“Put it back,” I hissed, ready to die of shame. Yeah, we have that expression in French too: mourir de honte.
“Masturbating is healthy, chérie,” Camille said, way louder than she needed to. She was enjoying this, I could tell. “You know what’s not healthy? Not masturbating. I bet that school your papa sent you to told you it’s a sin.”
I’ve told Camille about the school, just not why I had to leave. “Va te faire foutre,” I said, giving her a shove.
“Ah, but that’s exactly what you need to do. Go fuck yourself.”
I dragged her out of there. We went into a classier place where the shop assistants with their chignons and their perfect red lipstick looked at me sideways. My men’s shirts, my big boots, my home-cut fringe. A security guard tailed us. That would be enough normally. I’d leave. But I needed to do this. For him.
“I want to pick out something too,” Camille told me, holding a silk harness up against herself.
“You own more stuff than this entire shop.”
“Oui. But I want something more sophisticated, you know?”
“Who’s it for?” I asked her.
“Someone new.” She gave a secretive smile. That was weird. Camille’s never mysterious about anything. If she has a new fuck-buddy on the scene the whole world has normally heard about it about thirty minutes after their first screw.
“Tell me,” I said. But still she refused to say. I didn’t like this new, mysterious Camille. But I felt too high with the thrill of my purchase to think much about it. I couldn’t wait.
Next to shelves of designer sex toys we browsed through racks of lace and silk, felt the fabric between our fingers. The lingerie had to be perfect. Some of it was too much: crotchless, buckles and straps, leather. Some of it Camille rejected as “stuff your maman would buy”： flowers and silk in pastel colors—pink, pistachio, lavender.
Then: “I’ve found it, the one for you.” She held it up to me. It was the most expensive set of all the ones we’d looked at. Black lace and silk so fine you could hardly feel it between your fingers. Chic but still sexy. Grown-up.
In a changing room with velvet drapes I tried the set on. I held up my hair and half closed my eyes. I was feeling less embarrassed now. I’d never looked at myself like this before. I thought I’d feel stupid, gauche. I thought I’d worry about my small tits, my slight pot belly, my bow legs.
But I didn’t. Instead I imagined revealing myself to him. I pictured the look on his face. Saw him sliding it off me.
Je suis ta petite pute.
After I’d changed I took it over to the desk and told the shop assistant to ring it up. I liked how she tried to hide her surprise as I took out my credit card. Yeah: fuck you, bitch. I could buy everything in here if I wanted.
All the way back to the apartment I thought about the bag over my arm. It weighed nothing, but suddenly it was everything.
For the next few nights I watched him through the windows. They’d got later and later, these writing sessions: fueled by the pots of coffee he’d make on his stove and drink looking out of the windows onto the courtyard. It was something important, I could tell. I could see how fast he typed, hunched over the keyboard. Maybe he’d let me read it one day soon. I’d be the first person he shared it with. I watched him bend down and stroke the cat’s head and I imagined I was that cat. I imagined one day I would lie there on his sofa with my head in his lap and he would stroke my hair like he did that cat’s fur. And we’d listen to records and we’d talk about all the plans we’d make. I saw the image of us there together in his apartment so clearly it was like I was watching it. So clearly that it felt like a premonition.
Nick
Second floor
A hammering on the door of my apartment. I jump with shock.
“Who is it?”
“Laissez-moi entrer.” Let me in. More hammering. The door shudders on its hinges.
I go to open it. Antoine shoves his way past me into the room in a cloud of booze and stale sweat. I take a step back.
He pushed his way in here like this only two weeks ago: “Dominique’s cheating on me. I know she is. The little slut. She comes back smelling of a different scent. I called her yesterday in the stairwell and I heard her ringtone coming from somewhere in this building. Second time I rang she’d switched it off. She’d told me she was having a pedicure in Saint-Germain. It’s him, I know it. It’s that English connard you invited to live here . . .”
And me thinking: could it be true? Ben and Dominique? Yes, there had been flirtation at that drinks, on the roof terrace. I hadn’t read anything into it. Ben flirted with everyone. But could this be an explanation for why he had been avoiding my eye, avoiding my calls? Why he had been so busy?