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.
