The Other Side of Midnight (9 page)

“Oh, Christ,” he said.

They spent the entire night making love, and in the morning, Sorel invited Noelle to move in with him.

Noelle lived with Philippe Sorel for six months. She was neither happy nor unhappy. She knew that her being there made Sorel ecstatically happy, but this did not matter in the slightest to Noelle. She regarded herself as simply a student, determined to learn something new every day. He was a school that she was attending, a small part in her large plan. To Noelle there was nothing personal in their relationship, for she gave nothing of herself. She had made that mistake twice, and she would never make it again. There was room for only one man in Noelle’s thoughts and that was Larry Douglas. Noelle would pass the place des Victoires or a park or restaurant where Larry had taken her, and she would feel the hatred well up within her, choking her, so it became difficult to breathe, and there was something else mixed in with the hatred, something Noelle could not put a name to.

Two months after moving in with Sorel, Noelle received a call from Christian Barbet.

“I have another report for you,” the little detective said.

“Is he all right?” Noelle asked quickly.

Again Barbet was filled with that sense of uneasiness. “Yes,” he said.

Noelle’s voice was filled with relief. “I’ll be right down.”

The report was divided into two parts. The first dealt with Larry Douglas’ military career. He had shot down five German planes and was the first American to become an Ace in the war. He had been promoted to Captain. The second part of the report interested her more. He had become very popular in London’s wartime social life and had become engaged to the daughter of a British Admiral. There followed a list of girls that Larry was sleeping with, ranging from show girls to the wife of an under-secretary in the Ministry.

“Do you want me to keep on with this?” Barbet asked.

“Of course,” Noelle replied. She took an envelope from her purse and handed it to Barbet. “Call me when you have anything further.”

And she was gone.

Barbet sighed and looked up at the ceiling.
“Folle,”
he said thoughtfully.
“Folle.”

If Philippe Sorel had had any inkling of what was going on in Noelle’s mind, he would have been astonished. Noelle seemed totally devoted to him. She did everything for him: cooked wonderful meals, shopped, supervised the cleaning of his apartment and made love whenever the mood stirred him. And asked for nothing. Sorel congratulated himself on having found the perfect mistress. He took her everywhere, and she met all his friends. They were enchanted with her and thought Sorel a very lucky man.

One night as they were having supper after the show, Noelle said to him, “I want to be an actress, Philippe.”

He shook his head. “God knows you’re beautiful enough, Noelle, but I’ve been up to my ass in actresses
all my life. You’re different, and I want to keep you that way. I don’t want to share you with anyone.” He patted her hand. “Don’t I give you everything you need?”

“Yes, Philippe,” Noelle replied.

When they returned to the apartment that night, Sorel wanted to make love. When they finished, he was drained. Noelle had never been as exciting, and Sorel congratulated himself that all she needed was the firm guidance of a man.

The following Sunday was Noelle’s birthday, and Philippe Sorel gave a dinner party for her at Maxim’s. He had taken over the large private dining room upstairs, decorated with plush red velvet and deep dark wood paneling. Noelle had helped write the guest list, and there was one name she included without mentioning it to Philippe. There were forty people at the party. They toasted Noelle’s birthday and gave her lavish gifts. When dinner was over, Sorel rose to his feet. He had drunk a good deal of brandy and champagne and he was a little unsteady, his words a bit slurred.

“My friends,” he said, “we’ve all drunk to the most beautiful girl in the world and we’ve given her lovely birthday presents, but I have a present for her that’s going to be a
big
surprise.” Sorel looked down at Noelle and beamed, then turned to the crowd. “Noelle and I are going to be married.”

There was an approving cheer and the guests raced up to clap Sorel on the back and wish luck to the bride-to-be. Noelle sat there smiling up at the guests, murmuring her thank-yous. One of the guests had not risen. He was seated at a table at the far end of the room, smoking a cigarette in a long holder and viewing the scene sardonically. Noelle was aware that he had been watching her during dinner. He was a tall, very thin man, with an intense, brooding face. He seemed amused by everything that was happening around him, more an observer at the party than a guest.

Noelle caught his eye and smiled.

Armand Gautier was one of the top directors in France. He was in charge of the French Repertory Theater, and his productions had been acclaimed all over the world. Having Gautier direct a play or a motion picture was an almost certain guarantee of its success. He had the reputation of being particularly good with actresses and had created half a dozen important stars.

Sorel was at Noelle’s side, talking to her. “Were you surprised, my darling?” he asked.

“Yes, Philippe,” she said.

“I want us to be married right away. We’ll have the wedding at my villa.”

Over his shoulder Noelle could see Armand Gautier watching her, smiling that enigmatic smile. Some friends came and took Philippe away and when Noelle turned, Gautier was standing there.

“Congratulations,” he said. There was a mocking note in his voice. “You hooked a big fish.”

“Did I?”

“Philippe Sorel is a great catch.”

“For someone perhaps,” Noelle said indifferently.

Gautier looked at her in surprise. “Are you trying to tell me you’re not interested?”

“I’m not trying to tell you anything.”

“Good luck.” He turned to go.

“Monsieur Gautier…”

He stopped.

“Could I see you tonight?” Noelle asked quietly. “I would like to talk to you alone.”

Armand Gautier looked at her for a moment, then shrugged. “If you wish.”

“I will come to your place. Will that be satisfactory?”

“Yes, of course. The address is—”

“I know the address. Twelve o’clock?”

“Twelve o’clock.”

Armand Gautier lived in a fashionable old apartment
building on rue Marbeuf. A doorman escorted Noelle into the lobby and an elevator boy took her to the fourth floor and indicated Gautier’s apartment. Noelle rang the bell. A few moments later the door was opened by Gautier. He wore a flowered dressing gown.

“Come in,” he said.

Noelle walked into the apartment. Her eye was untrained, but she sensed that it was done in beautiful taste and that the objets d’art were valuable.

“Sorry I’m not dressed,” Gautier apologized. “I’ve been on the telephone.”

Noelle’s eyes locked onto his. “It will not be necessary for you to be dressed.” She moved over to the couch and sat down.

Gautier smiled. “That was the feeling I had, Miss Page. But I’m curious about something. Why me? You’re engaged to a man who is famous and wealthy. I am sure that if you are looking for some extracurricular activities, you could find men more attractive than I, and certainly richer and younger. What is it you want from me?”

“I want you to teach me to act,” Noelle said.

Armand Gautier looked at her a moment, then sighed. “You disappoint me. I expected something more original.”

“Your business is working with actors.”

“With actors, not amateurs. Have you ever acted?”

“No. But you will teach me.” She took off her hat and her gloves. “Where is your bedroom?” she asked.

Gautier hesitated. His life was full of beautiful women wanting to be in the theater, or wanting a bigger part, or the lead in a new play, or a larger dressing room. They were all a pain. He knew that he would be a fool to get involved with one more. And yet there was no need to get involved. Here was a beautiful girl throwing herself at him. It would be a simple matter to take her to bed and then send her away. “In there,” he said, indicating a door.

He watched Noelle as she walked toward the bedroom.
He wondered what Philippe Sorel would think if he knew that his bride-to-be was spending the night here. Women. Whores, all of them. Gautier poured himself a brandy and made several phone calls. When he finally went into the bedroom, Noelle was in his bed, naked, waiting for him. Gautier had to admit that she was an exquisite work of nature. Her face was breathtaking, and her body was flawless. Her skin was the color of honey, except for the triangle of soft golden hair between her legs. Gautier had learned from experience that beautiful girls were almost invariably narcissistic, so preoccupied with their own egocentricities that they were lousy lays. They felt their contribution to lovemaking was simply conferring their presence in a man’s bed, so that the man ended up making love to an unmoving lump of clay and was expected to be grateful for the experience. Ah, well, perhaps he could teach this one something.

As Noelle watched him, Gautier undressed, leaving his clothes carelessly strewn on the floor, and moved toward the bed. “I’m not going to tell you you are beautiful,” he said. “You’ve heard it too many times already.”

“Beauty is wasted,” Noelle shrugged, “unless it is used to give pleasure.”

Gautier looked at her in quick surprise, then smiled. “I agree. Let’s use yours.” He sat down beside her.

Like most Frenchmen, Armand Gautier prided himself on being a skilled lover. He was amused by the stories he had heard of Germans and Americans whose idea of making love consisted of jumping on top of a girl, having an instant orgasm, and then putting on their hat and departing. The Americans even had a phrase for it. “Wham, bam, thank you ma’am.” When Armand Gautier was emotionally involved with a woman, he used many devices to heighten the enjoyment of lovemaking. There was always a perfect dinner, the right wines. He arranged the setting artistically so that it was pleasing to the senses, the room was
delicately scented and soft music was playing. He aroused his women with tender sentiments of love and later the coarse language of the gutter. And Gautier was adept at the manual foreplay that preceded sex.

In Noelle’s case he dispensed with all of these. For a one-night stand there was no need for perfume or music or empty endearments. She was here simply to get laid. She was indeed a silly fool if she thought that she could trade what every woman in the world carried between her legs for the great and unique genius that Armand Gautier possessed in his head.

He started to climb on top of her. Noelle stopped him.

“Wait,” she whispered.

As he watched, puzzled, she reached for two small tubes that she had placed on the bedside table. She squeezed the contents of one into her hand and began to rub it onto his penis.

“What is this all about?” he asked.

She smiled. “You’ll see.” She kissed him on the lips, her tongue darting into his mouth in quick bird-like movements. She pulled away and her tongue started moving toward his belly, her hair trailing across his body like light, silky fingers. He felt his organ begin to rise. She moved her tongue down his legs to his feet and began to suck gently on his toes. His organ was stiff and hard now and she mounted him as he lay there. As he felt himself penetrating her, the warmth of her vagina acted on the cream she had put on his penis and the sensation became unbearably exciting. As she rode him, moving up and down, her left hand was caressing his testicles and they began to grow hot. There was menthol in the cream on his penis and the sensation of the cold while inside her warmth, and the heat of his testicles, drove him into an absolute frenzy.

They made love all night long and each time Noelle made love to him differently. It was the most incredibly sensuous experience he had ever had.

In the morning Armand Gautier said, “If I can get
up enough energy to move, I’ll get dressed and take you out to breakfast.”

“Lie there,” Noelle said. She walked over to a closet, selected one of his robes and put it on. “You rest. I’ll be back.”

Thirty-five minutes later Noelle returned with a breakfast tray. On it were freshly squeezed orange juice, a delicious sausage-and-chive omelet, heated, buttered croissants and jam and a pot of black coffee. It tasted extraordinarily good.

“Aren’t you having anything?” Gautier asked.

Noelle shook her head. “No.” She was seated in an easy chair watching him as he ate. She looked even more beautiful wearing his dressing gown open at the top, revealing the curves of her delicious breasts. Her hair was tousled and carefree.

Armand Gautier had radically revised his earlier estimate of Noelle. She was not any man’s quick lay; she was an absolute treasure. However, he had met many treasures in his career in the theater, and he was not about to spend his time and talent as a director on a starry-eyed amateur who wanted to break into the theater, no matter how beautiful she might be, or how skilled in bed. Gautier was a dedicated man who took his art seriously. He had refused to compromise it in the past, and he was not about to start now.

The evening before, he had planned to spend the night with Noelle and send her packing in the morning. Now as he ate his breakfast and studied her, he was trying to figure out a way to hold onto Noelle as a mistress until he got bored with her, without encouraging her as an actress. He knew that he had to hold out some bait. He felt his way cautiously. “Are you planning to marry Philippe Sorel?” he asked.

“Of course not,” Noelle replied. “That is not what I want.”

Now it was coming. “What do you want?” Gautier asked.

“I told you,” Noelle said quietly. “I want to be an actress.”

Gautier bit into another croissant, stalling for time. “Of course,” he said. Then he added, “There are many fine dramatic coaches I could send you to, Noelle, who would…”

“No,” she said. Noelle was watching him pleasantly, warmly, as though eager to accede to anything he suggested. And yet Gautier had a feeling that inside her was a core of steel. There were many ways she could have said “no.” With anger, reproach, disappointment, sulking, but she had said it with softness. And absolute finality. This was going to be more difficult than he had anticipated. For a moment Armand Gautier was tempted to tell her, as he told dozens of girls every week, to go away, that he had no time to waste on her. But he thought of the incredible sensations he had experienced during the night and he knew he would be a fool to let her go so soon. She was surely worth a slight, a very slight, compromise.