Dead or Alive

Books about death – my life is full of them. why is that? I don’t know. Maybe it has to do with my parents death. Or maybe I'm just morbidly fascinated by it. Especially since the death of Francine, my beautiful friend, and wife of my cousin.

I feel like the character Alvy singer in the woody Allen film, who resents his new girlfriend, Annie hall, with two books about death as a gift soon after their meeting.

So here are some books about death – death of a salesman Arthur miller; death in the afternoon Hemingway; the death of andre breton; the Tibetan book of the dead ; the i ching; death and the penguin andrei kurkov; melancholy death of oyster boy tim burton; dante's inferno; death in venice thomas mann; chronicle of a death foretold marquez; many others including my own poetry volume the death of french poetry [great title or what?]

So to The death of Francine. The local police seem to think I was responsible. They're almost right, but its one thing to provide the ammunition, quite another to pull the trigger. So, yes, I feel responsible, I gave her the means to perform the act. But no, I didn’t make her take those pills.

The case against the mysterious K is as follows.

Francine was the wife of the accused’s cousin Etienne.
Francine and Etienne were happily married until K came to live with them.
Etienne threw Francine out when he discovered she was unable to conceive a child.
Francine went to live alone in a flat in marseille.
Etienne asked K to marry him. the only snag was that he was still married to francine.
K therefore obviously murdered francine to get half share of Etienne's substantial capital assets.
K after an initial interview with the marseille police then escaped from France to Istanbul.
The whereabouts of K are presently unknown to the police.

In the old days there’d have been a reward for my arrest. Dead or alive.

Sometimes I wonder if my friend Beth will turn me in. but I doubt it. Unless they torture her maybe. The cops are like that, especially in marseille. Fucking scum, almost as bad as the criminals they hunt down.

My life is strange but eventful. My death will probably be a damp squid. [joke]

Something that disturbs me even more is the way people abandon all hope when the chips are down. So called friends drift away from you. so I decided to shut down my page on LT – due to lack of interest. That is sad.

So its come to this. Me and Beth against the world. Fuck the rest of you. unless you want repent your ways. In which case grovel by paying respect to this blog. Or crawl back under your stone for ever.

Dead or alive.

Missing

I had to do it. Go underground. Incognito.

The flics are searching for me. They want to frame me for a crime I didn’t commit. That’s how the marseille police operate.

They don’t know im here. Neither does anyone else. Except the person who harbors me. And she doesn’t know who I really am.

Cute huh?

I could tell you her name, but then I’d have to kill her. Let’s call her beth. First thing that came into my head.

Beth is young and pretty and innocent, like I used to be a few years ago. She has dark brown hair, a slim waist, round hips, a nice smile. She makes me feel good. She doesn’t realise yet that I want to take her to bed.

How long can I remain here. Well, until the dust settles, which might be a long time.

My friends are worried about me, I guess. Some of them deserted me, but a few have kept the faith. I will send them messages of gratitude. The rest can go to hell.

Tomorrow is a new dawn, as always.

What’s my name? That would be telling.

Dream Girl

Listen. Ecoutez moi. I tell you of my dreams.

I’m at this party, somewhere in the Luberon. It’s a house party, thrown by one of Etienne’s neighbours, up the road in Menerbes. I’m feeling kind of dizzy, the effect of the noise of the music, the conversation, the wine. One of the guests, this English lady, good friend of Etienne’s, takes my arm. She looks out of it, red faced, voice slurring.
Do me a favour, cherie, she says, trying to keep her voice down. Take Garland home. I’m too pissed myself.
I stare at her for a moment, not comprehending her babbling. Then is notice the girl traipsing in her wake.
Ive had too many myself to drive, I say.
You’re fine, she says. Its not far, handing me a bunch of keys. It’s on your way.
Who says I’m leaving anyway?
I stare at the girl, who looks bored and nonchalant. Maybe id be doing her a favour, rather than her mother.
Garland’ll show you the way. Wont you darling.
She pushes the girl forward. She has bright red hair, pink lipstick. She’s wearing a too-short white dress. Pretty in an understated kind of way.
I take the keys and sling my bag over my shoulder.
You win, I say, lead the way.
I follow the girl across the gravel drive in the moonlight, until we come to a yellow convertible. Wow I say you never said mummy had one of these. Nice toy.
The girl, Garland, just smiles, doesn’t speak, gets in beside me. Her legs stretched out next to mine, pale and skinny. As we pull out of the drive, the wind brushes her hair across her face. I put my foot down and squeal across the tarmac.
So, I say, where’s home.
She doesn’t speak.
Garland, where d’you live.
I don’t want to go home, she says, folding her arms across her boobs. She has a slim figure, with small bust and a tiny waist. A red-haired waif. Can’t we just drive for a bit first.
Fine by me, I say, beginning to enjoy the power beneath the bonnet.
I shift up the gears, the engine snarling as we climb the hill towards Roussillon, then race across the plain towards the main road. At the crossroads I take a left and veer in the direction of Cavaillon, feeling the wind rush through my hair. Garland is silent beside me, but I can tell she’s enjoying it. When we reach ? I head towards the Sorgue and the little town where I met Tamara, what seems like many moons ago.
I turn the car round and head back towards Menerbes, along the back roads.
You’re a crazy driver she says, as we hurtle towards the oncoming traffic.
Like you care, I say.
She shrugs. I ain’t complaining, its fun.
Finally she points out the way to her parents house, on the back road between Menerbes and Etienne's place. Only a few minutes away, quite literally.
The house is big and deserted, dark and eerie. The girl makes no attempt to leave the car.
Would you mind coming in with me, she says, it feels kinda spooky.
Of course, I say.
We both get out the car and enter the house, flicking the lights on in the main lounge.
Garland slumps into one of the big sofas. She looks at me with large dark eyes, heavily made up.
Thanks for the drive, she says. You’re quite cool.
Really, that’s nice to know.
Could you stay with me, until mummy gets home. It gets a bit lonely round here at night.
I guess so. Maybe ill sober up enough to drive home.
Where d’you live.
My cousin’s place, it’s a bit isolated, on the road to Bonnieux.
She nods.
I know where you mean. Lots of vines.
She flicks on the TV.
You wanna watch some TV with me?
That would be cool, I say.
She kicks off her shoes.
Make y’self at home, she says.
I think about myself at this age. The girl must be sixteen, roughly. Probably still a virgin. Living abroad among strangers. It can’t be easy.
You’ve got really nice hair, I say.
Thanks, she says, twirling it round her fingers. Mummy wants me to cut it, but I refused.
I had long hair once, I say, when I was a teenager. Then I cut it off. Maybe I shouldn’t have.
You have nice hair, she says. It’s cool. Kind of suits you.
She stretches out a hand and strokes my head.
Sandrine, how old are you.
Oh I’m quite old. Nearly thirty.
Garland laughs. Her teeth are white and straight, her lips pouty. She has nice dimples on her cheeks. Her eyes are like saucers, dark and hollow.
That’s not old. Mummy is forty, like your friend Etienne.
I smile at this.
I have the strangest feeling were going to become friends, I say.
Now that would be really cool, she says. She leans her head on my shoulder and her arm round my waist. The odd thing is , I don’t feel uncomfortable with this.
I stroke her mane of red hair and kiss her on the top of her head.
She makes a sighing noise.

I know what you're going to say.
It's wrong.
She's just a girl.
You should be ashamed.
That kind of thing.
You're right, of course you are.
I shouldn't' have.
But she kissed me. Out of the blue, she kissed me.

Garland. It's such an unusual, and beautiful name.
An unusual, beautiful girl.
And it was only a dream, wasn't it?
At least, I thought so.
Now I'm not so sure.

Felix

Of course, you guessed correctly. The story continues at Falcon Wharf. Another time, another place. Something to believe in, perhaps.

Falcon Wharf, anyway. An exclusive riverside development of luxury apartments with stunning views across the Thames. Prices start at £800 per week for a 2 bedroom duplex. I start to wonder how Felix can afford it. I mean, he tells me he’s director of an art gallery in Berlin, but this is serious money. And there’s his art collection – it must be worth a lot. Thousands at least.

Naturally, we start talking about art. I tell Felix about Etienne and my life as the artists muse, model and sometime lover. He seems very interested in all this, which I find unusual. We talk about the exhibits at the Tate, and other recent shows like the Van Doesberg and Anish Kapoor.

We’re talking about the film History of Nothing by Paolozzi, and I tell Felix about my friend David, an English artist, who has actually met Paolozzi, amongst others. He’s not familiar with David’s work, but I guess maybe he isn’t into erotica. I also tell him how saddened I feel now that David seems to have less time for our friendship. He seems sympathetic, but maybe he also senses an opportunity?

The apartment is very tastefully furnished, ultra modern, uber chic.
I can tell you’re a man of taste, I tell him.
He smiles.
I just tend to like beautiful things, he says – paintings, sculpture, furniture, and of course women. He looks me straight in the eye.
What about your wife, I ask. Is she beautiful?
He looks away for a moment.
We’re no longer together, I’m afraid. And you, I don’t sink you are married?
Not yet, I say, but I could be. Maybe next year sometime, who knows.
I see. You have a boyfriend at home.
I nod.
A pity, I was razzer hoppink ve could spent time togezzer.
I don’t see why not.
Good, now lets eat.

During the meal Felix starts to tell me about his business, back in Berlin. A small gallery, dedicated to modern artists, he says.
I wonder how he manages to afford the flat. Except I must have said it out loud.
Ziss, he says, spreading his arms wide. He laughs. He taps his nose. Nazi gold, he says.
I nearly choke on my steak. But he’s not laughing now.
No, really, he says. In ze vore, my fazzer’s unit looted many places. After ze vore, much later, zay sold ze pieces slowly, not to arouse suspicion.
I don’t know what to say, so I don't say anything.
You're going to tell me its immoral, or something, aren't you. he looks amused.
Its none of my business, I say. But preferable to murdering Jews, I guess.
That’s true, but you could look more disgusted.
I'm just not very moral either, I guess

Later, after the meal, and two bottles of Chianti, we’re looking at the view from across the Thames at dusk. Felix is sitting in a chair whilst I drag on a cigarette, leaning against the balcony.
I sink it might be time to talk bissness , he suggests.
I finish the fag, toss it into the river over my shoulder.
I guess so, I mean, that’s why im here.
He smiles.
And I sought it voss my jovial company, he laughs.
Well, maybe that also, I concede.
Its nice to mix bissness with a liddle pleasure, don’t you sink?
Why not, I say.
He gets up from the chair, and holds the door open for me. We sit on one of the two large white sofas.
So, vot have you got to offer me sandrine, he says, leaning back on the sofa, his bulky frame almost taking up the whole of the furniture. Apart from ze obvious, he adds, chuckling to himself.
As much as you want, basically, I say. Maybe at first we should start with small amounts – I mean until you can trust me. You see, I'd need payment up front, in cash.
He strokes his stubble thoughtfully. I see, zat vont be a problem. Ant I do truss you. off course.
Do you haff any off ze…..vine….. wizz you?
Of course.
I open my bag and produce a miniature bottle, and hand it to Felix. He carefully unscrews the lid and extracts some with his index finger, and places it on his tongue.
Perhaps we should try some, you ant I? He suggests. Right now.
I don’t normally do that.....but ok.
He takes a note from his wallet and places it on the table in front of us. He takes some of the powder and hands the rest to me. We both inhale at the same time.
I tell him I read somewhere that most of the banknotes in London are contaminated with coke. He laughs. A wicked laugh.
Lets talk money, sandrine. how much are you vonting for ziss vine.
Per case, about a grand.
He nods.its good stuff, I can tell. Vare did you get it?
That would be telling.
Come now, don’t be shy.
I sigh. Mainly from the beurs in Marseille, or Avignon. I happen to have some connections down there.
Incredible, I'd never have believed it. A girl like you. How come you get mixed up in ziss?
I shrug.
It was by accident I guess. But its easy money.
You could end up in jail, if you get caught.
I never carry enough on me for that.
He places a hand on my thigh, strokes my knee gently.
Its time we got to know each other a liddle better, don’t you sink.
I stare at him.
That would be extra, Felix.
He raises an eyebrow.
So you charge for ze pleasure as well as the buissness? I see.How much extra?
I leave that up to you, I say. let's call it a tip.
He laughs loudly.
You really are a wicked woman, Sandrine.
As his left hand moves, slowly, between my legs, pushing my skirt higher, I can feel my temperature rising suddenly. The drugs are beginning to take hold, and I've lost all sense of time and place. Felix pulls me on top of him, and plunges deep inside me.

The Uncertainty of the Poet

It had started out as a game – airport lounges and railway stations were her usual haunts. These places were easy pickings – bored businessmen killing time, that kind of thing. But now she’d moved on to greater challenges.

It’s an overcast midweek afternoon, and I’m in the Tate Modern. Specifically, the poetry and dream section on level 3. The museum isn’t particularly busy today. I’m gazing admiringly at a painting by De Chirico when a giant meanders into my field of vision. He’s stopped about ten feet to my left. Standing over six feet tall, black leather coat, short close cropped blond hair, left hand in his pocket, right hand stroking the stubble on his chin. He casts a sideways glance at me, looks back at the painting. For a split second our eyes meet. I’m rooted to the spot, as he strides nonchalantly towards me, no doubt taking in the essentials – short beige raincoat belted at the waist, dark stockings, pink scarf, hair tied up in a messy bob, black leather handbag dangling from my left shoulder. I decide to exit and head for level 5. But not before I absent mindedly leave one of my gloves behind. Did I do it on purpose? – I leave that for you to decide.

Level 5 - as expected the giant has indeed followed me. I sense his presence while I ponder the arte povera piece entitled Venus of the Rags. He coughs to attract attention.
Excuse me, he says, but I sink ziss belonks to you?
[Strong trace of a Germanic accent there, methinks]
I swivel to look at him, pretending to be startled.
Oh…yes, thanks…..where d’you find it?
In ze poetry ant dream room. You vare lookink at ze painting – uncertainty of ze poet?
[he means the one by De Chirico]
I nod my head twice. His eyes dart to the Pistoletto and back.
So vot you sink of ziss – Venus of rags?
I pause for reflection. What do I think of it?
It’s crazy, I say, but I like it, don’t you. I prefer this level to downstairs. [I’ve started to babble, as usual]
Then he smiles. My lecks are aching from warking. Its tiring, don’t you sink?
I smile faintly at him, wondering where this is going. Some people enter the room, and he leans closer to whisper.
We shouldn’t talk here. Join me for a coffee?
I hesitate but his steely blue eyes seem to command my assent.
Ok, why not.

So…did you come here by boat from Tate Britain?
We’re in the coffee shop looking out across the Thames. I shake my head slightly and take a sip of coffee.
On the tube from Waterloo, I say. But it’s still a walk.
I take off my scarf and lay it on the table.
Don’t leave zat behind, he jokes.
I try to wriggle out of my coat.
You seem distracted, he says.
I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.
I unbutton my raincoat and reveal a tight fitting plain back t shirt. He stares at my bosom. [I don’t blame him, it’s my most treasured possession]
It’s a great museum, don’t you sink?
Yes…..so is this your first visit?
No, I haff a flat in London, a place called falcon wharf, not far from here. You know it?
I don’t know the city that well. I live in France.
I sought so. You’re here on holiday?
Business. But I had a spare afternoon so here I am.
I notice his eyes straying to the front of my t-shirt again, then he rubs his chin. A nervous gesture perhaps?
And vot iss your business, mademoiselle?
I guess he’d ask that, so I open my purse and hand him a business card. He stares at it closely and looks up.
Krantz – your name sounds Jewish. [I stare at him – yes, you didn’t wipe us all out you nazi]
My father was a New Yorker. It’s a long story.
How interestink, and you sell vine. Even more interestink.
How about you, I say. Why’re you here chatting to a strange French woman you’ve never met on a dull afternoon?
He laughs. I don’t know. Maybe because I find you attractive. And I don’t sink you drop ze glove by accident.
I smile innocently here.
How d’you know I’m not a serial killer, he says, leaning forward on his elbow.
I don’t – but I’m guessing serial killers don’t stalk women in the Tate modern very often.
I gather up my things and button my mac.
Look I have to go now, or ill be late for my business meeting.
He stands and offers a hand, which I shake.
You didn’t even ask my name, he says. I’m Felix.
Well, thanks for the coffee Felix. It was nice meeting you.
He sighs. So zats it? Just a cup of coffee.
He looks disarmed for once as he towers above me. I pull my scarf tight around my neck.
Were you expecting something more?
I voss hoppink we might see each uzzer again
He looks sad now, like one of those puppies with appealing eyes. I flatten my beret and shrug my shoulders.
I’m very busy right now Felix. But you’ve got my number haven’t you.
He smiles. Off course.
I brush past him and smirk to myself all the way to the exit, feeling his eager gaze on my retreating figure. I’m sure he’s got the biggest hardon in the Tate gallery.
Definitely to be continued, I think.

L'Etranger

Tracking shot: Grey stone walls, the interior of the cottage. A solid pine door, opening into a large room with a bare wooden floor. In the centre Lola is squatting, legs beneath her, on the square Breton bed, bedclothes flung back. She is wearing a plain white cotton man’s shirt, with black lingerie underneath. Her blonde hair is tied in a ponytail behind her.

Close up: Her fingers begin to play with the top button on the shirt, very slowly unfastening the garment. The black lace of her bra now comes into view, cleavage peeping over the top, pale white complexion. The luscious purple lips parting to reveal clear white teeth. The navel now gyrating as she sways from side to side to the music she can hear in the background. Something jazzy and cool. Maybe Miles, he isn't sure. Its like a dream now, as Lola removes the white shirt and pouts at the camera. She’s trying not to laugh but there is a sensuality about her, yet something innocent also. Now she turns her back to the camera and looks over her shoulder, breathing heavily.

Close up: She unhooks the catch and lets the black lace bra fall onto the bed. Now her smile is cheeky, as she turns round, arms folded across her chest, keeping her charms covered. Eventually she stretches her arms in a big yawn, and the camera is allowed to feast on her ample bosom. Now she is playing to the lens, and very slowly, so slowly that time seems to stop, she rolls the stockings down her legs.

Goddard can hardly breathe now, as she faces him unashamedly naked, blowing kisses at him, laughing as she pulls the bedclothes over her. He stops the film abruptly, wipes his brow. She is sitting in the bed, arms behind her head, face straight.

What do you reckon, she says
I think, he says, that the camera likes you. But there is a catch
Let me guess, she says. The director wants to sleep with the star
Goddard shrugs as he pulls his shirt over his head.
Don’t they always?


excerpt from the Stranger and the Goddess [@A L Krantz]

No way back

Tony Marx opened his eyes slowly and waited for the room to stop spinning. He allowed himself to focus on the ceiling, adjusting to the darkness around him. After a while his gaze settled on the only source of light in the room, coming from an open window to his right. The girl was leaning out of the window, in her underwear, smoking. He remembered her name. Sandrine.

Sandrine whom he'd made love to last night, as the trains thundered into Kings Cross, the noise drowning her screams. Screams of ecstasy and screams of pain both. Maybe even at the same time. He saw the slash marks on her pale skin now, bright red, where he'd used the belt as an impromptu weapon.

Now she turned towards him, stubbed out her cigarette and tossed it onto the railway line.
This is a no smoking room, he reminded her.
She placed a finger on her lips. Full ripe lips, made to be kissed.
Naughty Sandrine, she said.
Yes, he said, naughty Sandrine.
She climbed onto the bed and spread out next to him, leaning on her elbow, staring into space.

Tony felt great, and he felt terrible. Last night had been possibly the most exciting uninhibited night of sex in his life. But he'd betrayed his wife, something he'd vowed never to do. There was however something about Sandrine that had aroused his desire. He simply hadn't been able to resist her charms.

His mobile phone rang, and he reached across her to answer it.
Darling, he said, a note of surprise in his voice.
Still in London, yes, he said.
When will I be home? later today, I think, he said.
Sandrine pulled back the sheet and started to massage his penis, which stiffened instantly.
Look, I'm a bit busy right now, he said. I'll have to call you later.
Sandrine was licking him now, slowly moving her lips over his erection.
Shit, he said. Love you too, darling. he put the phone down.
You fucking bitch, he said.
Sandrine started giggling.
He slapped her on the arse, quite hard.
She rolled over onto her back. then stood up suddenly.
My train leaves soon, she said. I'll have to go now.
Can I see you again, he said.
Of course, we haven't finished the article yet.
No, I meant, can I see you again.
Screw me, you mean.
If you must put it that way.
Never say never. But what about your wife. I thought you loved her.
I cant explain.

And he couldn't. why? Ever since he'd first met her, he'd become intoxicated, seduced by her glamour, by the air of sensuality that surrounded her. That night, at the Soho party, when they'd been introduced, the air was full of coke and booze. Now she'd become like an illicit drug to him. He was hooked, he realized. Cold turkey would be inadvisable.

How did I get here, he asked himself, watching her get dressed. Almost forty, married, two children, good job, nice house. I don't need this. But I can't do without her.
Now she pulling on her coat, tossing her hair back, staring coolly at him.
Well, it's been fun, she said.
I'll call you soon, he said.
I'm sure you will. Au revoir, Tony.
She disappeared, off into the streets, heading for St Pancras, and the euro star.

Tony swore to himself. He wanted her again, already. Wanted to tear her clothes off and screw her, violently, over and over again. To feel himself inside her, the smell of her all over him. he banged his fist on the table. Shit, he said to himself. She's driving me crazy.

Sandrine, on the other hand, was trotting into St Pancras, her heels clacking on the pavement. She smiled to herself, aware that another man had been ensnared in her game. She felt the eyes of the men on her bare legs as she descended the staircase. Tony had been easy, but he might be useful. Good publicity, and all such contacts were worth having.

How to cheat etc - part 2

Admit it, you’ve been yearning to read part two ever since I ended part one with that dangling carrot. Maybe not, but here’s what happened next.

Sunday morning. A bright London morning, as it happens. Most respectable folk are out exercising their dogs, or playing sport or something. The entity that is Sandrine is however curled up in bed with yesterday’s edition of the Guardian.

I glance at the clock and realise with a sense of panic that Anthony, my journalist friend, will be here to conduct our interview in fifteen minutes. Just enough time to shower and throw last night’s clothes on. I grab a plain white shirt and black skirt from the laundry pile and decide not to bother drying my hair. The doorbell rings.

You look different, he says.
Sorry, I’m a wreck aren’t I. Late night again.
No, you look wonderful, he says.
He’s carrying a laptop and a small bunch or roses. He hands them to me. The roses, not the laptop.
Very romantic, I say.
I make some coffee and we sit on the only piece of furniture, an old sofa. Tony’s eyes seem to flit between my bare legs and the swell of my bosom beneath the clean white shirt.
Just need to check a few facts for my article, he says, you understand.
Of course, I say.
He reads me some of what he’s written so far.

"The bed is the size of a small country, the mattress so wide that we can’t decide which way to lie. The cream walls and canvas curtains add to the sense of cool and calm, a most sensuous experience so far. In the bathroom, creamy marble tiles are soothing to the eye and delightfully cooling to the naked body. We are in room 34, a lovely double deluxe with views over the rooftops of the city, a print of one of Helmut Newton's famous nudes framed over the bed. Sitting in front of an ornately gilded mirror, the object of my desire has only a glass of wine for company as she mimics erotic scenes from Bertoclucci’s The Dreamers.

She calls herself Sandrine, but Ella Krantz is her real name. Her father was an American photographer, who covered the war in Vietnam until the fall of Saigon. Her mother, the real Sandrine, was a French model of the sixties and seventies, a favourite of Balmain and St Laurent. The family lived in an apartment in Paris 17th arrondissement, then moved out to the suburbs. At 13 tragedy struck when she was orphaned in a car crash on the autoroute.
Now she is a sultry seductress, an enchanting, husky femme fatale, long dark hair trailing across her fragile pale skin, concealing the tips of her nipples. She smiles coolly and sips from her glass."

I start to giggle. I don’t remember any of this, I say.
Poetic license, he says, but hopefully the facts are correct.
I stare at Tony.
I don’t know about this. I’m too tired at the moment.
How about dinner tonight? This time it’s on me.
I pretend to hesitate for a moment, but I can feel myself reeling him in.

Naturally I cant decide what to wear, but plump for a pale cream blouse, tight black dress, high heels, plus of course the chanel perfume that Sandrine swore by. We meet at Leicester square, and tony whisks us into a noisy American diner where we sit at the bar and order cocktails whilst waiting for a table. It’s not my kind of place, too raucous and full of Caribbeans. We sit in the window and order the biggest steaks on the menu. Tony orders a bottle of wine and he starts to relax.
It’s a bit different to the other night, I say
I know, he says, but the firm paid for that. I like it here anyway, don’t you. makes me feel young. Glynis and I come here a lot.
I nod. Your wife, I say. She’s really called Glynis.
He laughs. Kind of old fashioned ain’t it?
What’s she like I say.
Glynis? Oh fabulous [he uses that word a lot] she used to be a looker, when we first met. In fact, she dated some hot actors before me.
He mentions some names, but I don’t react.
And d’you still love her?
Course. I mean, who wouldn’t. she’s a fabulous mother, wife, you know.
You ever been unfaithful before?
He looks taken aback.
No, but then, its not every day I meet a girl like you.
You want to make love to me, don’t you.
It had crossed my mind.
I’m leaving for Paris in the morning, so I can’t be late in bed.
I’ll bear that in mind, he says, as the waitress arrives with our order.

Later, much later, we’re in a dark corner of London , a stone’s throw from Kings Cross station. The restaurant was okay, the cocktails and several glasses of wine have kicked in. We’ve walked from the tube station at Russell Square, narrowly avoiding a scuffle involving a taxi driver and some louts. Tony checks us in at a small hotel in Grays Inn Road, and we take the lift to the 2nd floor. I open the window to smoke a cigarette, and check out the view, which is basically the railway line and the backs of some houses on the Kings Cross road. Glamorous it’s not.

I can sense Tony sneaking up behind me in the dark. His lips caress the flesh on my shoulder, his hands running through my hair. You smell gorgeous, he whispers.
For some reason I get goose pimples. I turn to face him.
It’s not what I expected, I say. The hotel.
So what, he laughs, it’s not like we’re married. You’re just my fucking whore.
If you say so, I smile.
Get undressed , he barks. The party’s about to start.
He’s unreeling the belt from his trousers, unzipping himself, pulling his shirt over his head. I’m watching him, not moving, lying on my back.

He rolls me over roughly and pulls my pants down. He brings the belt down on the exposed flesh, once, twice, three times. I don’t scream, just a squeak. It doesn’t hurt that much. The wine must have anesthetized me.
You French tart, fucking bitch, he shouts. He hits me once again, and my mind wanders back to that time with Krantz, then at Montaigne. And of course, Alistair.
You’ve done this before, he says, haven’t you.
I’m laughing, not crying. He turns me over to face him , pinning me to the bed. I want to tell him that I prefer women, that he doesn’t turn me on. But he seems aroused anyway. I take his erection into my lips and he seems to relax at last. I take him almost to climax then let my tongue slither away.

I’m holding onto the brass rails at the back of the bed as he plunges into me, fiercely, violently, rocking the bed from side to side. The noise outside rises in intensity, as a train crashes across the tracks into Kings Cross. I can feel the energy drain from him, and the semen oozing over me, like lava flow from a dormant volcano, hot and sticky and deadly.

Now he’s kissing me, saying sorry, that he loves me, that he didn’t mean to hurt me. He’ s cradling my left breast in his mouth, sucking, then moving himself inside me again, wanting more. I lean across to the table and pick up the still smoldering cigarette, start smoking.

I feel good, despite it all. As married men go, he wasn’t bad. Maybe not an exercise to be repeated, all the same.
You were fucking sensational, he says, looking up at me, his arm round my waist.
I smile. Now go home to your wife, I say. She’ll be wondering where you’ve been.
I start to pull on my stockings and see the hungry look in his eyes.
Just once more, he pleads.
I sigh.
Ok, but this time, I call the shots.
He lies back, and I notice his erection has faded to nothing. Maybe there’s nothing left to give? I start unbuttoning my shirt and watch as he stiffens, smiling.
Sandrine, he says, I fucking love you.
No, I say, you love your wife. I’m just your fucking whore, remember?
He laughs as I straddle him, lowering myself onto his by now towering column. Another train arrives as we make it once more, obliterating my screams of ecstasy.

Erotic Eva

Sitting on a polished antique table in front of an ornately gilded mirror, with only a glass of wine for company as she recreates erotic photographer Helmut Newton’s iconic 1973 image of British actress Charlotte Rampling.

The actress, 29, shows no inhibitions as she poses naked for the December edition of style bible Tatler, in homage to the classic Seventies portrait

Newton’s 1973 photograph of Rampling for Vogue magazine was taken at the Hotel Nord Pinus II in Arles, not far from my present home in the Luberon.

The original photo was entitled The Sexiest Woman In The World - a title that also seems to suit the current French actress rather well.

Eva Green is her real name. Her father Walter is a Swedish dentist, and her mother is Marlene Jobert, a French actress of the sixties and seventies, a favorite of Godard and Malle. One film of hers I remember well is Le Passager de la Pluie – in which she was raped early on. Marlene is a pied noir, having been born in Algiers and moved to France as a child.

The family lived in an apartment in Paris 17th arrondissement - an area which includes the streets of Batignolles, one of my old haunts.

Eva was born in July 1980, only a few weeks before me, in the same city, Paris. She reminds me so much of the late Sandrine. The same wild beauty, the sensuality, that look. Wow.

I've visited the Hotel Nord Pinus once before, a few years ago. It's a hotel which oozes history - Picasso, Hemingway, Cocteau, all stayed here. It has cool leather armchairs and the massive mirrors, enormous black-and-white photographs of Africa by Peter Beard, and an incredible collection of giant posters advertising the ferias of Spain.A copy of one of Helmut Newton's famous nude portraits of Charlotte Rampling is in suite 10.

So once again, I sit on the enormous bed, staring into one of the massive mirrors, sipping from a glass of cool wine. I'm desperately trying to recreate the pose struck by Charlotte and Eva, but my photographer, Lucien just makes me laugh. Later on he'll make me come, and we'll roll together on the bed, dreaming of the old days of Arles. Van Gogh, Gauguin, Picasso, Fitzgerald, Cocteau, Henry James......

Lucien and Sandrine, from Batignolles, where Eva lived, trying to live up to her beauty. Failing miserably, but enjoying it nonetheless.

Charlotte Forever

Charlotte is of course, Gainsbourg

In a recent interview Charlotte spoke about her late father, who died when she was just eighteen. Apparently his house in Paris, on Rue de Verneuil, has been left untouched since his death, a virtual shrine to the great man.

She was asked whether she intended to live there herself. I couldn’t do that, she said, it’s too heavy emotionally. She also said that it was the only place that she could be alone with her memories of him. A sentiment I’d echo, since I feel the same about my parents’ house.

Later in the interview Charlotte said that it was only since having her own children that she felt able to move on. Now that she’d had half her life without her father, maybe she’d be able to leave that first half behind.

This got me thinking, a lot. First of all, I know where Rue de Verneuil is, on the left bank, not far from Boulevard Saint Germain. In the precise area frequented by Sandrine during the Seventies. It’s hard to believe that they didn’t meet at one of those fashion parties. Serge and Sandrine, that is. Charlotte would have been a small child at that time.

“At the beginning it was like my legs were cut off, and that feeling lasted for a long time. It’s been 18 years and it’s still very difficult”. In my case, 16 years since the fateful accident that ended my life. Or so I thought, at the time. But I did wonder whether perhaps Charlotte was right. Maybe I need a family of my own, to replace the one I lost?

Naturally, I don’t mention any of this to Etienne. He might take it the wrong way, and I’m still not sure about him as a potential father. Instead I stare at the photo of Natacha Ramsay outside the Gainsbourg house. I have to admit that it turns me on, just a little, and I feel guilty about this.

I find the purple diary blog quite sexy, in fact. There is something quite decadent about the photos, something seedy. Especially the ones of Natacha and other women. I start to wonder if she is bisexual. Why does that make me feel this way? I wish I knew. In a way it's like the squalid Kings Cross hotel where I had casual sex with a married man last December. Sordid but exciting. Forbidden.

I look across at Etienne. Of course, it's all his fault. That, and the accident. And reading Ballard's book about sex and car crashes.Etienne also loves decadence. We're the perfect partners for each other, in truth. But as parents? The jury is still out on that one.