Free Monsieur by Emma Becker Page A

our conversation. I have absolutely no intention of justifying my presence to her. I turn to the window and gulp the last drops of my coffee, suddenly filled with the anguish of Tuesday morning. The silence in the small blue room is so oppressive that I start humming as I read the hygiene warnings Blu-tacked to the wall. Someone is walking about behind the door on the left, which leads to the operating theatre. A few steps away from me, the secretary is restless, shuffling her paperwork. I wish my whole face could be pixellated, fearing she might recognize me as Dr Cantrel’s niece and want to chat. Fortunately, just as she is about to open her mouth, the mysterious door half opens and Monsieur emerges, regal in surgical scrubs, his hair beneath a blue skullcap. I feel him draw back from taking me in his arms, even though I rush towards him, my cheeks on fire and my eyes shining, as if my lights have been switched on. Monsieur’s smile is like a caress, even though his hands remain in his pockets.
    The clinic’s geography is such that we are invisible to others as we walk a few metres down a twisted corridor. In a flash Monsieur is all over me, his mouth assaulting mine, his tongue working with such speed and determination I almost faint, and lose all sense of place and time. I submit to the urgency of the kiss. It speaks to me, says, ‘I can’t resist.’ I understand where the subtle mix of repulsion and magnetic attraction comes from: while I’m fascinated by the fact I’m having an affair with such a brilliant and sensual man, I can also see how pathetic it is for him to sleep with such a young girl behind the backs of his wife and kids. Maybe I made it too easy for him or Monsieur isn’t much of a seducer. Maybe he tries not to resemble those old guys hanging around the school gates whose hearts are broken by a nymphet. There are times when I see so much pain in his desire that I’m unsure whether I should be flattered or take pity on him. I feel a form of power surge through me, which overwhelms me. Should I use it?
    In the changing room Monsieur hands me a pair of pyjamas and watches me with close attention. While I attempt to find some privacy behind the wobbly shelves, he seizes my handbag. ‘I’ll put it in the locker, darling. Just keep your mobile.’
    For an instant, my heart stops. Hidden by the locker door, I mumble: ‘What did you call me?’
    â€˜I call everyone “darling”,’ Monsieur explains, and I feel like slapping his face.
    A nurse helps me stuff my ponytail inside the white skullcap. I now look like an egg. Facing a large mirror I try to improve my appearance while keeping an eye on Monsieur. Even though I am trying to be discreet, I’m sure the short brunette standing next to me notices my efforts to look a bit sexier before Monsieur turns to me again. She doesn’t seem concerned about it, which suggests to me that I’m not the first young girl to pass through this changing room on the arm of Monsieur. He’s unlikely to compromise himself with the young women in blue coats, but no doubt they whisper about his activities behind his back. Monsieur is not the type to be bothered or embarrassed, or to look away when he sees someone he lusts after. He has no fear; this is his kingdom. Women can chatter away to their hearts’ content, but for now he’s dragging me towards the cavernous lift carrying the operating staff to the theatre. Surely they know this is a moment of truth. And, of course, as soon as the doors close Monsieur, so immense next to me in the restricted space, pins me back with a kiss that tastes of so many forbidden things, but that’s nothing in comparison with the long fingers slithering beneath my pyjama jacket, the feeling I have of slowly collapsing into a hot bath and my muscles turning to jelly. This man is like a symphony of inquisitive fingers spreading across my breasts and inside my