chinese place near Les Halles where Fred used to eat with his wife. There were the usual cheap wall hangings and paper lanterns, Chinese pop music playing quietly over the PA, and waitresses in slit silk dresses, one of whom was a tall, slender thing with very nice legs. She found it impossible to address me directly and looked at Fred while I gave my order. When she left I watched her walk away, an impossibly slinky gait that gave me a little boner there under the table.

  “So your best friend banged your old lady,” I said, breaking my own spell, not really intending to say anything mean. It just came out that way.

  He nodded. “He was a friend of mine, and a colleague. He was at the wedding, even. And I came home one day and heard my wife having a big, loud orgasm.”

  “You heard it?”

  “She’s a screamer.”

  “So how did you know she wasn’t masturbating?”

  “I snuck upstairs and stood by the door and I heard the bedsprings creaking, heard him calling her a dirty slut, heard her coming louder than I’d ever heard before.”

  “Jeez. I hope you broke his fucking legs.”

  He was shocked. “Of course not.”

  “I would have,” I said, realizing even as I said it that I probably wasn’t a prime example of a well-adjusted adult.

  “We used to come here once every couple of weeks.” He looked around. “Haven’t been here since. I thought I’d feel bad, but I don’t.”

  •••

  The Hanoi Hilton was a real clusterfuck when we got there around eleven-thirty. When Sammy the bouncer saw us standing at the top of the stairs with twenty or more people ahead of us he barked at the crowd to make way for a VIP, and for a second I thought the scene might turn ugly, but the whispers and pointing amongst those awaiting entry were excited rather than angry; the chance to rub shoulders with celebrities apparently trumped the unfairness of it. Sammy nodded at me as we passed and jerked his thumb toward the bar, where the assembled crowd parted like the Red Sea making way for Moses, people touching me on the shoulders and arms as though I could cure whatever it was that made them want to come to a place like this and pay double for watery drinks and damage their hearing to the tune of twenty-year-old disco riffs, probably not even getting laid in the bargain. The bartender handed us our comped drinks and gestured with a sideways nod toward the VIP salon, pressing a button as he did so. The door to the salon opened, and Sammy’s cousin, wearing shades and an earpiece, gestured us inside as the crowd at the bar gawked.

  To my surprise Marie-Laure was already there, along with the production assistant—Clarice? Félice?—I’d promised Fred he could sleep with. Marie-Laure’s skirt just about came up to the crack of her ass, and the way she kept crossing and uncrossing her legs made me wonder whether she was wearing underwear or not. Esmée strode toward me and gave me the bise—four—and Mathieu shook my hand.

  “We’ve been discussing your project,” Esmée said. “It’s fascinating. How ever did you get the idea?”

  “Standing in front of the old girl and trying to picture what the arms would have looked like.”

  “Did you get the basket?”

  “I did. I have to admit I haven’t cracked open the champagne yet.”

  A simultaneous and brief look of anticipation crossed the faces of Marie-Laure and Esmée and, I was interested to note, that of the production assistant as well, a look that I hoped had escaped poor Fred’s notice. This was unlikely, because he was staring at the poor girl with the intensity a baby gives its mother when it’s sure she’s about to leave the room.

  “How do you find the hotel?” Esmée asked.

  “Delightful,” I said.

  “But it must be terribly expensive.”

  “True enough. I really ought to look into renting something.”

  Esmée pressed her hand flat to her sternum. “You know, I just had a thought,” she said in a way that made me certain she’d had the thought well before I arrived. “I have an apartment in the sixth, not far from here at all. It’s furnished and unoccupied; the tenant left last month.”

  Knowing full well she was going t
o let me stay there for free, I played along. “That sounds ideal. What do you think per month?”

  “I wouldn’t dream of letting you pay. You’re such a delight for even considering me for the role.”

  I looked over at Marie-Laure, whose face was the very picture of equanimity and indifference, and I knew she was seething. She loathed Esmée, and it didn’t look like there was going to be any way to avoid the two of them working together.

  As we discussed the specifics of the arrangement I glanced at Fred, who was still staring at the assistant (I really was going to have to learn her name once and for all), while she studiously ignored him. I sidled over to him as Esmée, Marie-Laure, and the object of Fred’s affections huddled to discuss whether or not they should get out onto the disco floor and boogie down. Mathieu was leaning against a wall painting of Christopher Walken’s exploding head, reading a comic book.

  “Listen, Fred, you can’t just stare at her all night. Go over and sit with her. Ask her to dance. What you’re doing right now is giving her the creeps. Hell, it’s giving me the creeps.”

  “Oh.” He stared at his feet.

  “When’s the last time you courted a woman?”

  “That was my wife. Eight, nine years.”

  “Were you better at it then than you are now?”

  “Not really. My wife was pretty aggressive.”

  I turned to the assembly and announced that I was going to dance.

  •••

  That girl in the cage was dressed even more skimpily than before, and I swear this time I saw a glistening flash of vulva through those raggedy shorts. I started off dancing with Esmée, while Fred took Marie-Laure for a partner and Mathieu shook it with the assistant. Esmée had a most disconcerting way of staring deep into my eyes while we danced, a look so fraught with implications I couldn’t help but think that moving into her empty place was going to be a mistake. I started a silent mantra: Her husband is going to help finance the movie. Her husband is going to help finance the movie. Her husband—

  But then I saw the way those hips moved and I didn’t care about the movie at all.

  When the song changed I danced with the assistant. I would have sung Fred’s praises, but she seemed completely lost in the music, transported and almost unaware of my presence. I took careful stock of her with the intention of helping Fred: She was young, no more than twenty-five, she was ambitious (I thought), she was a long way from home (her accent suggested the Côte d’Azur), she was quite pretty (prettier than I’d noticed, previously, which may not have boded well for poor Fred), and she was quite a graceful dancer. She also had very long legs.

  Shit. Having convinced my friend that he should make an effort to sleep with her, and him having taken the idea quite seriously, I found myself in the uncomfortable position of wanting to fuck her myself. Another mantra: She’s Marie-Laure’s assistant. She’s Marie-Laure’s assistant. She’s Marie-Laure’s—

  The music changed again and I found myself dancing with a frankly chilly Marie-Laure. I was under no illusion that her anger stemmed from any particular attachment to me; it was the presence of a competitor, one who might be getting the upper hand pure and simple. She refused to look me in the eye, and I really hoped that she was going to agree to come back to the suite with me tonight, because that kind of angry sex is really better than any other kind.

  DIMANCHE, HUIT MAI

  SHE DID COME BACK WITH ME AROUND 3:00 AM, and she confirmed my hunch that the bottles of champagne that Esmée had sent were expensive, even more so than I’d guessed. We drank half of one bottle along with some of the cheese from the basket, then got up to some of that grudgefucking I’d been looking forward to. Afterward, lying on the floor naked, we polished off the rest of the bottle

  “Doesn’t your husband object to these nights when you don’t come home?” I asked her.

  “It’s not that kind of marriage.” She stretched out a long leg and stared down it as if down the barrel of a sniper’s rifle. “You be careful with that Esmée. I did a little checking up, and her marriage isn’t that kind.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning her husband is the kind who’d object strenuously if she strayed.”

  “I don’t picture her as the type that strays.”

  Marie-Laure snorted at me. “Don’t be a shit-for-brains. I saw the look she was giving you all night. So did Mathieu, who, I would remind you, works for her husband.”

  “Mathieu’s his partner, strictly speaking.”

  “Don’t be a dumbass. He’s pure front, a manager posing as an owner. All I’m saying is if you fuck her, you’d better be damned careful.”

  “You hadn’t struck me as the jealous type before,” I said with my famous, teasing TV smirk.

  “Don’t be fucking stupid, I don’t care who you fuck when I’m not around. I’m concerned as a friend and more importantly as a business associate with a professional stake in your remaining aboveground.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Don’t be a moron. You know what I mean. I think moving into that apartment of hers is asking for trouble.”

  “I’ll take it into consideration.”

  •••

  Next morning over breakfast I decided it would be a good idea to break it off with Annick. Bruno had already given a violent demonstration of his jealousy, and since I was entering into a business arrangement with his stepmother I thought it best to simplify the relationship. Especially given the fact that said stepmother seemed to have some sort of hold over him that went beyond the usual stepmother/stepson oedipal crisis. Marie-Laure’s warning about Esmée seemed somehow more plausible in the light of the morning, and the memory of the previous night’s frolics made me wonder why I needed any woman besides Marie-Laure. Besides, it wasn’t as though there weren’t a thousand—ten thousand—other, equally attractive women in Paris who’d be delighted to sleep with a TV star.

  •••

  In the early afternoon I packed my bags and checked out of the suite. Esmée was waiting for me with a car and driver, and in the backseat as we headed toward the Left Bank we talked about the movie.

  “What’s my character like?”

  “That’s an interesting question,” I said, and it was, since I hadn’t given it much thought other than that she should be pretty and have large breasts, neither of which would be much of a stretch for Esmée. “Fred and I are still hashing it out, really, so of course your input would be very helpful.”

  “Really?” she said, pressing her palm to her sternum again in that familiar gesture of hers. “I’m so flattered.”

  “Fred and I both find that it’s easier to write a character when you’ve already got an actor in mind.”

  She seemed genuinely excited by the prospect of getting to design her own character. She touched the tips of her fingers to the bridge of her nose and squinted. “I’m wondering if maybe she starts out not as the love interest but as a villain. Then later on they fall in love.”

  “That’s an interesting idea,” I said. It was better than nothing, anyway, and I pulled out my iPhone and started writing it down.

  “What if she’s there to steal the arms for some megalomaniac art collector?”

  “Huh,” I said, pretending to consider it, even though it made no sense. “What would an art collector want with just the arms?”

  She shrugged. “He’s a megalomaniac billionaire. Who knows? I’m just saying, think about these big art heists. Somebody steals a Monet, he can’t exactly walk into the Maison Drouot and sell it, can he? So someone’s hired him to steal it.”

  “You’re right, it doesn’t compute. Why hire someone to steal something you can’t turn around and sell? What’s the point?”

  “The point is, you get to own something valuable and rare, and nobody else gets to have it.”

  “I can’t believe there’s anybody like that, willing to spend that kind of dough just to be an asshole.”

  She smiled a little bit, an enigmatic ex
pression worthy of the Mona Lisa. “Believe it. When I know you better I’ll tell you some stories about the very rich.”

  When we pulled up in front of the building, Esmée and I got out, and when I started for the trunk to get my bags she waved me off. “Denis will get the bags. Come on up, I’ll let you in and give you the tour.”

  •••

  The place was huge and furnished with expensive new furniture, and for contrast on the walls were paintings ranging from the seventeenth to the early twentieth centuries. At first glance I thought I identified a small Watteau and one of Degas’s last, small flower paintings, and though the collection had a sort of weird eclecticism to it, somehow the pieces all worked together to suggest a singular sensibility. I thought back to what she’d said about megalomaniac art collectors and got a little nervous about la Sûreté bursting in with guns drawn to retrieve them for their rightful owners while I slept.

  Denis brought my bags inside, and Esmée, having forbidden me to hand him a gratuity on the grounds that I was her guest, told him to wait in the car. I’d slip him twenty at some later date, I told myself, when she wasn’t around.

  “Now, my darling, would you like me to send him on his way?”

  I raised an eyebrow. “I’m afraid I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Cut the shit. Do you want me to stay?”

  “I’d love for you to. But I think with your husband as a potential backer for the movie we should be careful . . .”

  “The hell with my husband. He’s in New York for five days.”

  “Aren’t you afraid Denis will turn you in?”

  “Denis works for me.”

  It was all sounding really good. But I didn’t know enough about her husband, or about Denis, to blithely assume that they weren’t in league behind Esmée’s back.

  And yet there she was before me, pouting slightly, moist red lips separating to reveal her tongue gliding between her barely separated upper and lower teeth, chest thrust forward to accentuate that lovely rack, eyes half shut in lustful anticipation. . . .

  What the fuck. You only die once. “Yeah, send him on his way.”