Destiny (6 page)

When the door closed behind her, there was a bttle silence. Edouard had gone bright red. He stared at his brother accusingly.

"Oh God. She knows. Isobel knows. You didn't tell her? You can't have told her?"

"I might have mentioned it." Jean-Paul shrugged. "Why shouldn't she know? She thought it was a fine idea. She said it was sweet."

Edouard glanced at his brother doubtfully. He inflected the word sweet with a sarcasm he did not trouble to hide.

"I'm embarrassed, that's all. I'd just rather she didn't know. I—I thought it was something private. A secret. Just between you and me."

"So it is. So it is. Now, come on. Cheer up." Jean-Paul smiled. "I've good news. I've arranged it."

"Arranged it? You have?"

Jean-Paul pulled a small pasteboard card from his uniform pocket and slipped it into Edouard's hand.

"Tomorrow afternoon, at three. Maman will be out all day. I checked. Glendinning takes you only in the mornings on Saturday, yes? So—you've plenty of time to get there. The address is on the card." He paused. "She's perfect, Edouard. Perfect in every respect. Not too young, not too old.

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Very experienced. A delightful woman. French—I thought that might help. Not a tart—nothing like that. Very clean. She has—well, she's kept, if you understand me. But the gentleman in question is elderly and often away, and she likes younger men." He shrugged. "She's a good fuck, Edouard. I can recommend her personally."

"You can?"

"But of course. You don't think I'm going to send my little brother oflf without checking the services provided?" Jean smiled. "I had her the other afternoon."

"The other afternoon? But—Jean, you're engaged now."

Jean-Paul grinned. He glanced at the door, then back at Edouard.

"Oh, little brother," he said slowly. "You didn't seriously imagine that would make any difference? Did you?"

Celestine Bianchon had first come to England in 1910, at the age of sixteen, to appear as a dancer and singer in Henry Pelissier's Alham-bra Follies. She was very pretty, with just the degree of plumpness then considered essential for beauty, she danced gracefully, and—untaught— sang with a naturally sweet high clear voice. She rapidly acquired her quota of followers, stage-door johnnies who would fill her dressing room with flowers, and who competed furiously for the privilege of wining and dining her after the show at the Cafe de I'Europe in Leicester Square. They would eat and drink champagne until three in the morning, surrounded by the writers, actresses, and young men of good family who made up this demi-monde, and then Celestine would return in a hansom to the less glamorous environs of Finsbury Park: sometimes alone, more often not. She still looked back on those years of her life, which continued until the outbreak of the Great War, as the high point of her existence.

But Celestine, of French peasant stock, was also a realist. Unlike some of her friends at the Alhambra, she accepted bouquets and presents, but did not expect proposals of marriage; such elevations, it was true, did occasionally occur, but they were rarities. Celestine was happy with a series of protectors; she had no wish to return to France. As the years passed, and the first bloom of her beauty faded, the protectors became less distinguished and less young, but Celestine accepted this. It was natural, inevitable, it did nothing to affect her spirits. As a girl she had numbered English peers among her admirers. Now, in 1940, she was forty-six, and her gentleman was a retired businessman living in Hove, who had invested his meager capital in a series of lodging houses in different parts of London and the Home Counties. This suited Celestine, because it meant he visited

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her only once or twice a week. And besides, he rarely questioned her as to how she spent the rest of her time. He was sixty-four, and Celestine was fond of him. He was less virile, but much kinder, than many of her past lovers; he paid for her small flat in Maida Vale; he bestowed on her a small allowance from which she was able to save a httle each week against her old age; and he bothered to talk to her—she appreciated that.

It had never occurred to Celestine that she was deceiving him. She regarded her afternoons with other gentlemen as something quite apart from this central arrangement, occasions which could cause no harm because they would never be discovered. Celestine had realized early that the less men knew, the better it was. They came to her for one purpose, and she fulfilled it to the best of her considerable abihties. It was good fortune for her that the war had brought so many Frenchmen to London, and that an afternoon with one French officer had since brought her a steady stream of satisfied military customers.

Her small pasteboard card was now in the wallets of a number of General de Gaulle's staff, and that pleased Celestine. It brought her a little extra money; a certain spirit of patriotism was involved; and besides, after all these years, it was pleasant to speak French again in the boudoir. When she passed the headquarters of the Free French, Celestine never failed to blow a kiss in its direction, and to wish the young men there a silent bonne chance.

She had been honored to accommodate the dashing young heir to the Baron de Chavigny. She had been flattered when, at the end of some rampant lovemaking, he had explained to her as only a Frenchman could, the predicament of his younger brother. It was by no means the first time that she had performed such a role, and she agreed to it at once. She was curious to meet this young Edouard, and with a smile to herself, she wondered if, with her assistance, he could not become a far more accomplished lover than his energetic but unsubtle brother.

She prepared for him carefully, knowing from experience that the kind of clothing—tight-waisted corselets in black lace that lifted her full breasts and left them exposed, garter belt, fine stockings, thin negligee—which appealed strongly to her older clients, was likely to terrify a boy. When she had finished preparing herself, she was pleased with the costume: it was erotic without being blatant, white rather than black, adorned with pretty ribbons and lace, the whole ensemble discreetly hidden beneath a dressing gown of pale blue crepe de chine. She arranged her hair carefully, and slipped her tiny pretty feet into blue high-heeled slippers decorated with maribou feathers. Jean-Paul had thoughtfully provided a bottle of cham-

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pagne for the occasion, and it was ready on ice. She also set the kettle to boil: some young men preferred tea the first time. Then she sat down to wait.

Edouard had taken a taxi to the unfamiliar area of Maida Vale. He arrived there at two-fifteen and spent forty-five minutes pacing the streets in an agony of indecision. Several times he almost called another cab and returned home, but he knew that would have been cowardice, and he couldn't have faced Jean-Paul. So, in the end, he presented himself at the door at precisely three o'clock and pressed the bell nervously.

Jean-Paul had said five pounds. That seemed to Edouard not just mean, but graceless. So he had removed from the stores in Eaton Square a large box of French hand-dipped chocolates—impossible to obtain such things in London now—and had placed a ten-pound note inside it, then carefully rearranged ribbons and wrappings. He had also purchased a small bunch of roses from a flower seller, and he juggled roses and chocolates as he waited.

He had never felt so uncertain and inadequate in his hfe, never so httle inclined even to look at a woman. That feeling disappeared at once when Celestine opened the door, tripped up the stairs before him in her maribou shppers, and led him into her sitting room. Chattering gaily in French, she put him at ease at once. She poured him a glass of champagne, which he drank in one gulp, and then, to his great rehef she simply sat down, as if they were old friends, and began to talk.

Edouard looked at her, and he thought that she might not be young, but she was enchanting. She reminded him of certain Renoir paintings in his father's collection, with her reddish-blond hair piled on top of her head, and the wisps that curled around her ears, and her soft throat. She had clear blue eyes, and the tiny wrinkles around them only increased the warmth of her smile. She needed, and wore, very Uttle makeup, and her complexion still had the clarity and the delicate coloring of a much younger woman.

He stared, riveted, as she gently swung one smooth leg, and twisted her ankle as if to admire her blue slippers. When she leaned forward to offer him a second glass of champagne, and he politely refused, her dressing gown fell open a little, and he glimpsed the luscious curve of her full breasts. That was enough; to his delight he felt his body start to respond. And Celestine seemed to know, because she stood up and gently led him into her bedroom, where, to his increasing delight, she first undressed him, and then allowed him to remove her robe. With sudden rash confidence he

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pushed her back onto the clean white sheets and began to kiss her passionately. Less than five minutes later, to his shame and mortification, he burst into tears.

Celestine lay back on the pillows and held the boy close in her arms. He wept angrily against her breasts, and gently Celestine stroked his hair as a mother would, until the first spasm of anger and grief left him, and he lay more quietly in her arms. She looked down at the dark bent head, and her warm heart was filled with compassion. If only he knew, this handsome young boy, that it was almost always like this, the first time; that he was neither the first nor the last man to weep like an angry child at what he believed was his unique failure. Very gently, stroking his thick hair all the while, she began to talk.

"Vas-y, mon petit. There's no need for tears now. The first time it's always like this, believe me. You are excited, you are impatient, it is only natural—don't worry. So you come quickly—too quickly, you think. You imagine I will be offended, maybe? I can assure you that is not the case. I take it as a compliment, mon cheri, a compliment—you hear me? It is good to know, when you are my age, that you can still please a young man so much. And besides, we have plenty of time, as much time as you want. And you will find, mon cheri, that at your age such an event is a trifle, over and forgotten the next minute. The next time, and there will be so many next times, it will be better, and then better and better—until eventually, you will teach me, it is you who will dictate, you who will—how do they say it here?—call the shots?"

She smiled, and continued the soft stroking. "Do you imagine, cheri, that to make love is a skill we are all born with? That we know, men and women both, exactly what to do, and the best, the most pleasurable way of doing it, the very first time? I assure you that is not the case. One must learn, cheri. Gradually. It is a little like a lesson in school, heini Only in this case, it is a pleasurable lesson. One everyone enjoys. . . ."

She smiled against his hair as she felt his strong young body grow less tense. Soon, she thought, in a minute, much more quickly than he realizes, he will be hard again, and ready to make love a second time. But meanwhile, she must not rush him. He was like a young animal, she thought, a shy young animal; anything too sudden, too direct, and she would startle and frighten him. No, she must be gentle and slow, very slow. And he was so beautiful! So beautiful. She had almost forgotten how beautiful a very young man's body could be: the smoothness of the skin, like a girl's, the tautness of the muscles. The tight curve of the buttocks, the flatness of the

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Stomach, the strength of the thighs. She feh a slow pleasurable ripple of desire. Such eyes—that extraordinary deep blue; and that black, black hair . . . She stroked the wide shoulders. He was more relaxed now.

Carefully she drew them both up to a sitting position. A certain practi-cahty now, she thought. Yes, that might be the thing. "Cheri . . ." She lifted his hands, making her request quite casual and matter-of-fact. "It seems a little unfair. You look so comfortable, so beautiful, and I—I am still in this stupid thing. And besides ..." She teasingly caught his eye. "It is a little damp, heinl Would you help me to undo it? At the back there, that's right, all those httle hooks and eyes, so difficuh to reach. And my stockings! Really, I think I have no need of my stockings. ..."

He slipped the stockings off first. Then, with fumbling fingers, he undid the white lace corselet. Celestine was naked. She smiled at him, and Edouard gazed, enraptured. He had seen pictures, of course—Jean-Paul had shown him some—but he had never seen a woman naked before. He could never have imagined such opulence of flesh, such loveliness. Celestine had full heavy breasts with wide rosy-pink nipples. Her hips curved out from a still-small waist; between her legs there was a triangle of reddish-gold hair, curly, springy to the touch, startling against the creamy curve of her thighs. Almost without thinking, he touched her there, very Ughtly, feeling the crisp hairs, and to his astonishment and dehght, Celestine gave a httle moan of response.

He looked up at her, startled, and her lips curved, the blue eyes sparkled.

"But yes—that surprises you? It shouldn't. It feels nice when you touch me there. It might feel nice, too, I think, if you kissed me. Just a little kiss, cheri. ..."

Somewhat awkwardly, Edouard put his arms around her, and bent his face to hers. He gave her a chaste kiss on her closed hps, very gently, and Celestine gave a deep sigh.

"Oh, so good. I hke your kiss. A little more, I beg you. ..."

This time, as his hps touched the soft warmth of hers, she parted them. Edouard touched them softly with his tongue, and she sighed again, and moved closer to him.

''Comme qa, cheri. Ah, oui, comme qa . . ."

She drew his tongue into her mouth, gently, persuasively, holding him in her arms so that he did not press too hard or too close, and just their mouths were joined. Edouard felt a shudder of delight pass through his body; she began to caress his neck and shoulders and back, and at once, immediately, he felt his penis leap and harden. He felt Celestine's hps curve into a smile of triumph. She gave a low laugh, and drew back from him just a httle, looking down.