Back in the days of Vernon, the name Revolver daubed in red letters on the black shopfront. It was a different life. She was not yet a yummy mummy. If someone had told her back then that one day she would fall for Vernon Subutex, she would have shrugged . . . in those days she was stunning, she was funny, all the boys were head over heels. She liked the guy at the record shop, but she had other priorities. She had a thing for musicians. Groupies get a bad press, but it’s only because they can do things that boys dream about but would never dare to do: suck off the whole band in the back of a van.
If Alex had not died a few days earlier, she would probably never have given Vernon a chance. She only vaguely recognised his name. But on her Facebook page, she has seen a link to the film “La Brune et moi”, clicked “Like”, he had P.M.’d her and she had thought that was sweet. When she heard that he was looking for somewhere to crash for a few nights, at first she had hedged – my son has just moved out, I’m having work done . . . But Vernon had still been seeing Alex when he died, maybe he could help her understand what had happened.
Alex Bleach was a mistake that had left its mark. She had never been the same, afterwards. Over time, she thought about him less often.
But she was convinced that they would see each other again some day, that he would apologise, that they would have a chance to clear the air. It was unimaginable that two people who had been so close could stay angry with each other. But Alex was dead, there would be no happy ending now. She would never get to tell him to his face: you know I loved you so much, I don’t feel bitter, but that break-up, it almost killed me. He would not get to say I’ve always regretted the fact that it ended so badly. I was never as happy with any girl, not like I was with you. She will never know. The moment when he began to lie to her. Sylvie is convinced that he did not leave her for another girl. He left her for a line of smack, for a crack pipe. He left because she would never have allowed him to destroy himself as he did. His lover had no body, no phone number, no libido, she was a baggy of white powder. It is a love Sylvie knows at first hand. Nothing quells anxiety like a drug, no woman is as faithful or as tender as smack.
Alex was the sort of guy who reacted to the news his latest single had sold a hundred thousand copies by plummeting into a cavernous depression. He was a real son of a pleb, success scared him shitless. He was a man who felt shame. It was what he called integrity. Anything with a whiff of sophistication offended him. To invite him for a drink in a palace was to court disaster – he would weep with rage. Everything upset him. Sylvie had taught him what she knew of the world. Feeling at home everywhere, not allowing yourself to be overawed, never showing your vulnerability.
Sylvie had loved Alex uninhibitedly. She gave herself without imagining that he might betray her. But, being Alex Bleach’s girlfriend was not entirely positive. Certain aspects were amusing – being able to go to the front of every queue, watching faces change the moment they stepped into a room, not having to even mention your name for the most luxurious rooms to become available . . . but her true moment of glory was when he would come off stage and look around for her, to see what she had thought. Was it good? It was great. Until she had given her opinion, those of everyone else – the thunderous applause echoing around a hall like Le Zénith – meant nothing. Being indispensable to him was a drug. She revelled in the massed camera flashes of the paparazzi, the envy of the pretty girls, the heckling calls of the journalists, that feeling that was special, dangerous. She never complained about her position – she pretended not to hear the sleazy comments people feel entitled to make about a girl who is thrust into the spotlight for being the favourite of the hero of the moment. She would never have imagined that the status of “official girlfriend” would invite so much hostility – a star’s entourage argue about everything, they agree on only one point: his girlfriend is no good for him. She gritted her teeth and smiled, ignored the rumours and the reproaches whispered into the ear of the prince. She was there to support him. From the moment he woke he would be sobbing, as she got up she would muster all her strength to get him on his feet, like a coach moving restlessly around a boxer. No-one had ever seen a monster so fragile. No-one could have guessed that this arrogant brute who trashed every stage in France was transformed into a whimpering puppy the moment he stepped out of the spotlight.
He had disappeared overnight. Dumped her by leaving a message on her answering machine. She saw the new girl’s face in the pages of the gossip rags. They never saw each other again. She never understood exactly what had happened. She had to invent a plausible story so that she could move on. As best she could – when you’re young you believe that time heals; she learned that you have to amputate to survive.
Gradually she thought about it less often. Until the death of Alex. And the reappearance of Vernon Subutex. It happened naturally. From the moment she opened the door to him, she knew it was inevit-able. But she never thought things between them would happen so quickly. He came to her bedroom that first night, two weeks ago now. They have not been apart since.
Sylvie is having the girls round tonight, it was arranged ages ago. The moment she mentions it, Vernon takes off. He does not want to impose. He takes his rucksack – there is a friend he wants to catch up with – he won’t come back until tomorrow. He laughs when she insists he come back and sleep next to her and asks how late he can come home. He gives her a long, deep kiss before he leaves. She turns to jelly at his touch. It is something she hasn’t felt for a long time. That taste of battered leather and blasphemy, of a wild and dangerous bad boy. Vernon is gentle, Vernon fucks divinely, Vernon is a little disturbing. Vernon has got everything going for him.
She goes downstairs to catch a taxi from the place d’Iéna. The Somali Embassy is under siege, as always, a queue extending along the pavement. The Eiffel Tower seems so close that you could simply reach out your hand and touch it. She feels her stomach heave as she climbs into the cab, it smells of unwashed male. She taps little messages to Vernon on her Samsung. He does not answer immediately. She worries. She had forgotten how foolish you become when you’re in love. Winter sunshine, late morning, the area around the Madeleine is deserted, the streets are vast; Sylvie never tires of the beauty of the capital. She has never lived elsewhere for long – a few months in New York, a few weeks in L.A.; like everyone else, she loved the States in the 1980s. But she does not feel the same eagerness to go back now – September 11 was the bell sounding the end of playtime. She loves Rome, she likes London, she enjoys spending time in Andalusia. But nothing can compare to Paris. Through the taxi window, Sylvie watches three girls walking side by side. Three little Romanian girls. She sees one of them slip a hand into the backpack of a Japanese girl, but they are too far away for her to try to intervene. As she passes Marcolini’s, a group of Russians is photographing the chocolates in the window. At Au Printemps, tour buses are disgorging a gaggle of Chinese tourists. Sylvie no longer hangs out in the designer departments of the grands magasins.
At Lafayette Gourmand, she buys a huge box of Sadaharu patisseries: she knows that tonight she and the girls will exchange half-amused, half-outraged looks when Laure can’t help but stuff her face with them. Like her arse isn’t big enough already . . . When Laure comes to dinner, Sylvie discreetly steers her towards the sofa for fear that her gigantic arse will break her favourite armchair. When they talk about guys, Laure joins in as though she were one of the girls. But with a face like the back end of a bus and the manners of a trucker, her only hope of getting fucked occasionally is the rise and rise of functional alcoholism. It must be awful to have a figure that no amount of dieting, exercise or surgery could make attractive.
Marie-Suzanne will probably monopolise most of the evening reading out all the text messages she gets from Bernard. For years now she has been having an adulterous liaison with an ageing beau and saves every email, every text message on her phone so her girlfriends can vie with each other to come up with the most brilliant textual analysis. They canno
t bring themselves to tell her that they know all there is to know: you’re being used, girl, it’s obvious that he’s screwing anything that moves.
When Sylvie described her friends to Vernon, he stopped her, palm thrust forward, singing “Stop! In the name of love”, then said, “Do you actually like any of these women?” Sylvie is a bitch. She’s a Parisian. What she most appreciates about her girlfriends is the ability to rip them apart as soon as their backs are turned. If the conversation isn’t catty, no-one would be likely to find her interesting. In a way, it suits her that Vernon is not staying over. She wants to tell her friends she has a new lover, who has more or less moved in with her because he’s living in Quebec these days – to her friends, she will pretend she believes him, though she knows he is lying. He knows nothing about Canada. She thinks it is more likely that his last girlfriend chucked him out and that he made up the story to find a place to sleep . . . When he comes to trust her, he will tell her the truth. It’s not important, all guys lie.
She is willing to bet that, as soon as they arrive, the girls will say, “My, god, you’re looking fabulous!” Because it shows – a good fuck is a lot better than thalassotherapy for the complexion, so two weeks of frantic fucking has taken ten years off her. It completely realigned her chakras. She’ll tell them that he is almost the same age as her – she knows, because she has been discreetly told, that these tarts all pretend they’re shtupping younger guys because they’re terrified of mature men . . . It’s simple, if one of them said she was getting it on with Brad Pitt, the other would say that he’s not half the man he used to be. But the truth is, she is planning to make them sick with jealousy about her wild yet gentle rock-star boyfriend.
She will wait until they all arrive, set down the bowl of roasted almonds in front of Laure, and when the girls start to get impatient – Come on, out with it! What’s your secret? You look amaaazing! She’ll tell them that he’s been in love with her since he was twenty but waited all this time to declare himself. She thinks he has aged really well, and she wants to make the most of being single now that Lancelot is away at university, Jesus, girls, what do you want me to say, I’ve never had a better fuck in my life, how could I not fall in love with the guy?
It is not completely untrue. He’s good in bed. He’s an old hand, but he suffers from the faults of men who have screwed too many women, guys who are always moving from one girl to the next end up losing their instinct. What they gain in technique, they lose in passion. These are minor quibbles she does not plan to mention. Instead, she will advance a theory about the biological clock: there comes a time when the body realises that it has only a few short years of splendour remaining and makes itself available for one last fireworks display – she is having orgasms like she has never had before. Or at least that is what she will say.
She is happy that Vernon did not want to stay tonight, if only so she can feel how keenly she misses him after only a few hours. And she will feel more comfortable if she has time to send him to the dentist for a vigorous scale and polish before introducing him to anyone. Otherwise, he is fine. Physically, he is very presentable, and he can be charming in conversation. The next time she has the girls over for dinner, she will be only too pleased to introduce the beast.
She will be wary. She herself has slept with most of her girlfriends’ regular partners. The guy would have to be hideous or have serious personal hygiene issues for her not to at least make the attempt. What could be better than sleeping with the boyfriend of a best friend? Especially when they seem so happy together. A quick blow job in the lift cures the jealousy brought on by other people’s happiness.
Sylvie stops in front of Eres, her eyes drawn to the embroidered yellow satin lingerie in the shop window. Though it was unplanned, when she thinks about it, it seems only decent to buy some underwear she has never worn for anyone else. Having someone else constantly in your head. His movements as he screws her. The memory is almost more troubling than the thing itself. The constant background heat, the flickering, almost pornographic images are all the more arousing as she remembers them here in the street. How long has it been since she had a fling with a man she finds attractive who is actually available? How long since she made plans to go on holiday with any boy other than her son? She’ll suggest they spend a week by the pool in the Château Marmont – at least Vernon will know what she is talking about. Rent a car, stroll down to Amoeba Music with him. Guys always make like they hate being “kept men”, but her experience has taught her that the opposite is true. They like being indulged by the woman they’re sleeping with. A pimp fantasy, maybe, but they like to be spoiled.
She chooses several outfits and locks herself in a changing room. A month ago, she would have hastily tried things on, but Vernon’s passion has helped her to accept her body. Today, when she looks at herself in the satin two-piece, she sees a very pretty girl. All the exertion has paid off. Her triceps and her pectorals are firmer, her breasts are better supported. Her belly is perfect, her buttocks firm, her calves shapely enough to accentuate her slender ankles. Sylvie does a twirl, looks at herself – a fine specimen. She is still not prepared to linger on the face. The first Botox injections worked miracles, but the effects did not last. The hair extensions help to disguise the slackness in her oval face. She has not had any serious cosmetic work done yet. She is waiting until she is ten years older.
When you’re young, you don’t realise the cruelty of what is inexorably happening. You know it is happening, you simply don’t realise. Like most girls, Sylvie thought of her beauty as something that was hers: she might grow old, but she would still be beautiful. Being trapped in this skin has become a tragedy, a terrible injustice, one she cannot complain about to anyone. For a long time, she believed that, if she kept herself fit, everything would be fine.
That had all ended one summer. She had been in the shower, cooling her sunburn and washing the salt from her skin. As she had been towelling herself dry, she was surprised to find some sand under her breasts. Then it struck her. She was pierced, transfixed, stunned by an invisible arrow. Straight through the heart. The penny had just dropped: once they start to sag, you have to lift them up to wash them. She remembered the pencil test – it was something women used to talk about when she was a girl: if a pencil placed under the breast doesn’t fall, you’re past it. She raised her head, stared at herself in the misted mirror – she had not seen herself naked in a very long time. Only in lingerie or in a swimsuit. That was when it had begun. And the summer in question was not last summer.
But now, she plans to make the most of her body: she will fuck with a fury far more intense than when she was young and still unaware of the urgent need to make the most of it.
She wants to be with Vernon all the time. In fact, she wishes she had cancelled the dinner with her girlfriends – when you’re single, you pretend you could never bear to be joined at the hip to someone 24/7, that you find such relationships puerile and pathetic, but you only find them pathetic in others. She tries on different outfits and takes selfies in the changing-room mirror, posing to show her good side, glad that, for once, the lighting is flattering. And before she goes to the checkout, she sends the best shots to him via private message on Facebook. Then she writes “I so wish you were coming home to bed tonight, I should have given you a set of keys. Are you sure you don’t want to come back?” She wants his cock, his hands, his jokes, she wants to watch television with him, she wants his smell, she wants his brashness . . . She had not realised that she was ready for such a grand affair.
LET HER DUMP HIM, FOR PITY’S SAKE, LET HER DUMP HIM! HE is listening to Johnny Cash on his headphones and drinking cans of beer. He breathes. Ten days, she has been on his back non-stop. The girl blathers on from the moment she opens her eyes. She gulps in air. The first night, he found it cute, but he quickly tires of her guttural croak, leaning over his shoulder, watching his every move. And it’s impossible to let her rant on and think about something else. She can’t stand it
when he daydreams. There are lots of things she cannot stand. He smokes too much, he eats like a pig, he is moody, he is getting a paunch, he spends too long in the bathroom, he hasn’t read enough books . . . how many beers have you had; God you smoke a lot, at least open a window, go on quick; close the window, it’s freezing; you make so much noise I can’t get to sleep; could you put your dishes in the sink when you’ve finished eating . . . Are you really listening to that shit? You’re not telling me you actually like Stromae? I should introduce you to my son, you can listen to shit music together. Give me a hand here, I’m about to make dinner so get into the kitchen, you can peel this, and take out the bins, do you know how to fix a wardrobe? No? That mocking little smile of hers: men, they’re all the same – useless. And the little-girl face she pulls when she kisses him – for fuck’s sake, woman, you’re a hundred and seven, stop acting like a child when you kiss me, and stop kissing me all the time, I’m not a fucking teddy bear . . .
Vernon Subutex One Page 11
