Bettina liked hearing about Étienne and was dying to meet him. ‘Oh, you’d hate him,’ Bart said. ‘He doesn’t enjoy the moneyed class one bit and only tolerates me because he loves me. And I him.’
Bettina had felt a pang of jealousy at that. Which was silly.
‘In fact,’ Bart continued, ‘the only time he relaxes his views about inherent power struggles is when he’s got a cock in his mouth.’
‘Bart! Don’t be vulgar.’ They were lying in Bart’s bed now, in their nightclothes, rose petals stuck to their skin. A bottle of champagne lay empty on the floor. ‘I really wouldn’t mind if you wanted to go and see Étienne now,’ she said. Only halfmeaning it.
‘Stop saying that, would you? This is our wedding night.’
‘But it’s not a real wedding night.’
‘Oh, stop it.’ He picked a rose petal off his neck and started nibbling it. ‘Anyway, he might come over on Tuesday. I asked if he wanted to have a meal at a restaurant. Meet the wifey and all that. But he loathes restaurants unless they’re the humblest of shitholes, so I invited him here for a room-service supper. You must promise not to be all high and mighty around him. He’s an urchin.’
‘I won’t be. I’ll be open-minded.’ She smiled. ‘At the very least I’ll pretend to be.’
‘I’ll be awfully upset if there’s friction between you.’
‘Bart! I am actually less of a snob than you.’
‘On the surface.’
‘Will you shut up, please? You’re insulting me.’
‘Sorry. Sorry. It’s just I’m nervous about you meeting. You’re my two favourite people and I want you to get on.’
‘I’m sure we will. I’m sure I’ll love him.’
And what if she didn’t? Well, it was very easy to be around people you didn’t like; society had prepared her well for such a likelihood. You just smiled a lot then feigned a headache and went to bed with a good book. Imagine she ended up with Trude – oh, she knew there was no chance in hell, but just imagine – and Bart displayed signs of not liking the woman. Would she care? Or would she be too busy indulging her pleasures? ‘Good night, husband,’ she said, kissing the side of Bart’s head and turning out the night lamp. And she drifted off to sleep, her belly hot and her heart dipping and soaring, owl-like, as she anticipated these same pleasures.
‘Oh, but I’ve tried to appreciate it,’ said Bettina, ‘really I have.’ They were talking about modern art, specifically the paintings of Picasso and Man Ray. ‘Only, I feel like I’m missing something. As if someone has told me a joke and the punchline has gone right over my head. I feel the same about Virginia Woolf, actually. That’s the first time I’ve ever admitted that to anyone, so keep it to yourself.’
Étienne took a sip of his wine – a very dainty sip, thought Bettina, as if he was trying to prove something. ‘You are perhaps thinking too much about it. I will take you to an exhibition tomorrow. You must see the work with your own eyes.’
He had entered the hotel room wearing a brown tweed suit – ugly but a good fit – and grasping his cap in both hands, seemingly ill at ease but with a defiant look in his eyes (and very nice eyes they were). He started to relax after his first glass of wine. His left ear was pierced and he wore a maroon cravat around his neck. He was eloquent and – this was strange – both guarded and open at the same time. The guard, she assumed, only came up around people with money. People like her.
‘Am I invited?’ said Bart.
Étienne pouted, as if considering. ‘If you promise to behave.’
‘Oh, I like him!’ said Bettina, clapping her hands.
‘Don’t you two gang up on me.’
Étienne squeezed Bart’s thigh – quite high up. Bettina stared at his hand, quickly averting her gaze when Étienne looked at her. ‘Many interesting people will attend. Women like you.’
‘What, you mean the place will be rammed full of gorgeous, refined redheads with marvellous intellects?’ She yanked her head back and laughed into the ceiling. She didn’t normally laugh at her own jokes quite so flagrantly, but she was quite drunk.
‘Lesbians,’ said Étienne, smiling (he did indeed have lovely dimples). ‘There will be lesbians.’
‘Steady on,’ said Bettina.
‘She still isn’t entirely convinced that the word is a good fit for her,’ said Bart.
‘But why?’ said Étienne. ‘It’s a beautiful word.’ He closed his eyes and said, ‘Lesbian. Lezzzzbian,’ swishing his wine glass around on the tail end of the word.
‘It is a lovely word, starved of its context,’ said Bettina. ‘But so is “syphilis”. You know, when I imagine an actual lesbian, all I see is a woman who hates men and dresses abysmally.’
‘That is true of some,’ said Étienne. ‘But many are like yourself. You will see. Romaine Brooks will be there. And Djuna Barnes.’ He placed his hands over his chest. ‘Nice boobies.’
Bettina burst out laughing, spilling her drink on her stomach. Funny and gorgeous. She wondered what he would look like with no clothes on. Him and Bart with no clothes on. No. Better not to think of things like that. What the hell was she doing thinking of things like that?
They called up for room service and sat down together to eat, Bart and Bettina opting for cassoulet, Étienne wolfing down half a chicken and a bowl of potatoes in a herb-butter sauce. He had no table manners and his dainty sipping had made way for purple-lipped glugging. Bettina caught Bart glancing at her, challenging her to say something. Well, she damn well wouldn’t.
They pushed their plates away and lit their cigarettes. Étienne talked about the Left Bank, the best bookshops and cafés. He lifted his legs onto Bart’s lap and told them about the time he’d attended one of Gertrude Stein’s salons and been kicked out for bringing alcohol (‘She is a genius but she takes herself too seriously, I think’). He gave them a lecture on how language is used to perpetuate class oppression (‘The wealthy “fuck” or “make love” but poor people “rut”, and what is the difference, truly?’), Bettina nodding her head perhaps a little too eagerly and saying, ‘Quite right, quite right.’ He suggested authentic bistros they could visit in Naples and risqué clubs in Florence (for the second and third stages of their honeymoon), Bart watching him with love and pride in his eyes. He’d rolled up Étienne’s trouser leg and was stroking his shin, up and down, up and down, his thumb skimming the soft dark hair.
‘I need to piss,’ said Étienne, after their fifth bottle of wine.
‘Don’t be a brute,’ said Bart.
‘Oh, but I am a brute! I am your bit of rough, no? Your obvious rebellion. That is what I am to you. Fuck you, dead father! That is what you say when you fuck me. Non – that is what you say when we are rutting.’
‘Oh dear,’ murmured Bettina, putting a hand over her eyes.
‘Oh, look, we’re embarrassing the wife,’ said Bart. ‘Sorry, wife.’
‘Sorry, wife,’ said Étienne.
‘We must remember that she is still a lady,’ said Bart to Étienne.
‘Don’t paint me as a prude.’ She was not a prude. Nor a snob. But there was such a thing as over-sharing.
‘She saw my cock earlier, you know,’ Bart said.
‘Lucky girl,’ said Étienne.
‘Oh my God,’ said Bettina. ‘Will you both please shut up?’ She had indeed seen his ‘cock’ earlier – he’d come out of his bathroom wearing only a shirt and it had hung out, slapping his thigh as he walked. ‘I’m going to bed.’ She stood up. ‘It’s been lovely meeting you.’