Now … Enough philosophising – Off to work!
8.15 am
Just about to leave for work. Text from Miles:
“Love you loads xxxxxxxx What’s on the menu tonight?”
“Calippos!”
“What??? The ice lollies?? ”
“Yup”
“WTF …”
“Now, now Miles. Don’t swear! Love you xxxx”
10.30 am
Pelting with rain this morning. Took the bus. Still feeling warm inside despite the rain dripping down the windows. The whole college feels damp, wet brollies, steaming clothes. Julie got the new technician to check her computer. His name is Alex. It was a bit like a Coke advert, the secretaries all staring at him. At least I was in the office with a credible excuse – trying to sort out the students’ assignments, but I found myself smiling at Julie’s rather feeble attempts at flirting and thinking about my story for tonight!
Email from Lucinda.
Hi Babes
Re our phone call… Hope you’re not too worried about you know who!
Have to tell more about Paris and Mr X. …
Lucinda has no idea how to be properly discreet – she does all this cloak and dagger stuff on a private email but posts incriminating photos on YouTube. Never tell Lucinda anything you don’t want the whole world and his wife to know … I owe her and Imo so much for looking after me when I left Laurent … they’d warned me, so had his ex-wife, but they never judged me. Never once did they say ‘I told you so’ and they were there for me when I was at my worst, but they can both be soooo annoying at times!!
She goes on…
Rob and I (and others!!) had a whale of a time and Laurent was up to his usual shenanigans. He still has the studio you know, but the stuff he is doing is way over my head, lumps of paint chucked on canvas if you ask me, darling! Rob wrote a very graphic account of their doings, to whet my fancy, not that it needs much whetting Beth, and we both thought you might like to hear what Laurent was getting up to! So excited that you are coming to stay … Can’t wait!! Have attached Rob’s doc.
Luv Luce xxxx
I do NOT want to read this, but curiosity is getting the better of me. Not on an empty stomach – Rob’s stories are always pretty graphic! I’ll wait until after lunch. Time for class now, Van Dyke… Wonder where I can buy Calippos?
Lunch
I’ve just read Rob’s account of his jaunt in Paris with Laurent. It’s weird, he writes about himself in third person … Luce and Rob obviously write stories to each other about their extra-marital exploits; Imo said she reads stories to Cameron … looks like I’ve just joined their kinky clique … I’m not sure if I like that!
Miles tolerates Imo and her eccentricities, but he positively dislikes Rob. He thinks Luce is an idiot and a rotten parent, but accepts the fact that I need to go and see them from time to time because I’m the twins’ godmother. Best not to think about it too much. Just concentrate on making things as good as I can for Miles. Last night certainly worked and we’re both going to need a bit of light relief over the next few months.
Rob’s story is not one I could ever read to Miles, but it’s par for the course as far as Rob and Laurent are concerned. Seems that nothing really does change … leopards and spots … Laurent was a great lover, no doubt about it. He completely enthralled me, dusky skin the colour of pale gingerbread … he just couldn’t stay monogamous … despite purporting to be vegan, his appetite for female flesh was insatiable … and it seems nothing has changed!
4. “Private Viewing”
… Apart from the Michelin starred cuisine and service, the best thing about the old restaurant right on the bank of the Seine was its private dining rooms. Each was an exquisite suite with an intimacy all of its own and decorated with style from a bygone age when gentlemen took their female company more seriously than their food. The dark wood-panelled walls had been privy to much debauchery over the years and the four diners that had taken the room on Friday 13th were not going to disappoint. They arrived hot foot from Laurent’s private viewing and even though he had to schmooze with some of the gallery’s wealthier clients he had managed several glasses of fizz. Rob too had taken on board his fair share and like a schoolboy let loose in a tuck shop, he had imbibed with enthusiasm. The two girls, Valerie and Chandelle, seemed at first to be taking the art on the walls of Laurent’s exhibition a bit too seriously. They arrived and wandered around the show with a distinct air of female Parisian shoppers. Rob thought that even though Chandelle was drop dead gorgeous, she was probably also going to be drop dead dull. Laurent and Valerie had history and Rob could detect the chemistry between the two, that secret invisible cord that trails around between a consenting couple.
“So what dew think?” said Laurent
“I think she looks fantastic,” said Rob
“No not her, the exhibition, my latest work, you bastard.”
“Oh that. It’s up to your usual high standard of bullshit I suppose.”
“Well thank you! Thanks a million.”
“I guess it will probably earn you about that.”
“I wish,” said Laurent. “The gallery and my agent will make more than I do on this little lot.”
“But you know you couldn’t do without them.”
The two friends clinked their glasses together before Laurent was ushered away by the flustered French gallery assistant to meet another potential collector. Rob found the two girlfriends standing in front of one of the larger canvasses. It was number 32 and entitled “Candid with a cat.”
“Can you see her pussy?” said Rob, who was beginning to feel a bit frivolous after the champagne.
“Wet?” said Valerie.
“Oh I expect so,” he said, studying more closely that portion of the painting he thought contained the furry mound covering Candid’s crotch.
“Wet, did you say?” said Valerie smiling at the Englishman.
“Oh I see. I’m sorry I misunderstood you. I was wondering if you could see the feline creature alluded to in the picture.”
“By veline greeture yer min chat?”
“Yes I suppose I do,” said Rob wishing that he spoke better French than he did but loving the sound of Valerie’s sexy attempt at English.
“Is there. I sink it ez chat.” Chandelle was pointing her perfect finger at a rough patch of thick tortoiseshell-coloured oil obviously applied with a palette knife and given little chance to be stroked by any sort of brush.
“I think you are right,” said Rob following the white French finger.
“I am nearly alwizz right,” said Chandelle and she recoiled her outstretched digit and let it fall back in place with the others in her hand.
“Is chat,”