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But then I looked into his eyes, and I knew that he was a gentle, sensitive soul – the very antithesis of Morgan – and that it would be very wrong of me to hurt him.
I shook my head gently. ‘I like you too much,’ I said softly, pulling his head to my shoulder. There was something childlike about him, something that needed protection. But I was the last person to be able to protect anyone.
For a while we just sat there, unmoving, and then Kyle stood up and went over to the window.
‘I wonder,’ he said, looking out into the blackness, ‘what Rachel’s doing now.’
Chapter 7: Rachel
When I opened the door to Rochelle’s friends, I didn’t know that I was opening the door to another world – a world that would change my life forever.
There were six of them, all but one of them guys, all of them gorgeous. The guys, it turned out, were fashion models. I’d never even met a model before – my photos are always of real people – so I immediately felt out of my depth.
The leader of the pack, it was clear from the outset, was Konrad, a too-cool-for-school half-German guy of about twenty-five, with cat-like green eyes that twinkled behind a curtain of chestnut hair and the squarest jaw I’d ever seen. I surmised pretty quickly that he was Rochelle’s boyfriend from the way he took ownership of the flat, lounging around on her – my! – bed, rifling through a drawer for something he said he’d left behind.
I was feeling a bit crowded in by all these strangers taking over my new space. They all seemed a bit manic too, and I wondered if they were on something. At any rate, I was glad when they suggested going out for a drink nearby. I’d been cooped up in the apartment for too long anyway – spying on other people, mainly. It wasn’t healthy.
We didn’t go far – just around the corner to the rue de Navarin. One of their friends, explained Konrad in excellent English, was the mixologist in the bar of the Hôtel Amour, and they often drank there.
I hadn’t heard of the ‘Love Hotel’, but Konrad quickly filled me in. It had opened a few years before, he said, in a former brothel – and you could still rent rooms for a few hours in the afternoon if you wished.
I didn’t know what to expect, but once inside, I discovered that the vibe was minimalism meets kitsch rather than seedy bordello. We sat out in the courtyard with its bright chairs, little metal tables and abundant foliage, and Konrad ordered us all caipirinhas. It was starting to grow chilly, but heaters kept us toasty.
The one girl in the party sat next to me, blowing smoke out into the air, seemingly oblivious to me, lost in her own thoughts. She was exotic-looking – possibly North African by origin, I thought, or with one North African parent. She had somewhat melancholic dark eyes and lustrous black hair.
I listened to the guys chat away in French and studied Konrad from a distance. There was something fascinating about his rampant self-confidence. Having little myself, and having been surrounded by people much like me, I was intrigued by those who had it in abundance. Of course, being model-level gorgeous must help one’s self-esteem.
‘So,’ the girl said suddenly, finally coming to life. ‘How are you enjoying life in Paris?’
I paused. ‘It’s too early to tell. I’ve only been here a couple of days. And this is the first time I’ve properly been out.’
She exhaled more cigarette smoke. ‘You’re a photographer, right?’
‘I am.’ I patted my camera bag on the table in front of me. ‘What about you?’ I said.
‘I dance,’ she said. ‘With Rochelle. My name’s Lisette.’
‘Oh, you’re …’
‘A stripper?’ She let out a slightly bitter laugh.
‘I’m sorry – I wasn’t going to say …’
‘It doesn’t matter. Although it’s a bit more than that. And a bit less.’ She looked at me closely. ‘Have you ever watched a show?’
‘I don’t think so. I … Well, no, I haven’t.’
‘Then you should. How about coming to the club tomorrow night? You can meet some of the girls first. And then maybe you can come out for a drink with us afterwards. I’m dancing tomorrow, so you can see my new routine. I’ve been working really hard on it.’
‘Sure,’ I said, ‘I’d like that.’ It was the truth, but only in part. The other half of me feared going to the club. Despite the things I’d photographed, I’d led a very sheltered life when it came to this kind of thing. If I felt out of my depth here in this bar, with this crowd, then that would go double for the club.
On the other hand, the idea did excite me. I imagined myself floating around, invisible, photographing the faces of the punters as they stared, rapt, at the stage. Photographing the girls, backstage, as they got ready for their nightly display. I would be a ghostly, unseen presence, an invisible eye.
This would be fertile ground for my art if I could find some way of working it to my advantage. But I wouldn’t know what I could get away with until I got there and sussed out the mood. Neither the dancers nor the clientele might accept the intrusion.
The courtyard was getting more crowded, noisier. Chic people were fluttering into it like exotic butterflies; DJ beats were floating out from inside the bar itself. Konrad ordered a few bottles of champagne, raising a glass in my direction.
‘To our new friend, Rachel,’ he said, ‘and her new life in Paris.’
I raised a glass back at him and smiled shyly as he winked at me. He was beyond gorgeous, in a different realm to me, but I couldn’t help but react to his beauty. It was like a drug. Rochelle must be very lovely herself, I thought, to have such an amazing boyfriend.
Of course, I’d seen her pictures on Facebook, and there were several framed photos of her around the apartment, but she looked different in all of them, so it was impossible to fix on any one idea of what she looked like. It’s the same with everyone, of course – but somehow with Rochelle it seemed exaggerated. She came across as a kind of playful, wilful child who raided her mother’s dressing-up box and created a whole array of different selves according to her mood. I wondered if this was the attraction for Konrad.
As I watched him, I thought about all the incredible-looking women he must come into contact with daily. I’d already learnt, from snippets of conversation, that he’d done catwalk shows for Armani and Dries Van Noten. Female models must have been falling over themselves to snag him, but instead he went for a lowly dancer. Rochelle must be one very hot chick to net Konrad.
I started thinking about the couple I’d watched earlier, and substituting myself and Konrad in their place, I found myself feeling uncharacteristically horny again. This wasn’t like me, to dwell on sex, and I wondered if there was such a thing as the Pigalle effect, whereby living amidst all this sin and debauchery got one’s sap rising. Or perhaps, I thought, living in Rochelle’s apartment was ‘infecting’ me with her spirit.
I drank, and then I drank more. This, too, wasn’t like me. I’d always been very controlling – afraid of letting myself go, I suppose. But the champagne tasted clean and sharp and I liked the bubbly feeling it unleashed in my brain. I liked the way it loosened my tongue and the laughter that bubbled up inside of me, as if from nowhere. Joining in the conversation, I started to feel part of Rochelle’s gang, and that feeling surprised and pleased me.
More people joined us, and some of the originals faded away. There was a constant ebb and flow of beautiful people around our table, and as the night wore on and stars flickered into life above us, I lost track of who was who. All that mattered was Konrad, at the centre of it all, the brightest star of all. Whenever he glanced at me, I felt as if I’d been bathed in a golden radiance, blessed by warmth and light. If he spoke to me, I felt flattered, even honoured.
I’d no idea what time it was, but suddenly Konrad stood up, a fresh bottle of champagne in each hand, and announced that we were headed upstairs. His friend, the receptionist, had let him know that one of the guestrooms was free and that we could party there, if we wished.
Some of the group took the winding staircase, others – myself and Konrad included – took the tiny lift. As it clanked up through the building, I tried to contain myself. Konrad’s thigh was against mine, and in the small space I could smell him – coffee and spice melded in an intoxicating mix.
We stepped out of the lift and into a dark corridor. Konrad led the way as the others joined us from the staircase. Unlocking one of the doors, he gestured for us to go inside.
I literally gasped when I saw the room. It wasn’t that it was luxurious, but it was outré. The walls, ceiling and floor were all painted black, and the wide bed, simply dressed with white linen, was mounted on a low platform. The ceiling was hung with dozens of mirror-balls, while opposite the foot of the bed was a free-standing clawfoot bathtub.
The others – eight of them in total – were taking being here a lot more casually, so I guessed they might have come before. Or perhaps they were just too damn cool to express anything. Sitting down on the bed itself or on the edge of the platform, they held out their glasses as Konrad went around topping them up.
As he got to me, he looked into my eyes and the alcohol made me feel brazen enough to hold his gaze.
‘Enjoying yourself, Rachel?’ he said.
I nodded. ‘Very much so,’ I said, wishing I had the guts to kiss him, just like that.
A knock on the door drew him away from me. It was his friend the receptionist bringing him a CD system with some speakers. Thanking her, he turned back into the room and busied himself setting it up. Then he flipped through the folder of discs she had given him, selected one and slipped it into the machine.
‘Colette Secret Island,’ he said when he turned round, to no one in particular. ‘“No One Belongs Here More Than You”.’
Turning back to the room, he started dancing, languidly to start with, as befitted the slow build-up of the tune.
I watched, awed, as he moved, panther-like. Nobody else was even looking at him – they must have seen all this before, I reasoned.
Seeing me watching him, Konrad held out one hand. Like a rabbit caught in headlights, I let him take hold of me and pull me towards him. Trying not to let my drunkenness show, I started to move in time with the music, slowly and sensuously. Konrad’s eyes were on mine. I felt giddy, a little sick, but I didn’t want to break away and ruin this moment. Unlikely as it seemed, I thought that he may even fancy me too.
Then the song began to fade out, and Konrad took hold of my elbow and steered me to the side of the room, where he refilled my glass again. I was beginning to realise I’d be ill if I drank any more, but I accepted the glass and together we stood in the window, looking down into the street below.
‘I think you’ll be happy here, Rachel,’ he said, and I wondered what he knew of me – or what he thought he knew of me. It was true that I hadn’t been happy in London, of late. But was that so very obvious? Konrad and I had only known each other for a couple of hours, and to me he was a complete mystery. What, in turn, could he surmise of me? Did my discontent show through?
Before I had a chance to answer, two of the other models came into our orbit and began to chat to us. Then Konrad drifted away, gesturing to someone across the room. The next time I looked, through increasingly blurred vision, he was dancing again, shirtless this time. I nearly swooned to see him like that, and I felt a violent stab of lust in my belly and between my legs. I’d never known naked desire like this, and I was afraid of it. Especially when I stood no chance with someone like Konrad.
I swallowed back my bitterness with another gulp of champagne and looked back out of the window. People came over and I wound in and out of conversations haphazardly. I tried not to look for or at Konrad.
I had just started wobbling on my feet and decided I ought to head back to Rochelle’s apartment when I noticed that someone had filled the bathtub with water and bubbles. Some of the others had got naked and a couple were climbing in. As they sat down, their friends passed them their champagne flutes. The lights were dim; the music had become languorous once more. Across the room I noticed Konrad, still shirtless, watching me, a smile flitting about his lips. I looked away, this time incapable of returning his gaze.
It was all getting too much for me now – not just Konrad but the whole situation. But at the same time my professional instincts took over and I found myself seeking out my camera where I’d left it in a corner of the room. Pulling the strap over my head, I walked back towards the bath, holding my camera up to my face, toying with the lens. A couple of the others looked at me, but nobody seemed surprised or shocked, or showed any objections to being photographed. I clicked away rapidly, eager to catch the moment before it all evaporated into the night like smoke. I knew from experience never to hesitate.
I took hundreds of shots of the bodies cavorting in the bath, of others dancing, and of those just draped across the bed like giant cats, drinking and chatting. Then all of a sudden I was done. I just needed to get home and pass into oblivion for the night.
Grabbing my camera bag, I turned towards the door. Konrad stood in front of me, chest bare, top button of his fly undone, so that a small furring of hair was visible where his six-pack belly tapered away down to his crotch.
He struck a pose. I laughed, uncertainly, and began to snap away again.
Chapter 8: Rochelle
Thank God for Kyle. He saved me from myself, albeit without really knowing it. After making that pass at me, he withdrew to his room, but sensing that I was reluctant to leave despite turning him down, he came back with a pillow and a blanket.
‘Why don’t you spare yourself a cab fare and sleep here?’ he said, gesturing towards one his capacious cream sofas. They looked comfier than your average single bed. Compared with the prospect of wandering the streets, they looked like heaven.
I nodded, taking the pillow and blanket and holding them to me, instantly feeling comforted. ‘I don’t suppose you have a spare …’
‘In the bathroom cabinet, under the sink,’ he said, smiling a little sadly. I wondered if he’d stocked up on an extra toothbrush that very morning, anticipating conquest. But I looked at him and there was something so little boy lost about him that I couldn’t believe he was certain of anything, not least seducing a woman.
‘Goodnight,’ he said softly, then he turned and padded off to his room. I placed the pillow at one end of the sofa and spread out the blanket. It was soft as cashmere, though I couldn’t find a label to confirm that it was. I bunched it up and held it to me, curling myself around its bulk foetus-style. I felt looked after, and I knew it would take only a few steps towards Kyle’s room and an apologetic smile for this feeling to expand and take me over. What was stopping me from doing that? Why did I only ever choose the things that hurt me?
For a moment my instinct was to get up, run to the front door and hurry away into the night. But I forced myself to stay where I was. I didn’t even get up to brush my teeth, though I knew I’d regret it the next morning. Instead I just lay back on the sofa and peeled off my dress and stockings until I was down to my underwear, a Playboy bunny-style bikini bra and matching panties. Then I reached for my bag on the floor beside and the glass of water I’d drawn from the tap a few moments before, and I gulped down a couple of sleeping pills, grateful for anything that would get me through the night.
***
When I woke up in the morning, I found myself in a pool of sunlight, having forgotten to close the curtains. Kyle, on the opposite sofa, was staring at me, not in a lecherous way, but with a kind of sadness.
I sat up abruptly when I saw him. The blanket slid from me, revealing my underwear. I looked down, and one of my nipples was peeking brazenly from my bra.
‘Oh god,’ I said, pushing it back up while trying to grab the blanket from the floor. ‘Sorry, Kyle.’
I was used to showing myself off, so why was I shy like this in front of Kyle?
Kyle shrugged, standing up and heading for the kitchen. ‘Coffee?’ he said.
‘I’d love one.’
As he busied himself with his Gaggia, I grabbed my clothes and dressed hurriedly. My clothes weren’t exactly daytime attire, but I was used to people looking at me in the street, to standing out from the crowd.
Where yesterday I had dreaded going back to Rachel’s, now I was desperate to be back there, alone, showering and changing and reflecting on the events of the night. Tatiana’s parting words, in particular, left me uneasy, and I wished I hadn’t given her my contact details. But as I slipped my shoes on and took the mug of coffee that Kyle held out to me, I told myself that she almost certainly wouldn’t call. Whatever strange games she and Morgan had invented to get through an evening with their kind but staid friend Kyle would quickly be forgotten. I was sure they had bigger fish to fry.
I finished my coffee, gave Kyle a friendly kiss on the cheek, and asked him to call me sometime. As I headed off towards the Tube, I wondered if he ever would.
***
Thanks to the sleeping tablets and Kyle’s loan of his sofa, I felt relatively well rested and positive the next day. Back at Rachel’s flat with a takeout mocha and a muffin in front of me on the breakfast bar, I began to make plans for my time in London. It wasn’t enough, I reasoned, to run away from one’s issues, however cloudy they were. Indeed, perhaps the cloudier they were, the more likely they were to follow you. Sitting around without any real aims or ambitions only risked pushing me towards the kind of distractions I wanted to break away from.
I needed to do a course, I decided. I wasn’t sure exactly what, but I needed to find something to take me out of both myself and my comfort zone. Though I was a risk taker in many respects, I’d been very reliant, it struck me, on my immediate environment and the people in it. Though Pigalle was risqué and perhaps even off limits to certain people, to me it represented security – the security of being surrounded by like-minded people, of not being judged or rejected. But perhaps that in itself demonstrated – ironically – a conservative craving for the known and the reassuring.
I thought about songwriting. My guitar-playing was rusty – I hadn’t picked up an instrument in years. I’d had talent, but I’d been lazy, and I’d let life get in the way. I’d once written poetry too. I’d never done anything with any of it, but now it struck me that I could combine the two and perhaps create something meaningful.
Picking up the phone, I made an appointment to look around the London Songwriting School, and then I called Kyle and left a message asking if he knew anyone who could lend me a guitar for a while. I was going to need to buy one, if I did carry on with this. In fact, I was going to need to get some work to fund all of this. But job and course combined would hopefully keep me out of mischief.
Inspired, I sat in front of my laptop, clicked on Spotify and played the Florence and the Machine song ‘What the Water Gave Me’. I loved Florence Welch – her eccentricity and whole aesthetic, her complex multi-layered sound. This song, I knew, was named after the Symbolism-rich Frida Kahlo painting but was actually about Virginia Woolf’s suicide. It was Gothic at heart and yet dancey. I stood up, started to wig out, letting myself go to the crash of cymbals, the fine interplay of the guitar and the harp, to Florence’s ecstatic lyrics. If I could create something like this, I thought, I might be happy.
The phone rang and I leapt towards it, thinking it was Kyle.
‘Hi!’ I shouted into the receiver. ‘I’ll just turn the music down.’
I closed my laptop and grabbed the phone again. ‘Sorry about that,’ I said.
‘No problem,’ came a voice I didn’t recognise, a female voice.
‘Rachel?’ I said. I didn’t know anyone else who might call me here.
‘Forgotten me already?’ continued the voice, all honeyed on the surface but with something darker, I felt, beneath it. I frowned.
‘Tatiana,’ went the voice. ‘From last night?’
‘Oh hi,’ I said, wondering if my voice came across to her as guarded as it did to my own ears. What the fuck do you want? is what really wanted to come out of my mouth.
‘Hi,’ she said, and this time there really was something quite sinister to her tone, which appeared to be mocking mine. ‘Listen, I was serious about helping you out while you’re here. Want to meet up for lunch? A friend’s just cancelled on me, so I’m at a loose end. It’s on me, of course.’
‘Thanks, but I should have explained that I’m not really planning to do any dancing while I’m here,’ I said. ‘I’m … I’m having a break.’
‘Oh? Then why not come out anyway, be one of the ladies who lunch?’
‘I’m afraid I’m a bit busy today. I’m actually … well, I’m researching a course I may apply for, and also I need to get a job to pay for it.’
‘What kind of a job? Maybe I can help. I’m very well connected.’
‘I haven’t really thought about it. I guess just waitressing, or maybe I’ll find something in a vintage clothes shop.’
Tatiana tsked. ‘Slave labour,’ she said. ‘You’ll get a pittance. I’m sure you can do better than that.’ She paused for a moment. ‘Listen,’ she said, ‘my best friend is Lulu Hammonds – her name may be familiar to you.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Well, her husband was a very well-known actor. Died twenty years ago.’
‘Right.’
‘Well, Lulu now owns a vintage boutique in Holland Park. It’s not so far from where you live, but it’s ultra upmarket – we’re talking antiques, really, rather than the kind of vintage you’ll find in Camden and god knows where else. I know she was looking for someone only last week, to take over for a few months while she goes on a buying spree in the States. And I know she’ll pay you much more than the kind of places you were thinking of. Her shop has real cachet – all the celebs go there, the hip ones. Kate and Sadie and even Stella sometimes. But it’s bohemian too –I can just see you there.’
