Free The Sexopaths by Bruce Beckham Page A

the most rudimentary of lexicons; now she sounds as though
she never left the shores of Normandy.  He listens.  She’s making
them laugh.  He can’t really tell what they’re saying – he picks up
something about ‘Les Anglais’ – but mainly it’s too fast and probably too
colloquial.  Her exaggerated laughter flows freely, too; he winces each
time it’s borne to him on the warm breeze.
    While he can’t quite see Monique,
opposite her the French President and Secretary Simone are clearly in
view.  They laugh and smile and nod, but every so often he notices one or
the other of them retires from the conversation, their mind diverted as they
study Monique across the table.  She’s new, of course, making her
mark.  And they’re curious to discover what she is about.  There’s an
unspoken protocol – they all, including Monique, understand she’s
striving to integrate, ingratiate, to be someone they’ll like to have around
them, a positive addition to the Board, professionally and socially, no threat
to their status; her fitness for purpose – it’s a kind of interview and
screen test rolled into one.  Adam knows it’s easy for her – much
easier than she appreciates.  Especially now champagne and chardonnay have
sluiced away the irrational self-doubt that most people wouldn’t perceive, her
initial reticence transformed with innocent aplomb.  Now he senses her
growing comfort as the group’s centre of gravity slowly shifts in her favour, and
with it the subtle balance of power.
    Secretary Simone observes her
with a certain feline detachment.  He wonders – does she see Monique
as a competitor?  Not in the job stakes – of course – but
there’s no question in his mind that Monique is the most attractive woman in
the group, perhaps on the island.  Quickly tanned, bright-eyed, alluringly
blonde, she exudes charm, energy, let’s face it… sex appeal.  If –
as Madame Belgium claims – Simone has her designs on Monsieur le President,
maybe she sees Monique as an unwelcome interloper, if only upon the
catwalk.  Suddenly she catches him watching her watching Monique.  He
grins a little sheepishly, makes a chatterbox sign with his fingers and thumb
and then holds his hands up apologetically, as if to say:  ‘Yes –
she talks a lot – what can one do?!’  She returns his smile, a touch
forced, he senses – he averts his eyes and feels he can’t now keep
staring in that direction.
     
    ***
     
    For Adam, the night stumbles
on.  Eventually the last plates are cleared, but the gathering shows no
sign of breaking up; Metaxa is called for, cigars are brandished by some, more
people than he would have guessed smoke cigarettes, even the Irishwoman
indulges.  He is tired, over-tired, weighed down by a creeping fatigue,
drained of his day’s supply of adrenaline and dulled by alcohol.  He
checks his watch – they’d told the girl they’d be back around midnight
– it’s now ten past two; he’s reminded that Camille will probably wake in
four or five hours and he’s the nanny.  They’re still going strong at
Monique’s end of the table, like a lock-in in the engine room of a ferry-boat,
the crew sidetracked in a drunken card-game, oblivious to their course, the
vessel sliding past the imploring lights of the port and steaming instead for
the dawn horizon, drowsy commuters on deck resigned to this familiar
fate.  But Adam decides he’s had enough.  He excuses himself and
rounds his end of the table, slowing as he passes Ignacio and placing a hand
momentarily on his shoulder.  Ignacio recognises the goodnight sign and,
mid conversation, raises a hand.  He likes the Spaniard; in common with
his compatriots the fire that burns in his eyes is of honesty and honour. 
Adam moves on – he has selected this circuitous route to Monique to give
her time to see him coming.  As he nears, once more he senses the aura of
subtle hostility that emanates from those around, just