Altered Perspective

Chapter Five

At six o’clock on the morning of January twentieth Lucrezia Martin is seen sneaking out of her dorm and climbing into the taxi that waits at the curb. She is seen by the cat in the alley and the insomniac on the third floor. She has left vague instructions as to her where about with friends, only she knows the delicious truth. Except this morning it is a truth she would rather not sample. Sitting side by side in the taxi, the metre ticking over, the chirpy trill of the morning radio, something feels awkward, forced, she cannot relax into his company. Her mind is blank of all conversation and she worries he will find her uninteresting. Self concerned as youth always is. Lucrezia smiles to herself at this thought. Would like to ask about his son, but worries the timbre of her voice would betray her. Instead she sits back, closes her eyes but does not sleep.

The rain washes the charm away from Paris for Lucrezia. They take a taxi from the station to a hotel near Montmartre and she is relieved that he has booked her her own room. She needs some space, some time to calm the trashing of her heart. Something has changed during the journey over, a sense of owner ship has crept in. She now knows why he asked her to bring her best dress, but will not let full reign to her suspicions, although the make her feel other worldly, a child more than a woman.

Tonight, he has explained, they shall attend an opening of a private gallery and she is to be his plus one. He studies her, the stare instructing her to make herself appear older, to behave and not to mention her own artistic deigns, which is is becoming creepily clear are not his only intention. Would it be so bad though, she wonders as she runs a bath, to play up to those fantasies. It is a long time since she had any degree of intimacy in her life and it would be her own hunger that would drive her to him. Apart from New Years Eve Lucrezia has had nothing since a messy kiss and an awkward fumble with Harrison the night before he vanished, as if he knew he was always going to be going away. No word, just a sweaty palm on her breast and her own voice quivering with fear, with knowledge in her throat.

She squeezes her eyes against him. He will not penetrate this new world, for although it is no easier, it is different and different is what she has been needing. The image of him is diminishing as his power wanes. She spoke of her true feelings to no-one, masked her disappointment and it will not get the better of her here and now.     Instead she casts her mind over the afternoon, the taxi they took to Notre Dame, climbing the steps to the Sacre Coeur, churches, more churches, always churches when you are a visitor. They had lunch in Montmartre but something had changed between them, although she never remembers them being easy companions, too much left unsaid. Would she feel so unsure if it had all been laid out long ago?

It is quarter to six, they need to leave in an hour. She would like to wrap herself up in bed, read and drink, she would like to steel herself into the glamourous seductress she would love to be, to take him by surprise. Instead she dutifully dries, moisturise and applies her make up, shivering in the dress from her exhibition, worrying that she will look too thrifty for his Parisian friends. She tries the burgundy pill box hat, but looks too much like a child playing dress up. She checks the contents of her bag, too much time to pass before he calls for her. She sits by the window and watches the rain, the coldness of the day seeping like disappointment into her.

When she opens the door to his knock he seems pleased with what he sees. She musters a smile, a little twirl. He offers her his arm and she takes it. They have a drink in the hotel bar and she can tell he is pleased with his choice. It emboldens her. Yes, she thinks, it might not be as bad. A glass of crisp white wine, a smile over the rim, there is something attractive about him, something masculine. She remembers her fantasies at new year of him, all those early dawns dreaming of her lips pressed to his. Maybe this will be easier than art, she thinks.

His intentions are revealed in the subtlest movement, one that alerts her perceptions, reaffirms the only now plausible truth. Through the haze of wine his face is a masked grimace, the lecherous leer of an older man feasting his mind on the supple promise of younger flesh. His desire for her is too blatant, it disgusts her. It is stronger than her. She looks at the fine bones of her wrist, her ivory fingers trapped by his broad fleshy palms, pressing down hot, hard enough to break. She smiles to disguise her own fear, but even the shaky sip of wine she takes cannot disguise the fact that her mind is extracting itself from her body. Her stomach plummets, suddenly sober and how she wishes she was leg less, unable to discern what he wants, to awake with it fuzzy in her mind like somebody else’s memory.