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.

How to cheat on your wife [part one]

Friday night.

It's raining and I'm sheltering by the rear entrance of the opera house, smoking a clandestine cigarette before my meeting with Anthony. He's a journalist I've been cultivating in the hope of gaining some publicity for Etienne wines. I'm already late for my rendezvous, but isn't that the lady's prerogative anyway?

I stub out the end of my fag on the pavement and cross the street to the restaurant. Tony is waiting in the bar downstairs, bottle of wine already opened, reading the Telegraph. He looks up as I enter, gets up and takes my coat. A true gentleman.

Vesper, he says.
I beg your pardon?
Casino Royale. You look just like the girl, Vesper Lynd. Fabulous.
I see where he's coming from. My dress has a plunging neckline just like the one worn by Eva Green.
I sit down opposite tony and he pours me a glass.
Bet you didn't know Eva was also born in Paris, and only a few weeks before me.
Amazing. You could almost be her double.
Here's another fascinating thing. In September I stayed at a hotel just across the water from the Villa in the movie.
Uncanny, he says, smiling.
He's staring at my cleavage, of course.
You are a sumptuous feast for sore eyes, he says. If I weren't happily married....
Does that stop anyone these days?
It should, he says glancing to his left.
The waiter is hovering, so we follow him upstairs to the restaurant.

The menu looks expensive, but Tony isn’t bothered.
Have anything you like , he says, we’re not paying for it.
And I thought you were taking me out to dinner, I chide him.
If I were we wouldn’t be dining here, he replies.
We both order a rib eye steak, on Tony’s recommendation.
He leans back and drains his first glass of wine, grabs the bottle and pours out some more.
What a great job I've got, he says. I get to have dinner with a beautiful girl, and I don’t even have to pay.
I'm sure you say that to all the girls
No really, you do look fabulous Sandrine.
You have a quite a reputation with the ladies.
I lean my chin on my elbow and sip some wine. A nice Chablis, actually. So he knows his wine.
He smiles.
All in the past. Since I met Charlotte things have settled down. Course I still drink like a fish, but that’s all part of the job.

Anthony isn’t that good looking – balding, bespectacled, late thirties – but he makes up for it with wit and intelligence. Like many journalists he has plenty of contacts, but it helps having been educated at Eton and Cambridge.
Opens so many doors, he admits.
He’s a ferocious name dropper too, with stories about the mayor of London, and many MP's including Cameron.
The next PM, he says. Thank god, this country will be run by its natural leaders, the aristocracy.
I'm not so sure
Well, you’re French he says, no offence, but you’re a bolshy lot.
We laugh together at this.
I tell him that I’m half American, and he goes into detail about his time in New York working for one of the literary mags. He knows Brooklyn and Manhattan well, and is knowledgeable on the cultural scene over there. Tony also claims to have dated many attractive women, including the ex girlfriend of a famous English actor.
But not Eva Green, I say.
Sadly not, he smiles, but you’re not a bad double.
Are we going to talk about wine at all, I ask.
Well, I'm no expert, but I can certainly write an article on the merits of the Luberon wines, with special mention of your cousin's vineyards.
He suggests a visit might be necessary to see for himself.
I don’t see why not, I reply.
We drink to the entente cordiale.

After dinner we stand on the steps and tony hails a taxi.
The night is young, he says. How about coming to my club for a drink? This ones on me.
Well, in that case, I accept.
Except its not really a club – more like an illicit underground drinking den that stays open all night. Its in a dimly lit cellar somewhere near Lincoln’s inn.
Tony orders a bottle of champagne and we sit together in a dark corner.
He snakes an arm around my back and squeezes me. I sense that the drink is taking him over. We chat about Etienne’s business and my role as its London agent. At 3am he insists on walking me home and we head for my flat in Trafalgar.
I tell him I’m amazed that he hasn’t made a pass at me all night.
You’re a great girl, he says, but I couldn’t get it up if I tried. Not with all the booze I’ve had tonight. I thought you were a lesbian anyway
Not exclusively, I say.
He puts an arm round my shoulder and points to the square.
Great view isn’t it, he says, if it wasn’t for that Nelson fella we might be overrun by frogs
You’d hate that wouldn’t you.
I stare into his eyes for a long time and kiss him lightly on the lips. He plays with my hair as I lean against him.
Sandrine, Sandrine. you’re a lovely girl, but.....
I know. You’re married.
Just bad timing, I guess. He shrugs
I didn’t want an affair, I tell him. Just tonight.
Our bodies are touching and I feel his erection against my stomach.
Trouble is it wouldn’t end there. Before you know it there’d be more nights. And then.
Maybe some other time, I suggest
I don’t think so. Goodnight Sandrine.
I cant believe he’s walking away and we haven’t made love, hardly kissed. I must be losing my touch.

But the next day he leaves several messages on my phone asking me to contact him before I leave town.
I phone him after the third one.
I just need to check a few things for the article, he says.
I might have room to squeeze you in. what did you have in mind?
Can we chat at your place.
Chat. Yes, of course, two clock’s fine.
He’s hooked, I can tell. I check my hair in the mirror.
Sandrine, you’re a very bad girl. I giggle to myself.

Rue des Dames

Lucien Lacombe, Bistrot des Dames, Rue des Dames, Batignolles, Paris. September 2009.

It was right here, in the Rue des Dames, that I first set eyes on Sandrine Krantz. It was that moment that changed my life.

I had a little studio in the Place Fillion, a house in Montmartre, a beautiful English wife who loved me. Everything was roses.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not blaming Sandrine for any of this. What happens happens. Que sera sera. But if I hadn’t run across her that day in the Rue des Dames, maybe I’d still be happily married.

Instead I live alone, on the second floor of an art deco building in the Rue Truffaut. Maybe I should move away from here, to avoid the memories, like Sandrine did. But whatever I think, this is where I belong.

I remember that when we met, Sandrine was with a girl I knew, a street girl named Anouk. They both lived in the same building on Rue Truffaut. I was struck straight away by her dark good looks, and her ample figure. We got into conversation and I asked if she’d ever done any modeling. She laughed, said her mother had been a fashion model, but she herself had only sat for artists. She insisted that she was a poet, and her mind was going to be her living. From where I was sitting I’d have disagreed though.

I met my wife, Amy, when I was on a photography assignment in London. This was when I worked for a men’s magazine, and she was one of the models. Now I’d seen plenty of naked girls, but she was something else. Natural blonde hair, blue eyes, sweet smile, voluptuous body. The camera loved her, and in time so did I. We dated for a year then got married and came to live in Paris. But I digress.

Sandrine agreed to let me photograph her, if I’d read some of her poetry. She came round to my studio the next day, and I took some black and white photos of her in lace underwear. She looked terrific, very sensual. After that, we became good friends. She was always hanging around the cafes on the Rue des Dames, and we spent time together, chatting about intellectual things – poetry, literature, art. It was a refreshing change from Amy, who despite being a charming girl was not at all cultured. I found myself slowly being captivated by Sandrine.

At this time Batignolles was a hotbed of artists and writers, bohemians and intellectuals. Sandrine soon infiltrated this milieu, became muse to several poets, working her way through their bedrooms. She became the darling of the poetry circle, even had her work published in literary magazines.

Amy, on the other hand, busied herself by becoming a society hostess. She had style and panache, and our home was tastefully decorated. She loved to hold extravagant dinner parties and invite anyone who was anyone. She liked to demonstrate that the English could beat the French at their own game – cooking – and she did so with aplomb.

I remember well the party to which Sandrine was invited, as my guest, during that fateful year, the year of the millennium. If memory serves me correctly there were six people present, including Raoul, a film producer, Emilie a young actress, and Jacques, a journalist. The party went with a swing, and Amy hit it off with Sandrine straight away. She even stayed behind to help clear up, and they continued drinking into the middle of the night, after I’d passed out on the sofa.

After that night Amy and Sandrine became good friends, and Sandrine spent more time round our house than she did in the cafés of Batignolles. I began to resent this, and although it sounds ridiculous, I believe I was jealous of my own wife. But I didn’t discover what was really going on until later.

A week or so later Sandrine posed for another set of photos, this time in the nude, and they were sensational. I tried to persuade her that she should turn professional, but she refused. She didn’t want to follow in her mother’s footsteps she said, she wanted to be known for her art.

Amy called by my studio one day and happened to see some of these photos displayed on the walls. She couldn’t stop staring at them. She’s very beautiful, don’t you think, she said. I agreed. Then she asked me if I’d slept with Sandrine, which I denied. Well, it was true, I hadn’t. If you mess with her, I’ll leave you, she said. I assured her that she need not worry.

One week later I found them in bed together. It was mid-afternoon, and for some reason I’d come home in the middle of the day, I can’t remember why now. The house was silent except for the occasional murmur of pleasure coming from the direction of our bedroom. I peered round the open door and saw them lying spread eagled together on the bed, both naked. Sandrine was lying on her back with Amy’s head between her legs. Amy turned her head and giggled. Darling, she said, what a nice surprise. Come on in, the fun’s just starting.

I glared at her. Suddenly I didn’t know my wife. I stared at her for what seemed like minutes, but probably wasn’t. Then I turned and stormed out of the house, started running back towards Batignolles.

After that Amy and I were never the same again. Although Sandrine left Paris soon after, we never recovered from that episode. Amy now lives in London with our daughter, Charlotte, and I visit them occasionally. We get on okay, but it’s just civil. She opened a successful bistro in Covent Garden and is married to a banker.

I didn't see Sandrine again until earlier this year when she showed up at my flat in Batignolles. God knows how she found me. We fell into each others arms and had a passionate affair that lasted a month or two. But I sensed that she was just passing through again, and so it was. One day she’d left, without a goodbye. I’ve spoken to her since, and she promises to call me up when she’s in town. Maybe we’ll even have sex again. Sandrine is like that, here one minute, gone the next. Nobody can pin her down, I know that now.

In a way I should have met her before Amy, then maybe things would have been different.

Photo of Sandrine by Lucien Lacombe

Mexicans lost in Mexico

I’m in between swims right now. Turning my attention to the doorstop. Mexicans lost in Mexico. Great title, and for once the writing lives up to the hype. The beauty of the prose is outstanding. Who could fail to be turned on by this tale of poets and poetry?

Maria Font is my new heroine. I only discovered her a few weeks ago but I’m developing what you might call an infatuation.

Maria lives with her sister Angelica in an outbuilding of a two-storey house on Calle Colima, in Mexico City, with her brother Jorgita and their parents. Her father is an architect. Angelica is the poet who won the prestigious Laura Damian literary prize at the tender age of only sixteen. Maria is her elder sister. Her poems have appeared in a literary magazine entitled Lee Harvey Oswald, and also in an anthology of Mexican poetry. The house is often full of poets and Maria is a kind of muse to them.

Maria is tall and dark with straight black hair, a straight nose and thin lips. She listens to Billie Holiday and Astrud Gilberto, and paints whilst reading poetry. Maria has slept with several poets – Luscious Skin, Moctezuma Rodriguez, even young Garcia Madero. She is also a friend of a hooker named Lupe.

Why do I feel such empathy? Well, I used to know a girl just like Maria. It was several years ago, when I lived in Batignolles, a district of Paris. I used to be that girl. I was Maria Font, in all but name.

That’s all I know for now. If I find out any more I’ll let you know.

Room with a view

Forster set his Room with a View in Florence. My view is from the balcony of our room here, and possibly more enchanting than EMF. I can see the calm waters of the lake, the mountains in the backdrop, the little towns on the opposite side of the water, the batello as it nears the jetty down below.

It’s early in the morning and I’m dragging on the first cigarette of the day. From below the smells of baking come drifting up from the kitchen as breakfast is prepared. The bells on the village church have just pealed out six thirty. Behind me Tamara lies asleep in our huge king sized bed. It would probably sleep three people, that bed. Her blonde hair spread across the pillow, her face as cool and calm in sleep as it is when awake.

I’m thinking about my nightmare last night. I won’t bore you with the details, but it was enough to make me cry out, and I woke sobbing uncontrollably. I felt Tamara take me in her arms and comfort me, her soft kisses on my hair, her arms enfolding me. I lay with my head on her shoulder for a long time, unable to move. Not wanting to move. Eventually I fell asleep, but when I awake we are separated, and Tamara lies quietly asleep on her back.

I watch her sleeping for a while. I want to kiss her lips, wake her with my tongue, roll it down her soft white bosom and lick her belly. I pull the covers back and carefully slide in next to her, my hands caressing her waist.

She sleeps on. I let my fingertips play on the elastic of her underwear. If only I could slip a finger into her sweet flower. But I daren't.So I came out here onto the balcony.

It’s been idyllic so far, and I feel sad to leave this beautiful place. I remember my stay here that spring, with Helene. Now Tamara has come into my life. Tomorrow we must leave, but Dr Gerhard has invited us to visit him, across the border in Switzerland.

Maybe there, at last, Tamara and I will become closer.