In the main clubroom, wall lamps project long cones of orange light onto the brickwork. Wafting into the glow, cigarette smoke appears to solidify. The rest of the room is swathed in a suggestive penumbra. Electronic music. He has ordered two cocktails: a red sludge, its alcohol content nearly undetectable. She asks him where the toilets are. Four women are looking at themselves in a mirror that spans the entire wall above three washbasins. Low-cut flowing dresses, close-fitting trousers, gold jewellery, expensive-smelling perfumes. They are inspecting themselves: eyebrows, nostrils, corners of the mouth, spaces between their teeth, breast elevation, armpit odour. They could almost have stepped out from a fashion advert. Perhaps they’ll take her for the bathroom attendant. All the cubicles are occupied, toilets are flushing at full blast, bladders are emptying, the clockwork expulsion of liquid steadily poured for them by their attentive escorts. Even princesses have to go to the bathroom. She waits to one side to avoid being made party to the conversations. She listens in. I bought it today, very nice, on sale at Armani, I just love the smell of this soap, you have lovely hands. A tall, stunning blonde with a mane of pale curls and an aquiline nose is going on about herself. She’s feeling totally depressed, she’s found work, didn’t dare refuse it, but actually it pisses her off; it’s not like Bernard needs the money. Out she goes with a sigh, perfect and dignified. As the door swings shut, shoulders are shrugged. Apparently things between her and Bernard aren’t all sweetness and light, which is why Lydia accepted the job, for the security. She goes into one of the cubicles. She hitches up her dress, tugs down her panties, and notices a dark, metallic-smelling stain on the black material. She has a brief vision of herself disturbing the super-bimbos gathered in their marble temple to ask for their help. Too awkward. She unrolls a length of toilet paper, folds it into several layers, and places it between her legs, then pulls up her panties to hold it all in place. Very sexy for her role as whore. She returns to the room, collects her bag under the diplomat’s questioning stare. Do you need anything? She gestures no with her hand as the word Tampax flashes through her mind. She rejoins the line; in the cubicle she eventually finds several tampons at the bottom of her bag. The pink-and-white wrapping is a bit torn. In any case, it’s not as if she has a choice.
A fresh round of alcoholic fruit juice has been put in front of them. She feels the limits of her body dissolving. Under the effects of the drink, she passes from a solid to a gaseous state, lighter but taking up more space. She is expanding into the atmosphere. Can Maxime see her condition from the outside, she wonders — that she’s losing density and gaining volume? He said something. Pinned down by his words, she has to interrupt her transformation, her mind has to organize the mad molecules that have begun to stray around the room. A girl like you, I’m surprised you haven’t already found yourself a rich husband. She shrugs, imagining newspaper headlines: French financial markets see shortfall in wealthy husbands. I can see you with an older man, someone in his fifties would be perfect for you. His mouth increasingly resembles the mouth of a fish; he opens it slightly whenever he is pleased. An older man. She grips the edge of the table. Pink room, piano, spring mattress, pink, bed, room, springs, piano. . He wasn’t fifty at the time, more like forty. She asks Maxime if he likes older women. Not any more. His mouth makes a little moist sound. When I was eighteen I was, let’s say, initiated by a woman twice my age. He’ll let her in on a secret. At the time, she was sleeping with Villepin. He sits back on the couch, taking a drag from his cigarette. I had the same mistress as Villepin, aren’t you impressed? He grabs her knee. His wife is not at home.
The apartment is vast. Room after room of polished parquet floors and white walls, a multitude of halogen lights to keep the night at bay. The tall windows framed by garnet-colored drapes. Not an object out of place, as if no one lived here. The props are backstage; they’re rehearsing the scene before the other actors show up. He’s in the kitchen, the plump sound of a cork being pulled from a bottle. She stands in the center of the living room, as if she were visiting an art gallery. Most of the paintings are abstract or schematic representations of female bodies. The lines dip and straighten, form a head of hair, then a breast, a buttock. Look long enough and there emerges a complete woman contained within her curves. He has put on some music. Loud. Annie Lennox. The walls of the room reverberate in time to the modulations of the voice. The song reminds her of something, but exactly what she can’t say, a moment of elation that only the carelessness of the young can produce. He is back from the kitchen. As if she had a choice to make, he holds a glass out in one hand, a slender wad of five 50-euro notes in the other. She notes the slight rise of his Adam’s apple in the middle of his neck. Tomorrow, she’s sure, he’ll tell his closest colleague when they go for a drink after work that he got himself a nice little prostitute for the night. Briefly he stays there, both hands extended. She doesn’t move. He goes to put the money and the wine down on the low table. She hears the clack of parquet tiles underfoot. The straps of her dress slip off her shoulders. Her breasts emerge; she feels an intense vulnerability. He has taken off his shirt, his body tanned by five weeks of holiday on the Mediterranean coast, his muscles toned by four hours a week in a large gym. She thinks of pigeons strutting about, circling each other, heads nodding. Yes, yes, yes, peck the air, peck the ground. Always behind the female so as not to see each other’s pleasure, above all, as little noise as possible in order to remain civilized. She sways slightly. Tomorrow she’ll remember the feel of the polished floor under the soles of her feet. The absence of smells in the bathroom reserved for important guests; all trace of them removed by a cleaning lady who comes in twice a week. He has taken hold of her breasts, is kneading them enthusiastically, biting the base of her neck. She imagines a fish’s mouth suctioned to her skin. Her dress has slipped down to her feet. At the far end of her limp legs, the floor seems more distant than normal. He has taken off his clothes and is pressing his naked body against hers. His penis slips in between her thighs. She closes her eyes.
And then she remembers. I’ve got my period, she says. The rubbing of skin against hers stops. He moves back, he hasn’t understood. You have what? My period. Four dry syllables, clearly articulated. I was wondering how long you would keep this up. The tone is not aggressive but almost indulgent. She doesn’t follow. I was wondering why you wanted to pass yourself off as a prostitute. She bites her lip. She’d like to be the woman who served as the model in the painting opposite her. If he were a painter, they wouldn’t talk; she would just stand there naked before him; he would ask her no questions; her story would be read on her body. There is a pause between tracks on the CD. Still she can’t manage to utter a word. Maxime places one hand around his still erect penis. Really, you’re not tempted? For the first time she glances down at it, finds it graceful, fairly in keeping with his face. If she hadn’t been unmasked, she might still have gone through with it; ashamed of her pathetic ruse, though, she no longer feels up to the task. The silence thickens. Finally, he relents and laughs, but the laugh rings false. In that case, you’d better leave. He goes to fetch the money from the table and slips it into her palm. Financial transaction between a pair of fat naked worms. Just to show you I’m a good sport. He picks up her dress, which she slips back on while he phones for a taxi. This remains between us, of course.