I’m sitting on the chaise lounge, wearing nothing but a flesh-colored slip. Charles, sitting next to me, hands me a glass of champagne while looking into my eyes. We toast. He caresses my knee with his other hand. His fingers glide over my burning skin, tormenting me. He suddenly stops and pushes down the straps of my dress in a brusque movement. The dress disappears, I’m naked, still sitting with my legs crossed, holding my glass of champagne. He resumes caressing my knee, now more insistent. This time, his fingers travel further up my thigh. I look at them, fascinated. I want to uncross my legs but I can’t move. And then…I wake up.
I don’t want to go over to his house again, I’ll leave our next encounter entirely up to chance. Until then, I’m going to try to live normally. After all, nothing really happened. A meager kiss in the hallway, it’s not really something to make such a big deal over…If my life wasn’t so empty, I’d barely remember it.
And here’s exactly the opportunity I need to take my mind off of it. A party at Manon’s house. Who knows, maybe I’ll meet a guy closer to my age with normal values?
Manon apparently had the same idea and as soon as I enter, she introduces me to a guy named Olivier from her class in medieval linguistics. He’s a charmer. Nice curly brown hair, big light green dreamy eyes, a scruffy look…exactly my type. We have a few drinks, we chat. I get the feeling things are going well. I put my hand on his…and he promptly takes it off. He’s just getting out of a rough relationship, he tells me. My mistake. It’s been a week since I started getting interested in men and I’m already getting my first taste of rejection. I feel even more humiliated although, as he reassures me, he thinks I’m ‘really great’.
Manon and Mathieu start playing hits from the 80’s. They forgot about me, I don’t blame them. I quietly take my leave, the last train awaits.
At this time of night, I don’t think I’m going to meet anyone in the hallway.
“Bonsoir.”
It’s Rita. I mean, the lady I’ve nicknamed Rita. This time, she’s wearing a black pants suit. She is still beautiful, but less sexy. And what’s more, she’s leaving. I tell her good evening and continue looking through my bag.
“Emma, is that your name?”
How does she know my name? Were they all talking about me? I stand up straight to look at her. She holds out her hand, a sincere smile on her lips.
“Elisabeth, pleased to meet you. Since we see each other so often, we might as well be friendly, don’t you think?”
“Yes. You live here?”
She seems shocked by my question.
“Oh no, not at all! Charles and I are old friends. We work together, too…”
“Then you’re not his girlfriend?”
“Oh my god, no! Charles, a girlfriend?”
The idea seems so bizzare to her that she bursts out laughing.
“Sorry, but I saw you the other day…and what I wanted to say…”
“As I said, we’re just old friends,” she says to put an end to the conversation, before disappearing into the elevator.
‘Old friends.’ What does that mean? That they sleep together every now and then? How often? Are there rules for this kind of thing? Does she only say this because they don’t live together? I get the feeling that everything about my neighbor is complicated…
8. A little light
“Emma! Emma!”
Elisabeth gets out of a taxi with two gigantic paintings.
“Can you help me bring these up to Charles’ place?”
“Sure. Is it a present?”
“No, a delivery! From the Emirs of Dubai, I think. Careful, they’re worth millions!”
“Why are we bringing them to Charles’ house?”
“He’s going to appraise them and then sell them to those famous Emirs…”
“Ah yes, of course.”
I put a little too much emphasis into that last sentence. Elisabeth looks at me, amused.
“You don’t know what Charles does, do you?”
I’m happy to note that she’s referring to me in informal French. I admit my ignorance, relieved that I don’t have to keep playing along. She laughs again.
“Charles and his famous sense of mystery! Come on in, let’s have a coffee.”
She takes out a key and goes to open the apartment door.
“But Charles?”
Her expression suddenly sours.
“He’s out of town, he won’t be back until the weekend.”
She carefully places the frames against the chaise lounge and invites me to sit down on a barstool. She roots through the cupboards.
“Goddamn Italian design! He’s got to have some coffee in this house. There’s a coffee maker over there, is it just a conversation piece?”