Chez Lucien

Woke up early again. Another strange dream. As usual have to write it all down before I forget it. Later on I’ll send a report to Gerhard – my shrink.

The dream? This time I’m being pursued through a city at night. Sirens everywhere, police dogs. I’ m dressed totally in black, and with my long dark hair I blend into the darkness. The chase is relentless, and I’m getting out of breath. Just as the dogs gain on me I scream out. This jars me out of sleep.

The digital numbers on the alarm clock read 0400. I won’t get back to sleep now, but it doesn’t matter. Sleep doesn’t interest me. I put on a robe and get out of bed. Soon it’ll be dawn. I pick up my cigarettes and head for the balcony. In the kitchen I stop to put some coffee on. Strong, black coffee.

Soon I’m outside, leaning over the balcony, smoking a gauloise. Not that there’s much to see from here, just the street. Rue Truffaut. Lucien is still asleep, in the other bedroom. Although we’ve become occasional lovers, we don’t sleep together. My dreams would disturb him. Our love making is more spontaneous, wilder.

Lucien’s apartment is on the 2nd floor of a fin de siecle Art Deco building. The second floor is where the wealthiest residents lived, so Lucien tells me. This floor has the highest ceilings, the largest rooms. Two arched French windows open onto the balcony, opening wide to let the sun in and closing tight to block out the light at night. With windows facing in all four directions, the apartment is often bathed in light.

Back in the kitchen I glance through the window. From here you can see the top of the Eiffel Tower peeping above the rooftops and chimneys of Paris. I take the coffee into the living room.

Light floods the spacious living area, casting a warm glow on the original parquet floors. The entire apartment has been delicately furnished, the walls hung with 19th century prints. Lucien has impeccable taste.

I pick up a newspaper that’s been left lying around. It’s a few days old. I glance at the headlines. Berlusconi has put his foot in it again…..some farmers are protesting at Sarkozy’s plan to run a railway through Cezanne country…..both PSG and Marseille failed to win in Europe.

On the stereo lies the sleeve of the LP Lucien played to me last night. Chet Baker Sings. We sat listening to the cool jazz for an hour, whilst eating a romantic dinner. Then we made love on the sofa, fully clothed, like it was the end of the world. I didn’t want to spoil the moment, so I abandoned my plan to tell Lucien. That I might be leaving.

Today I feel refreshed. When I’ve finished the second coffee and fed up with old news, I throw on a pair of shorts and a faded t shirt, tie my hair in a ponytail. Then I’m outside, pounding the pavement. This morning I turn left into Rue des Dames, then head for Place Clichy, en route for the Cimetiere de Montmartre. I rest here for a few minutes, sheltering from the drizzle which has become heavier. On the run home my hair becomes plastered to my face, and my nipples are visible through the wet fabric of my clinging t shirt. I get some smiles, some looks, even some whistles.

Back at the apartment, all is quiet. I walk into the kitchen and Lucien surprises me, pinning me against the wall. He runs his hands over my bosom, then down into my pants. I pull my shirt over my head and he licks my wet skin. His erection is impatient, his desire urgent. We do it there, in the doorway, the rain now teeming outside the window.

I shower and dry my hair. I’m sitting checking the messages on my phone when Lucien wanders in again. There’s one from Etienne, looks like he’s having marital problems again. Frankie is a feisty girl. Another one from Jules, the guy I met at the fashion week party. He thinks I’m cool and we should get together. I recall he knew Sandrine, so I might say yes.

I’m relaxing, looking forward to an uneventful stress-free day, when I get this call. It’s from the secretary of an important wine merchant in the Marais. The managing director has a free appointment this afternoon, if it's convenient. Did I sigh? No, of course not, I accepted, otherwise Etienne would never forgive me.

So here I am, looking like death warmed up. I’ve just run ten kilometres, had sex twice in the last seven hours, only four hours sleep, and I’m still hungover. This had better be worth it.