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  “So,” she said to Jérôme later that evening, “The old girl saw everything. And it appears that I’m a wicked girl but a very nice lady.”

  “I couldn’t have put it better myself,” he said. “And that explains why, as I was coming back to our room, Little Miss Shopping was dragging her case past reception on her own, with a face that would have curdled fresh milk.”

  “James wasn’t with her?”

  “No, but I saw him a bit later. I wondered why he looked embarrassed as he said goodbye.”

  “Well, now you know!”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Hey! Come back!” Gabi’s voice interrupted Gaëlle’s memories. “And what do you mean, cattiva? Who’s naughty?”

  Gaëlle dragged herself back to reality, a very pleasant reality, she had to admit, sitting opposite a very attractive young woman who was not wearing much in the way of clothes. She must have been muttering the Italian to herself, she realized.

  “Sorry, Gabi,” she said. “I was just remembering something someone said, once upon a time. I’m used to being on my own quite a lot and you’ll have to forgive me if I sometimes talk to myself.”

  “Judging by the smile on your face, I’d bet that you were the one who was being naughty,” Gabi commented. “I hope I’ll get to hear about it!”

  “Um. We’ll see. Patience, Gabi”

  “Okay. I can afford to wait. But don’t go thinking I’ll forget! Finish your food.”

  When the table was looking rather empty, Gaëlle sat back and looked Gabi in the eye.

  “I have to ask, where do we go from here, Gabi? You’ve been very good for me and I’m enjoying the time we spend together, but what’s in it for you?”

  Gabi sat back and dabbed her lips with the napkin.

  “Right now,” she began, “what I would really like, Gaëlle, is for you to tell me about this fantastic sex life I’m convinced you’ve lived.”

  “You do come straight to the point, don’t you?” Gaëlle said, stunned.

  “When it’s necessary, yes. I do. I learned it from you.”

  “So. What do you want me to tell you?”

  “Well…Where shall I start? I don’t know. For example, do you have a bare pussy?”

  Gaëlle gasped, then laughed out loud. “What a question! But no, I don’t.”

  “Never tried it? Just to see how it feels?”

  “If you want to know how it feels, you do it!” Gaëlle exclaimed. It wasn’t an answer, but it served the purpose of side-tracking Gabi.

  “I do know. I pinched your razor while I was showering. Look.”

  Gabi pushed her chair back and lifted the tee-shirt, revealing the white knickers borrowed from Gaëlle. She pulled them to one side. The skin was bare and the cleft of her sex was exposed. Just above it was a small tattoo of a butterfly.

  “You see?” Gabi said peering down. “If I let the hair grow for too long, poor butterfly can’t breathe and isn’t happy, so I have to give him some air from time to time.”

  “You’re so funny, Gabi. Sexy and funny and lovely. Why are you so nice to me?” Gaëlle asked, to take her mind off the desire to reach out and caress Gabi’s exposed sex.

  “Because you deserve it. You looked so sad that first day I saw you. I didn’t think that was fair. And also because I like you and over the past few years, it’s true that I’ve had fantasies about sex with you,” Gabi said, pulling the tee-shirt back down.

  “So you wanted to meet me to see if I could be tempted?” Gaëlle couldn’t keep the budding anger out of her tone.

  “Please don’t be cross with me,” Gabi pleaded. “I do like you and, honestly, I have thought of you during sex. But that apart, I knew, as soon as I saw you in the street, that I had to find out whether the incident with the egg was a one-off, or whether that was the real you.”

  Gaëlle calmed herself down. “Since it appears that it is the real me, you’d better tell me what you’re looking for.”

  “To know you better, first of all. Now I know a little more, I have this itch to hear about your sex life with Jérôme, if you’re prepared to tell. Will you?”

  Gaëlle thought for a minute. She reflected that it might be good for her to talk about what Jérôme and she had experienced together. The thought that it could excite Gabi also crossed her mind. Eventually, she nodded.

  “I’ll tell you some of it, but it will be over supper. I need a few days to work out what I’m ready to tell, but if you’ll come round next Sunday evening, you’ll get enough to keep you happy.”

  Gabi hugged her again, her eyes shining.

  “Next Sunday. I can’t wait!”

  Chapter Twelve

  Gaëlle spent the day in question cooking and preparing the apartment. She set the table for two, putting out her best table linen and cutlery. She hummed to herself as she polished the wine glasses and realised that she hadn’t been as happy as this for an age. When the entry phone buzzed, she hurried to open the door. Gabi was dressed quite soberly, in a white skirt and jacket that set off her olive skin and black hair.

  “Very smart,” Gaëlle said, looking at her appreciatively.

  “You, too,” Gabi replied, scrutinising Gaëlle’s pale green blouse and flowing black trousers. “A bit of a change from when you came to my apartment the first time.”

  “I couldn’t let you think I always dressed like a vagabond,” Gaëlle said. “You’ve given me the courage to dress properly again.”

  They ate almost in silence, as usual. At last, Gabi finished her last drop of wine and sat back.

  “That was delicious. I’m ashamed. I could never put on a meal like that. Not only are you my work guru…or should that be guruess…but now you’re my domestic heroine too! Do we wash the dishes before we discover to what extent you’re my erotic idol?”

  “We load the dishwasher, that’s all.”

  Five minutes later they were sitting on the sofa side by side. “Ground rules,” Gaëlle began. “I don’t know how my body will react to what I’m going to tell you, but I’m fairly sure it will turn me on. So, no touching. I’m not ready for that. Agreed?”

  “I suppose so. Can I ask questions?”

  “Of course, but if the answers don’t fit into the order of my telling, I’ll say so. You’ll get to know, but in my own time. I’m not promising that I’ll tell you everything, either. Clear?”

  Gabi nodded and sat back as Gaëlle began. She told it as she had lived it, the early experiments in showing in public and the thrilling realisation that it gave her a massive kick to look and feel sexy in unusual public places. Much later that evening, when she finished recounting the events at the Blue Parrot, her topless dancing and then the night spent with Jérôme and Magda, Gabi interrupted.

  “And have you done that with men? A three, I mean.”

  “That came later. All in good time.”

  “I just wanted to ask, because I don’t think I understand.”

  “You don’t understand what?”

  “What’s the attraction for a man in seeing his wife, or girlfriend or whatever having sex with someone else?”

  “All I can tell you is how Jérôme explained it to me. I didn’t understand it at first, either. Later on, I did.”

  “So, what did he say?”

  “First you have to know that for Jérôme and me, our relationship was never about possession. We were together by choice and neither of us controlled the other. When he and I were having sex together, we were both deep in our own sensations. Of course, we were trying to give pleasure to each other, but essentially, we were responsible for our own orgasms. Clear so far?” Gaëlle asked.

  When Gabi nodded, she went on, “On those occasions when Jérôme watched me, or, much less often, when I had the chance to watch him with another person or other people, we were able to give all our concentration to what we were seeing. It’s quite amazing to be a passive observer. The person that you love with a burning passion is in the grip of sexual ecstasy, almost totally out
of control, and you are watching that happen. You have to love them very much to appreciate it.” Gaëlle shivered. “Just to talk about it makes me quite faint,” she admitted. “Words can’t really do justice to the power of the feelings at moments like those.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever felt so strongly about anyone, certainly not as much as that,” Gabi said. “Sex for me has been mostly fun. What you’re describing is almost a mystical experience.”

  “Mystical? Not when it made my whole body feel so breathtakingly alive, so erotically charged!”

  “But it’s far more than just fun, is what I meant,” Gabi said. “I can see the goose bumps on your skin right now, so when it’s happening, it has to be overwhelming.”

  “That’s it! It’s a tidal wave that grabs you, bowls you over and over and lets you know just how helpless you are against it. Whoo!” Gaëlle blew her cheeks out, hard. “Give me a moment, Gabi. I need to get my breath back.”

  Gabi glanced at her watch.

  “Maybe we should leave it there for now, Gaëlle. I also need time to think about what you’ve said. I’m trembling too, and I wouldn’t like to disgrace myself by saying or doing something stupid.”

  “You’re probably right. I haven’t talked like this for a long time, and only ever really with Jérôme.”

  When Gabi had left, Gaëlle sat for a moment on the sofa. Telling the story of her life with Jérôme had left her feeling wrung out like an old floor cloth. But it had been cathartic, too, she realised. She’d been able to talk about Jérôme, and about sex, without the shattering feeling of loss that had dominated her life for almost a year. She went to bed, brought herself to a shuddering orgasm, and slept soundly.

  From Gaëlle’s Journal

  It was quite exhausting telling Gabi about Jérôme and me yesterday. And I haven’t got to some of the more extreme experiences yet. My life is changing, or perhaps is beginning again. I find myself thinking about sex in a way that I haven’t since I lost Jérôme. I’ve certainly had more orgasms in the past few weeks than in the previous year.

  There seem to be several strands in my life at present that are all leading me—back?—towards different forms of sexual exploration. First, I can envisage exploring the pumping thing further, with Odile and Barbara. Somewhere among her pump attachments, there has to be the one that Vivienne used on me, one that will make my whole sex swell up, not just my clitoris. Jérôme said it was very erotic and I’d like to remind myself of what he saw on that occasion. Then, there’s Gabi and the telling. That may lead to something happening with her. Finally, I’m tempted to see how it feels to do some of the things I used to do with Jérôme, shave or be depilated, maybe even show a little in public. If I’m honest, I miss my clitoris hood ring and I might even dare to have that piercing done again. My responsibility! Oh, I do love you, Jérôme. You taught me so much! Without your help, I’d never be considering all this!

  PS Before I set off seriously on one or all of these paths I want my body to be as well prepared as possible. I’m aware that I haven’t been doing as much in the gym as I used to and at my age I can’t afford to leave anything to nature. That part I can take care of myself. However, I can sense that first there’s something that needs to be cleared out of my system. I need a good, hard massage. It’s becoming urgent for me to find someone who can do me a serious massage, not an erotic one, just a deep, deep massage. Once that’s done, I’ll be ready to take the next step, I know.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Gaëlle undressed and stretched out on the massage table, more in hope than anticipation. Maybe this time, she’d find the massage she was looking for, the one that that would leave her cleaned out, feeling like a limp rag, but renewed. She thought of Jérôme, who had returned many times from his masseur in an almost euphoric daze. Quite often, she would find him asleep on the sofa shortly afterwards. When he woke up, though, he was always keen to engage in some sexy fun. Gaëlle smiled to herself.

  “You can dig a bit harder if you want,” Gaëlle said, a few minutes later.

  “I’m using all my strength now,” the masseuse retorted. “You’re exhausting me. You sporty people are all the same!” Gaëlle sighed and lay back to try and enjoy the rest of her session. This was the third masseuse she had tried at three different beauty salons over the summer. None of the women—girls, really—who gave massage were strong enough to give her the feeling she wanted.

  Back home, she sat for a long time, thinking hard. Somewhere, she knew she’d seen a piece of paper with the word Masseur and a phone number on it, in Jérôme’s scrawl. She knew that the man, whatever his name was, didn’t do massage for women, but she’d lose nothing by asking, if only she could find the number. She spent hours over the following week, tracking it down at last to where Jérôme had left it, as a bookmark in a dictionary. It was in page M, massage to maximum, of course. She should have guessed! Gaëlle straightened it out and reached for the phone. A man’s voice answered.

  “Brusque,” he said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “This is Jo Brusque speaking.” Then silence. Gaëlle hastened to fill it, afraid that the man would hang up.

  “It’s about a massage…”

  “I don’t do massage for women. Goodbye.” The man’s voice was firm and final.

  “Wait! Please give me a moment.” Gaëlle said. “This is Gaëlle, Jérôme’s wife…widow…I was wondering…”

  “Jérôme’s lady? That’s different. Come round tomorrow afternoon about five and we’ll see what we can do for you.”

  “I don’t even know where you are.” Gaëlle said, flustered by the change in the man’s tone. She’d been prepared to make her case, but was now at a loss as to how to continue. He gave her directions, which she scribbled down.

  “Got it?” the man called Jo Brusque asked. “Until tomorrow at five, then.” The phone went dead. Gaëlle sat back, slightly puzzled. It was almost as if the man had been expecting her, as soon as she’d mentioned who she was.

  Gaëlle took a bus out to the suburb where the masseur lived. It wasn’t a part of the city where she’d feel comfortable leaving her car on the street for any length of time. The block of apartments was typical of the nineteen-sixties, all function and little grace. She made her way over abandoned bicycles and the occasional dustbin to the third floor, then paused. She was early.

  There was a note on the door of Jo Brusque’s apartment. Gaëlle read—

  If I’m expecting you for a massage, come in, sit down and wait. If not, piss off.

  The man was as blunt as his name. She pushed the door half-open and peered past it. A small hallway led into a kitchen, where she could see a single chair beside the table. She went in, sat down and waited. It was quiet, apart from the muffled sounds of life going on in other apartments.

  Five minutes passed. The chair was hard, and she was about to stand up and stretch her legs when she heard a man’s voice raised in anguish, “Jesus, Jo,” the sufferer wailed. “Do you have to be quite so brutal? Shit, shit, shit, Jo, give me a moment. That hurts!”

  Gaëlle sat down again with a bump. She found herself swallowing hard, wondering whether this was such a good idea after all. The next half-hour was punctuated by cries of woe from the massagee in the room next door. She considered tapping on the door and saying that she’d been called away urgently, but then dismissed such an act of cowardice as beneath her. Then, the door opened and the victim emerged. Gaëlle found it hard to reconcile the colossus who came out with the pathetic whimpering she had been hearing. She recognised the man. He was something of a local celebrity, a professional rugby player whose huge frame almost filled the doorway. She also recognised the expression on his face. He looked exactly as Jérôme had when he returned from Jo’s massage table, shattered, but also relieved. He nodded to her and staggered out into the stairwell, leaving Gaëlle alone again. A few moments later, a face appeared round the door.

  “You must be Jérôme’s Gaëlle. Jo Brusque. Co
me in.”

  The grey-haired man addressing Gaëlle was well into his sixties, she knew. He was small and wiry. Gaëlle shook his hand, noting in passing the missing little finger that Jérôme had told her about. It made the man’s right hand look incongruously delicate against his muscled forearms. He was wearing a tee-shirt and training trousers and his feet were bare. Gaëlle went into an ordinary living-room, where the everyday furniture had been pushed to the walls to make room for the massage table. As she entered, she became aware that one of the armchairs was occupied, and swung round to see by whom.

  “This is my wife, Madeleine,” Jo said, introducing the woman to Gaëlle, who guessed she was also there to act as watchdog. She must have been in her fifties, a very tall, distinguished and fit-looking woman with short greying hair, wearing a denim skirt and a blouse. The two women shook hands, then Madeleine went back to sit in her armchair in the corner of the room.

  “Do I have to undress totally?” Gaëlle asked.

  “No, that isn’t necessary. Keep your bra and knickers on.” Madeleine said.

  “I’m not wearing a bra.”

  “Just your knickers, then,” Madeleine said, with a shrug.

  Stripped to her white cotton knickers, Gaëlle lay down on her front on the massage table. Jo spread towels over her, leaving her only her lower legs exposed. He rubbed oil on Gaëlle’s feet and calves, and began a gentle massage that very quickly became much stronger.

  “Ouf!” Gaëlle said, as Jo dug deep into the soles of her feet. “That hurts!”