The Debutante. Kathleen Tessaro
Instead she’d abdicated, bit by bit, her faltering, embryonic conception of herself, deferring to his clearer vision and experience.
But the debutante he had in mind wasn’t staid. And the society he introduced her to even less so.
Digging through her bag, she pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and, lighting one, crossed to the open window. She’d given up. She’d given up a lot of things that hadn’t stuck. And she had the feeling, all too familiar nowadays, of trying to stem the tide with a teacup.
I just want peace, she prayed silently, taking a deep drag. Here I am, thousands of miles away from New York, with some strange man, doing a job I know nothing about
…I’m meant to be getting my head together. I’m meant to be figuring out what I want to do with my life.
She pushed her hair back from her face. It was so hot. And everything was baffling.
Suddenly she had an overwhelming desire to get high, to be out of her head, to seduce someone. Pornographic visions filled her brain – a tangle of naked limbs; someone licking her flesh, her mouth travelling across the contours of another body…Her heart seized.
Was it just a fantasy or a flashback?
Naked, she was on her knees in front of him. He was holding her head in his hands, pressing his hips forward…
She bit her lower lip, hard. So hard, it bled. And the desire built, to escape the present moment.
Stop.
She couldn’t stop.
What did Jack look like without his clothes on? They were alone. He was attracted to her, she could feel it. And he was a stranger. Why was it easier to fuck a man you didn’t know?
She exhaled.
Don’t go there.
But a languid sensuality already coursed through her limbs, her imagination spinning like a mirrored top, casting images she couldn’t control. The one thing she shouldn’t think of was the only thing on her mind.
She turned. The bedclothes were torn away, two naked bodies, strangers, reached for one another…If only she could be obliterated, fucked, destroyed.
She closed her eyes. The fantasy dissolved. Taking a last drag, she stubbed out the cigarette and threw it away, into the drive below.
Wandering into the bathroom, she splashed her face with cool water and sat down on the toilet seat. She thought again of the telephone message waiting, with all the others.
It was only a matter of time before she answered one of them.
I am insane, she thought. I’m broken and bad and cannot be fixed.
Covering her face with her hands, she cried.
Jack finished his cup of tea and walked round to the front of the house, unpacking his bag and his equipment, the digital camera and notebooks, from the boot of the car. He caught the faint smell of cigarette smoke and looked up at the open window on the first floor. He smiled. She’d been sneaking a crafty fag!
So, she wasn’t quite as well behaved as she appeared.
It amused him to think of her, only feet away, doing forbidden, clandestine things.
He walked into the house, his footsteps echoing across the cool marble floor, and up the stairs. As he reached the top, a door closed to the right of the landing. So he turned left, heading down the opposite end of the hall. In the master bedroom, he threw his things down on the bed and took off his jacket. Crossing to the open window, he looked out over the lawn.
There was a crackle of anticipation, a tension in the air that he hadn’t felt in years. And it threw him off balance. It was wrong to be excited by this girl; to look forward to standing next to her, to seeing her. Already he was devising possible subjects for dinner conversation; questions and clever little observations that might impress her. He was wound up, he could feel it.
What an idiot!
But in truth, it was terrifying to feel anything again.
He was used to being on his own. It was safe. And he had a routine now. He sat at the same tables in the same cafes, ordered the same food. The waitress remembered how he took his coffee, the owner chatted about the book he was reading. (They knew how to treat a regular customer.) And there were things you could do, if not happily, at least peacefully, quietly – wander around galleries, listen to concerts, sit in the cinema on your own, in the dark. This was his life.
But now, for a moment at least, the seat next to him had been taken. He could still smell her perfume.
Don’t be seduced by the romance of the setting, he reminded himself. It’s about sex, pure and simple. It always was, always would be. It came dressed up as love, passion and romantic obsession, but sooner or later the gilding wore off and the coin underneath was always plain old sex.
Suddenly a memory seeped through his defences. He winced inwardly but couldn’t stop it. He was reaching across to touch his wife, when he saw her face, her large, dark eyes. They were full of sadness and, worse, resignation. He pushed it away but the feeling lingered.
Sex had been unsatisfactory. That was the truth. Reduced to a kind of shorthand, pornographic role play. The act itself wasn’t faked but the connection was, which was worse.
And he hadn’t wanted to discuss it or fix it. That was the awful thing. There’d been a part of him that had found it easier; that wanted to let go. It was as if he’d wished her away.
He was guilty of the crime of withdrawing. She’d seen it and let him go.
That haunted him too.
Jack turned away from the bucolic view.
It was a massive bedroom, practically the size of his entire flat. That’s what you got when you moved out of London – space, beauty, freedom.
He ought to move. He ought to start again somewhere new.
Sinking down on the bed, he yawned, rubbing his eyes.
He ought to do a lot of things.
It wasn’t a long-distance car, his Triumph. His back was stiff from driving. Lying flat, he closed his eyes.
Still, those hours driving across the countryside with Cate by his side were the happiest he’d had in a long time. The sun, the speed, the exuberance of Mozart contrasting with her calm, cool presence. It was exhilarating. He’d felt the hope of happiness; its possibility glimmering on the horizon, like a destination. He hadn’t realised how long he’d lived without the hope of anything, dragging himself mechanically through days, months, years. Now there was an aching in his chest, an animal desire to touch and be touched; to punch his way through the inertia of loss and grief.
He sat up, forced his fingers roughly through his hair.
It was insane to be so taken with this girl. He didn’t even know her.
He was just tired, lonely. Bored.
Still, there were laws of physics, of nature; mysterious, inconvenient gravitational pulls which couldn’t be denied.
At the opposite end of the house, a woman, a complete stranger, was drawing closer all the time.
17, Rue de MonceauParis
24 June 1926
My darling Bird,
You will be pleased to know that I have finally perfected the art of pressing myself up alluringly against a man while dancing and at the same time maintaining an expression of complete and utter indifference verging on contempt. Anne says it is essential and we have been practising it all week. Now all we need are some men.
How is that dashing Baronet of yours? I’m certain his shyness only masks an ardour that will soon make itself known to you (again, details of all carnal encounters