It was a third woman at the table, though, who truly fascinated Lix. She was what Frenchmen call une jolie laide but in this city is more cruelly known as a Prickly Pear. A fruit that’s ugly, hard to handle, but once peeled and stripped is addictively sweet and juicy beyond measure. This colleague was a woman in her fifties even, skinny and black-haired, dressed a little oddly for the office — plastic beach boots (she’d had to wade to get to work that day), white trousers, and a cardigan, half buttoned up.
Her mouth was unusually large but, sensibly, her lips were not made up and so seemed sensuous and not promiscuous. Her hair, already slightly dulled by age, was cut to within a half centimeter of her skull all over. It seemed she wanted space to emphasize her good strong bones, her solid cranium, and show her earrings off: hand-tooled silver shields.
Ugly wasn’t quite the word for her. It was certain, though, had she had the chance, had she been keen to fit the mold, she would have traded every feature on her face for something else. The too large nose, the long demanding jaw, the slightly protruding eyes too greedy for their sockets, the Apache cheekbones, the manly ears might all have benefited from some costly surgery. Everything about her except her breasts needed taming and reduction.
Whereas Lix could not imagine walking down the street with Madame Picasso on his arm or even catching her without makeup, let alone yawning, sneezing, smelling of anything other than gardenia, this Prickly Pear with her expressive features seemed to be a woman of irresistible, seductive disarray. That touch of coffee on her upper lip, the unembarrassed action of her jaw as she dispatched her breakfast fruit without the help of her plate or the fruit knife or the modesty shield of a raised hand, suggested a person eager to devour the day.
A fantasy, perhaps. How could he tell anything for certain? Her seeming eagerness might just be shallowness, an undiscerning vacancy of mind. She might be a simpleton. Still, the visual fantasy was strong and logical. From the much loved bobbled cardigan to the sea-salt residue on her beach boots, she was dressed for action, not for show. She had the footwear and the trousers for an unexpected climb, a dash to catch her streetcar, a supermarket trip, a river crossing. She was, in fact, the woman in the room who most resembled in everything but looks his now frowning wife.
Lix could not help but smile while he imagined how the beautiful Madame Picasso would get on if they turned up one blustery afternoon, say, at the Cougar’s Promenade on the cliffs above the long California beach where he and Mouetta had rented a house for their honeymoon. She wouldn’t be able to expose her outfit and her makeup to the rain-laced wind. Her hairdo would not tolerate the weather. Her skin would not enjoy the light. Her dress would flap and wrap around her knees. Her heels would sink into the rippled sand and topple her. She would not even be able to seek the solace of a cigarette. The wind would snatch her flame away and steal the smoke. No chance either that she would agree to cut off up the beach into one of the secluded bays where they might lie down on the sand and carelessly make love.
The plumper one in black, the woman with the dragonfly brooch, might well be game in such a circumstance. But she would not belong on his imagined beach, so far from bars and restaurants. She was a woman who was determined to enjoy herself — just watch her laugh and smoke — but all her pleasures would be city ones. She’d not be agile on a beach. Too heavy, obviously, and possibly — the smoking and her weight — too short of breath to much enjoy a hike. Even Mouetta when she’d had the chance to walk with her new husband on that beach in nothing worse than misty rain had preferred to stay inside their hired car to watch the sea in comfort.
But place the Prickly Pear on the Cougar’s Promenade, suggest to her they get out of the car to brave the wind and spray, and there could be no doubt that she would soon be running down the steps, across the pebble line and tidal sand, to reach the sea. Lix could place her with her beach boots in her hand, her trousers rolled up to her knees, the waves around her calves, her short hair ruffling. She’d be convincing there. No doubt of it.
Wade in yourself, he thought. Stand next to her and feel the shingle shifting underfoot. No matter that the sea is unpredictable. Suggest to her, to that large open face, deprived too long of flattery and kisses, that they should find a quieter spot up in the rocks. Lix was certain she would readily agree.
Two images: the pair of them embracing in the middle of the sand, her hand pushed down beyond the waistband of his trousers, his hand pushed up into the warmer regions of her cardigan, reaching around to find the soft underarm anticipations of her breasts; and then the two of them, invisible amongst the rocks, fettered at the ankles by their fallen clothes, their mouths engaged, their hands employed between each other’s legs. And for the sound track? In the film? Gulls, of course. A crashing sea. In the distance, cries for help. Madame Picasso stranded by her footwear and the tides, her blue dress lost against the perfect sky, and no one wading out to rescue her.
“WHAT’S SO AMUSING?” Mouetta tapped him sharply on the hand with her coffee spoon. “I said I’m going to the restroom, Lix. You’re grinning like a little boy. Were you dreaming or dozing?”
“Pretty much both. I didn’t get enough sleep last night.”
“Whose fault is that?”
“I only need a nap, that’s all.”
“Well, that makes two of us.”
She left the table and made her way across the room toward the toilets, even smiling at the woman in blue as she passed. His wife looked disheveled from behind, as well she might. She’d slept in what she wore, her once smart skirt and favorite blouse. Made love in them. Inside a car, deep in the park. She hadn’t had a chance to wash or even brush her teeth that morning. So far she’d only used a comb, a touch of cologne, and a couple of tissues. No wonder she was the least crisp woman in the room.
Mouetta’s absence was an opportunity, but not to contemplate his undermining shame at trading in the firebrand student for six minutes’ pleasure in the car. He had to bury that at once. Rather it allowed him to concentrate unambiguously on all the women in the room. Lix could not help himself. Besides, Mouetta wanted his reply on her return. Again he studied the three attractive possibilities over the rim of his lifted cup. He tried them out. He was auditioning. He placed them in Mouetta’s seat across the table in the Palm & Orchid, imagined how they’d look and what he’d say to them if they’d been married for two years, what might occur when they drove home, how they’d react to his determined ambush on the stairs. Again the oldest woman won the day.
He had his answer then. The Prickly Pear. She was the one he chose, out of all the women in the room. She was the likeliest. She was the one that he’d prefer if he could take just one to bed. He wondered what his wife would make of that when she came back from freshening herself. Would she believe him when he pointed to the older woman, oddly dressed, boy-haired, and overdrawn as a cartoon, and said, She is the one that I desire the most?
Lix felt his cock fattening at the very prospect of it, the conversation he and Mouetta would enjoy about the woman’s face and body and clothes, how that might lead, must certainly lead, to more lovemaking when they got back home.
For surely this was Mouetta’s project, to find some sexual stimulation in the answer Lix would give, whatever it might be, while still fully retaining Lix. His passions might well drift beyond recall. His body never would. Mouetta was the only one allowed. Her question, “If you could go to bed with anybody here, which one?” was her foreplay, a scheme to get her husband talking about having sex with someone else, encouraging his imaginary couplings, his unreal consummations, so that she herself could play the role of that new woman, give herself to Lix as someone new, an actress in a fresher part. That’s why she’d set him loose and left him to indulge these unrequitable but animating fantasies amongst the female colleagues at the table in the city’s chicest coffee shop. She wanted him to test his dreams with her.