The Intimates (8 page)

“Perhaps inspiring you is what Francoise had in mind?” Graham suggests.

Franz steps over, his cheeks rosy with laughter and port. “If the band were here, I would convince them that we should persuade this temptress to dance in our next video.”

“It's a shame you can no longer use the band to get a girl's number,” Graham says.

“I agree,” he replies. “A famous band name is like a successful brand, it's an advert for a certain lifestyle. The band name opened many doors to me, but now I have to rely upon more temperamental gifts – like charm and money, which increasingly diminish with time.” He leans against a pillar and considers the dancer with a melancholy expression. “Women like this make me laugh at the shallowness of my youth. When we were famous I was interested only in chasing after models and hostesses, women who pleased my ego, who I thought were satisfied by limousines and champagne. I should have used my influence to travel to far flung lands, to learn about the exoticism of women of the earth like her,

whose movements evoke cultures that I could only ever glimpse inside.”

For the first time tonight I am now seeing the Franz that I once knew; who dispelled our fears and pushed each of us, blinking with expectation into the world.

“Do you not agree with me Vincent?” he says, wiping his brow. “Do you not see how we live superficial lives when we mock other cultures – by dismissing them with our consuming mindset?”

“I see that you should definitely drink less tequila,” Graham replies.

“No, he is right,” I say, suddenly inspired. “It relieves me to hear you talk like this again Franz. Femininity charms us, because it evokes a world that men have no access to. The entire range of female paraphernalia is so seductive; a glimpse of it is a glimpse into the machinery which creates illusions we lust and despair after for a lifetime. The furs, the perfume bottles, the lip gloss containers that illuminate the dresser; all are transformed from something mundane into something timeless with their mere application, and thereby provoke a thirst that can't be quenched. Women of the world inspire because they show how limited even that appreciation of women is; they prompt us to venture into the world so we can understand their essence and gain their charms.”

Elise rolls her eyes. “So you're saying that you are only ambitious in order to gain the attention of foreign women?”

“No. The boy is hungry for the world, even if that hunger is sometimes only manifested through desire.”

Franz smiles kindly at me.

“What does he know about desire, let alone women?” she retorts, more assertive now that a few eyes are upon her. “I could teach this belly dancing harlot a thing or two, and I wouldn't need to dress up like a tramp in order to do it. She's just a girl who's decorated herself as a woman.”

Carina rises to fetch a drink. The remark seems to have stung her, perhaps given her earlier admittance that she felt she had not gained whatever is required to become a woman. For a moment I am compelled to seize her, to tell her to ignore Elise. To tell her that by confessing her own uncertainty Carina has simply made herself all the more difficult to define, and thereby all the more feminine. That Elise's need to define herself serves only to strip away some of her charm.

I watch Carina as she moves away. She skirts everyone carefully, keen to not draw attention to herself, or make anyone move on her account. Elise on the other hand, moves so that she is sat directly between Franz and I, her eyes flickering between the two of us to ensure that she still has our attention.

I wonder then if female beauty perhaps manifests itself in two ways. Women either decide to be beautiful, and with constant assertion of that decision become it, in many people's eyes. Or they decide they're beautiful but then live naturally in the shadow of that belief, with infinitely more charm. If this is the case, it seems Elise is the former type, and Carina the latter.

“I occasionally did some burlesque dancing when I was at university,” Elise says. “My performances were far more risqué than any of this belly dancing. Performing at a private party to an appreciative audience is nothing – I'd sometimes have to win over a roomful of men using nothing but a couple of tassels and a horsewhip.”

Franz cocks his head appreciatively. “A horsewhip? Elise, are you suggesting there is a darker side to the innocent primary school veneer that we have all taken for granted?”

“Oh, I definitely have a darker side. One that even Vincent knows nothing about.”

Elise flashes a look at me, perhaps trying to gauge my reaction. I smile, and try to look quietly intrigued. Being careful not to let on how this does not make her sound dark or decadent to me at all – merely desperate and a little unhinged.

“Are you going to show us some of your moves then?” Franz asks. She laughs coquettishly.

“She is a very good dancer,” I say. “But I suspect you have not known these people long enough to dance for them Elise.”

“Let the girl decide herself,” Franz insists. “If she says she wants to dance, then dance she must. I think I'd rather like to see it.”

“Are you worried that other men will see how desirable I am?” Elise asks, laughing and then kissing me on the cheek.

The dancer finishes to a chorus of cheers, before bowing with a final flourish. As I go to refill my glass Carina rushes over to speak with her. The dancer seems flattered by her praise, and she slowly takes Carina through a couple of her steps. Carina, with some trepidation, follows each of them with curious and grateful eyes. In minutes she has mastered a couple of her movements, and the dancer laughs encouragingly as Carina insists she repeats them for her. But as she moves away I see Carina clasp her hip and steady herself against a table, a look of disappointment quickly flashing in her eyes.

I feel tempted to rush over to her and console her. I want to compliment her for her determination to dance again, to assure her that in time she will be able to. But something stops me. That gradual paralysis which always inevitably affects me when I am around her.

“Quite the fare you have put on for your guests,” Graham says, as Francoise joins us.

“I met the dancer when I was travelling through Egypt,” she replies. “I promised to pay for her fare and accommodate her if she performed at our little soiree.”

“I'm glad you invited me this evening,” Elise says. “The Fountains really is a wonderful place to spend an evening.”

“You are fortunate to be here on a night when all of The Intimates are together,” Carina says. “It doesn't happen very often. Vincent must have told you a lot about our little group?”

“I have, yes.”

“Have you?” Elise says. “You did say you were keen to see everyone again, but also that you've changed a lot since university. I thought you said you were concerned that it might be a little awkward?”

“I'm not sure I said that Elise. I've known these people for far too long to have any such concerns.”

“I'm very glad you made it,” Francoise says, to Elise. “I was intrigued to meet you, and you haven't disappointed. I'm pleased you are so taken with The Fountains. Many say that the whole estate is cursed, and it certainly has been a labour of love for me. But now I have it almost as I desire, and I have grown quite attached to it.”

“Wasn't it owned by some wealthy aristocrat, who fell into squalor upon acquiring it?” Graham asks.

“You mustn't believe the villagers' gossip about this place. Some of it originates from me, so that I could lower the price. It is true that the original owner was very comfortably well off, until he lost his wife and much of his wealth in a freak series of events. He built The Fountains as a fresh start – the name itself obviously evokes visions of clear running water with which he hoped to wash away the debris of his past. In the grounds he placed three large and rather ornate fountains – one to symbolise the future, one for the past, and one for the present. He always intended that the fountain for the future would be the most powerful, to symbolise him overcoming the adversity that had blighted much of his life. Unfortunately for him, his new start was not as successful as he hoped it would be. Having lost most of his riches he disappeared into thin air one day – allowing me to purchase The Fountains at a steal. The villagers say that the grounds are cursed, that they eventually take a hold of their owner and ruin them.

I have worked hard to overcome that myth, for that is all I believe it to be. And I think I have been somewhat successful – as since residing in The Fountains I have finally published my long-awaited novel.”

“You could never own a house without there being some spooky story behind it, could you Francoise?” Graham says. “I wonder if
all
these rumours do not begin and end with you. In fact, I would not put it past you to have made these rumours up, just so you could play a little game with your guests and see how we react to it all. The bored and rich have such wicked imaginations.”

Francoise smiles weakly, and looks over at me. “Vincent, you don't believe I would act so callously, do you?”

“You might, to acquire a house like this.”

“You must let me show you the house Vincent, there is so much of it that you have not seen. Perhaps if you see it for yourself, you will realise that none of its intrigue was applied by me. Elise, can I steal your boyfriend from you for a short while?”

“As long as you bring him back unchanged, yes.”

Francoise holds the tips of my fingers as she leads me out of the drawing room, and I feel Elise's eyes on the back of my head as she does so. Something about Francoise's touch seems to heighten my awareness. I feel conscious I should be on my guard, and yet strangely excited by the thought of being alone with her. As I follow her I fall into the slipstream of her perfume, which combined with the drink makes me feel a little weak.

“Elise has a keen pair of eyes,” Francoise says, looking back at me with a smile. “I wonder if she treats the world with such constant suspicion. It must wear her out.”

“Our little group must be rather a lot for her to take in. I wonder if she isn't slightly envious of our shared past.”

Francoise leads me through the library. We ease past stacks and stacks of undisturbed books, dusty and peaceful. Her eyes remain fixed upon the back wall until we draw up against it. “Bear with me,” she whispers, casting her eyes along the top shelf until she fixes upon a battered copy of Ayn Rand's
The Fountainhead
.

“Walter, will you close the library door?” she calls, as she looks behind us.

“Certainly madam,” the butler replies. The room quickly dims as he does so.

“Let me show you something.” She pulls the spine of the book and in a singular motion the entire wall swings back, and to the left to reveal a stone passageway instantly lit by electric candles. They illuminate a long tunnel that winds into the darkness.

“What I didn't mention is that the previous owner of this house was a paranoid schizophrenic. He was convinced that any success he built would be snatched away by his ex-wife's lawyers. He built this secret passageway so that he could instantly escape should they come calling. This tunnel,” she says, peering cautiously inside it, “leads to the very end of the grounds. I have always been too wary to venture inside it. Walter ensures me that it serves its purpose, but even he has not been through to the other end of it.”

“Why not?”

“Let me show you something else.”

She leads me to a large and ornate living room, which looks out onto the dark expanse of the garden. I notice that this evening the night seems to possess a new depth, as if it were some ever expanding hallway lined with pockets of stars that imbue it with a captivating glow. I see what Georgina means about the evening's mercurial quality, as there is something about this summer night that seems to draw me into it.

Large satin curtains, partially pulled back to reveal the darkness outside, reach from the wall to the ceiling. Francoise moves to the far end of the room, and pulls the right hand curtain back to reveal a small wooden door behind it. Finding my hand with hers, she directs me through. She draws out a small silver key from the end of her necklace and eases it into the lock. The door reveals a small, candlelit chamber, and as we step inside I see a mahogany desk pressed against an Edwardian window. The window is situated precisely in front of the fountains she mentioned, each barely visible in the darkness. The dark red walls are busy with shadows thrown from the smouldering flames in the fireplace. The desk is stacked high with sheaves of white paper, but most of the room is filled with a satin four-poster bed.

“This is where I write,” she says, moving to a silver tray on her desk and offering me one of the champagne glasses from it. I wonder if she always has them prepared, or merely saved for certain occasions. “This is my sanctuary, the only place in which I can feel truly secluded. Not even Walter has access to this room. I keep this place as my inner sanctum.”

She sits on the end of the bed, and cautiously I do the same. I study her in the half light; she looks at once determined and yet composed. The darkness outside seems to have crept into the room, and as we sit down I struggle to make out shapes in the dark outside. “You are looking for the fountains?”

A little dizzy, I look out of the window. I can see them now. There are three of them, each spurting silver flumes of water into the sky, to fall into ornate dishes beneath them. “One representing the past, one for the present, and one for the future,” she says.

Her voice has a strange effect on me. I look back at her, trying hard to think of something to say. But as I glance at her lips I feel intoxicated, inexplicably bound to her. Even those faint lines on her face fail to detract from the feeling of being overwhelmed by her attention. In the semi-darkness she looks so graceful, so intriguing, that my eyes stayed fixed upon her as she speaks.

A little too quickly, I turn to look at the fountains. “That one is for the future,” she says, pointing at the one furthest away, her lips almost on my shoulder now.

The two fountains nearest us are spurting water vigorously into the sky, evoking a feeling of abandon and release. But the one she points out expels water in weak, saccadic bursts, pathetic in comparison to the other two which proudly draw the eye. I look at her face, her lips now so close to mine. I can't think of a response.