Marianne
Nothing to offer him. Sebastian’s words consumed me. I poured all my frustration and hatred into him while appearing to tolerate him in my home for Raymond’s sake. It was our wedding anniversary in September and I smiled enigmatically - and what I hoped was sexily -as I pointed out over dinner one night that Raymond and I would have special plans for that night. Plans that naturally did not include Sebastian.
I took a day off work and visited the hairdresser and beauty parlour for some treatments. It was not that I was stupid enough to believe that a haircut, or a facial skin treatment, or a full body massage would in themselves make me beautiful. But they made me FEEL beautiful and confidence is power.
My short, dark hair fell back perfectly into place when I moved, gleaming like a rich horse chestnut. I lined my eyes with kohl and slicked my lips with soft pink gloss. My stockings slipped smoothly over my moisturised skin in a soft caress and I slid my feet into high heels. Even the mirror did not dampen my enthusiasm tonight as it might usually do. The reflection was closer to the blossoming of my youth than I had ever achieved in recent years.
Ten minutes before Raymond was due I ran him a bath laced with oils.
“Upstairs,” I called as I heard the door bang.
Raymond wandered into the kitchen first. I heard his bag drop on the wooden floor, the sound of his feet on the stairs and I felt breathless with the anticipation of having him closer to me.
“Hi,” he said popping his head round the bedroom door.
He looked at me in surprise.
“You look nice,” he said. It was an academic assessment.
“For you,” I said with a smile, indicating the bath. “I have booked a table for this evening.”
“Where?”
“It’s a surprise.”
He seemed almost disconcerted - but I think in a pleased way - by my attentions, and I helped him slip out of his clothes and into the bath. I deliberately made my attention sensual rather than sexual. Perhaps it was a repetition of my beauty parlour experience but this time for Raymond. In any case, I knew that anticipation was a key weapon in sexual desire, a build-up of tension. The most important sexual organ is the brain.
Raymond emerged from the bath with his dark hair sleeked back, water dripping from the ends. The soft white towel was wrapped around his waist and he padded into the bedroom and over to the wardrobe but I got there first. We had two banks of wardrobes in our room, one for him and one for me.
“No, no,” I said, smiling teasingly at him as he went to open his side. My hand lay on his.
“This side.”
I opened my wardrobe and Raymond looked at me.
“Anything,” I said.
“But we…”
“Anything.”
“I thought we were going out?”
“We are. I have booked a table an hour’s drive away.”
There was an air of incredulity about Raymond’s expression that made me enjoy the moment in a real rather than a forced way.
“You are really prepared to…”
“Yes.”
Raymond made a strange little sound, a combination of a gasp and a laugh.
“Truly? You mean it?”
I could sense his excitement at my attitude. Neither of us would ever mention France or Bar Patrice out loud to the other, but I knew he must be thinking that the churlish acceptance of his habits - the sulky tolerance of them - was being replaced by something else. He pulled out a silk dress with a black and grey rose print on it and held it up to me questioningly.
“Perfect.”
I selected some underwear and he slipped it on. I took out a long blonde wig and sat him down in front of the mirror and did his makeup. As I applied some blusher with a broad brush, I caught sight of his reflection in the mirror and stopped suddenly. It was hard for me to see him this way. I felt almost as if I was opening the door of his cage myself and telling him to fly away. But he looked so happy, so alive, that I smiled at his reflection and he lifted his lips to kiss me in an instinctive way that he had not done for a long time. I laid my lips lightly on his and he pulled me closer. He was grateful, I knew that, but I pulled away. I would exploit his gratitude later. Build the tension a little more.
“Later,” I said. “We have to go.”
Raymond looked at himself in the glass.
“We are really going?”
“Yes.”
He was trembling when he stood up. This was so different from the times he sneaked out to Bar Patrice’s, dressed up. This was his home. He worked here. He could not afford to get caught. And yet the danger of it was exhilarating and I knew that inside the danger was an element of sexual provocation that excited him.
Most men risk looking ridiculous dressed as a woman, unless they take hormones to feminise their appearance. The clothes, the make-up, the mannerisms, they are all simply a veneer, an added top layer. But they became part of Raymond, or he became part of them - I’m not sure which. Like Jasmine, he was a good-looking man in a feminine kind of way but as a woman, he was beautiful. Perhaps it was not to his advantage that he made people stare because on closer examination there were small clues to his true gender: he had beautiful skin but up close, perhaps it was slightly coarser than a woman’s. But on the whole, if there was anything masculine about Raymond I would say it was boyish rather than mannish. He was tall, willowy, fine-featured. If anything, he had more presence as a woman, more authority. More drama.
We were surprisingly quiet on the journey. I drove and Raymond looked out of the side window as the countryside flashed by, the first tinges of autumn colours staining the tips of the trees. The yellow and burnt orange reminded me of the landscape in the south of France. I don’t know if it was the same for Raymond – I don’t suppose it was – but I kept finding reminders on that journey of the night Patrice died. The colours, the highly charged tension, the sense of anticipation. The only thing missing was the jealousy, though I suppose somewhere in the mix, my feelings about Sebastian provided an element of that.
As we drew up outside the restaurant, I turned to Raymond and smiled, then noticed he had sweat on his brow.
“I can’t, Marianne,” he said, his voice full of panic. “Someone will know…”
I did not answer him. Calmly, I took a powder puff from my bag and dabbed at his brow, then opened the car door. I stood outside waiting, feeling less calm than I looked, and eventually his door opened.
“Good evening ladies.”
Ladies. The doorman swung the door open and I saw Raymond draw himself up and take confidence from the single word.
He looked at me sideways as we walked down the corridor and I saw the glimmer of elation in his eyes. For the rest of the evening, he immersed himself in his new identity. We ordered the best of everything. Creamy scallops with a mint and pea puree; fillet of beef and dauphinoise potatoes; dark chocolate truffles dusted with caramelised strands of red chilli pepper. It felt like foreplay, sensual indulgence that made us both flirt quite outrageously. I leaned across the table.
“Your name is Rosalyn,” I said.
“What do I do?”
“What would you like to do?”
He laughed.
“I would like to be… an actress.”
“Ah…you would like to be loved, Rosalyn.”
“Yes.”
“I love you.”
“I know.” Raymond’s eyes softened. And I love you too, Marianne.”
It was the gratitude talking. And the champagne. But he did love me in his own way. Neither of us would be sitting here if there were not love between us. A strange kind of love, some might say. I didn’t care. I didn’t expect anyone else to understand.
“What do you think people take us for?” I asked. “Friends? Colleagues?”
“Sisters?” said Raymond.
“You are too attractive to be my sister.”
“Don’t be silly.”
The restaurant was warm, softly lit and
intimate and I had deliberately booked a corner table. It felt like a cocoon which held us safely while we peered out at the rest of the world. Then I spotted a man who kept looking over at Raymond.
“There is a man in the corner,” I said under my breath, “and he certainly thinks you are attractive. I think he is trying to catch your attention.”
Raymond smiled and after a few seconds, casually glanced sideways. The thought that he was being watched by a man both pleased and excited him.
I leaned across the table and said seductively,
“But for tonight you’re mine. That man cannot see I have wrapped my legs round yours under the table like a chain. He can’t have you.”
Raymond giggled. He was alive, enjoying the challenge of our flirtation, of being allowed to be a woman. Secrets are sexy, I thought. Something shared and intimate and bonding.
But a moment later, Raymond glanced sideways and I noticed his expression change subtly.
He turned his chair slightly towards the window so that he could be viewed less easily. It was dark outside now and the chandelier lights of the restaurant danced in the inky blackness of the glass. Raymond kept his head angled towards the darkness, even when the waiter brought the coffee and truffles.
“What is the matter?” I asked, unnerved by the sudden change in temperature.
“That man you mentioned,” he said.
“What about him?”
“Don’t look round. Marianne, don’t! He suspects.”
“No he doesn’t!”
“He knows. I’m telling you he knows.”
I kept my eyes fixed on Raymond, as if deep in conversation and oblivious to everything else.
“Raymond, calm down. He is watching you because he fancies you.”
“Calm down! My God Marianne, he knows. I should never… never… it was too risky. What was I thinking of? There’s going to be a scene.”
It surprised me how scared Raymond was. He was never scared in France. I suppose the risk of exposure made our expedition all the more exciting, but now at the moment of imminent exposure, Raymond was a mess. In just a few minutes he had gone from coquettish to terrified and an unladylike sweat was back, glistening on his brow like raindrops.
“Marianne, I teach children. What…”
In the corner, the man pushed his chair back and scrunched up his napkin, stuffing it into his coffee cup. Raymond’s nerves were catching and I swallowed hard as he walked towards us. Raymond didn’t move a muscle.
“Goodnight,” said the man as he passed the table. But I saw him look back curiously in Raymond’s direction.
“Night,” I said.
Raymond said nothing, terrified his voice would reveal everything. He bent down to his feet, pretending to rummage in his handbag. I think that was the terrifying thing… that if, at any point, he had to open his mouth, everything was over.
“He’s gone.”
“Let’s go,” said Raymond. “I need to get out of here.”
“No, wait. Wait a few minutes.”
I did not know if the man turned his head back because he liked the look of Raymond or because he guessed the truth. We sat in silence until I saw the lights of a car outside head towards the window and then turn away.
“Waiter! Could I have the bill please?”
Raymond leant his head back on the car passenger seat and breathed deeply. Neither of us said anything as I turned the car out into the open road. Darkness sped by, a blur of lights as we hit villages, a skim of summer rain on the window. After ten miles or so, I felt Raymond relax. Then I heard a noise and I turned in surprise. I thought he was crying at first but as we passed a streetlight, I saw that he was snorting with nervous laughter.
“Oh my God, Marianne!”
I grinned.
“Did you see him…? Jesus, the look! He definitely knew.”
“No he didn’t.”
“He bloody did!”
By the time we reached home, we were shaking with laughter and nerves. We sat in the drive outside the house for a moment.
“But we did it,” said Raymond, his voice tinged with exultation.
“Yes, we did. Together.”
Raymond stopped laughing.
“Thank you, Marianne. It was the best present I ever received. The acceptance….”
He said no more but he reached a hand out and touched my cheek, and I caught his hand and held it.
“Let’s go in,” I said.
We were both giddy with champagne and hysteria and relief, and it provoked something reckless in both of us. We kissed the moment we got through the door. I thought briefly of Sebastian’s words…nothing to offer…and felt a surge of triumph. I just hoped that whatever was released between us, would take root and grow.
“This is very good of you Sebastian,” I called. I lay back contentedly on the wicker sofa in the conservatory and watched him through the open door. He had an apron over his peacock blue shirt and his cuffs were rolled up. Steam rose from a saucepan on the front ring and a lid rattled on the back over a pan of boiling water that hissed and spat.
“Not at all,” he said smoothly. “Nothing fancy. “
“Do you want a hand?” asked Raymond, opening a sleepy eye.
“No you’re fine. It’s just some pasta.”
“Good,” murmured Raymond, and his eyelids closed again.
“It shouldn’t be overcooked,” said Sebastian primly, busying himself emptying black peppercorns into a grinder. “Even Italian restaurants overcook it. Sometimes it’s shocking the slop they serve up as Italian food.”
“You should tell them, Sebastian. I’m sure they’d appreciate the feedback.”
“Don’t be arch, Marianne. It doesn’t suit you.”
I curled myself up on the sofa, the wicker creaking beneath me as if sighing at the weight.
“What was your connection with Italy again, Sebastian?” I asked him. “Oh yes – you holidayed there in 1962.”
“Marianne,” said Raymond reproachfully, opening one eye again.
“Or is it just that you visited Rizza’s ice-cream parlour in town once?”
Sebastian banged the pepper grinder down on the table.
“It’s ready,” he said.
“Smells good,” said Raymond.
“Onions, garlic, peppers, tomatoes, cream and pepperoni with some parmesan shavings on top.”
“Ooh, parmesan shavings. No mere cheddar for Sebastian,” I said. I uncurled myself from the sofa and stood up, stretching like a cat.
“Yum,” said Raymond, patting Sebastian on the back as he drained the pasta into the sink… “I’m starving.”
“Me too,” I said.
Sebastian half turned.
“You have such a good appetite for a woman, Marianne,” he said. He lifted the pot from the sink. “I did notice that little tummy of yours is getting bigger.”
I grinned inwardly. I had been waiting for this moment.
“I know,” I said, “just like yours Sebastian. But I’m pregnant. What’s your excuse?”
The pot clattered to the floor and two heads turned towards me. Raymond looked like he might faint. Sebastian looked like he might murder me. Pale worms of spaghetti straggled across the floor.
“Well,” I said, “that was a show stopper.” I linked my arm though Raymond’s.
“Are you pleased?”
Sebastian left shortly after. It was me who had to clean up most of the pasta from the floor. It was worth every last minute of effort. It was perfect, really. A celebratory meal cooked for us and I didn’t even have to suffer Sebastian’s presence while eating it. I poured two glasses of wine and handed one to Raymond who was stunned and silent.
“To our new arrival,” I said.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Zac
Conchetta looked at her son with a frown.
“But Zac,” she said gently, her eyes dark pools of concern, “you are not well enough yet to go off by yourself. You need to get stronger.”
“I won’t be by myself. I have to take one of the residents on holiday.”
“That sounds most strange and irregular.”
Across the table, his father stayed silent but his eyes flicked over his son, then back to his own plate.
Zac tried to chew a lump of meat that was turning into an obstacle in his mouth. It was impossible to swallow. He looked up miserably. He was back in his own place with Abbie and he wished he had never agreed to come home for dinner. Elicia caught his eye and winked.
“Who is this resident?” persisted Conchetta.
“She is called Marianne. She is wealthy and has a flat in the south of France. She has asked me to be her chaperone and do some nursing duties but there will also be a carer in France who will help look after her.”
“And what are the managers of the home saying?”
“They have insisted she sign a disclaimer, absolving them of any responsibility. And I have to take it as my own holiday, nothing to do with them.”
“But you have just been off.”
“That was ill-health. It does not count as holiday entitlement.”
“Sounds ridiculous to me,” said his father, pushing his chair back. There was a clatter as he opened the dishwasher and put his plate in.
Conchetta glanced up nervously.
“Well,” she said, “irregular I suppose, but perhaps… perhaps it will be pleasant enough to have some sunshine.” Conchetta thought it a bad idea, but as soon as her husband said it was, she felt obliged to retreat from her own opposition… Smooth things over for Zac.
“I think Zac’s lucky,” said Elicia brightly. “I would love to go to the south of France.” She scraped the last mouthful from her plate and put her knife and fork down with a clatter.
Her father muttered something nobody could hear and went out, closing the door behind him.
Conchetta and Elicia looked at one another.
“You will be careful, Zac?” Conchetta said. “You won’t do anything foolish when you are on your own?”
Zac flushed scarlet and shook his head.
“Of course not.”
“You won’t ever… I couldn’t…”
“Mum…” said Elicia.
The Chrysalis Page 9
