Free The Sexopaths by Bruce Beckham Page B

perceptible, a
collective body language that declines to acknowledge his approach.  But
Monique thwarts them – she reaches out for his hand.  He leans down
to her and says:
    ‘Do you think we ought to go back
for the babysitter?  She’s probably working on reception first thing in
the morning.’
    ‘Maybe – but it is a shame
to leave so early.’
    He sees the reluctance in her
expression, wonders if she’s irked by his intrusion.
    ‘Monique, it’s already two
o’clock.  Look – I can just go – remember I have to get up
with Camille in the morning – like, soon.’
    Monique is about to reply, then
pauses and checks her wristwatch with mildly ostentatious incredulity; he
senses it’s for the benefit of onlookers.  She says:
    ‘Yes – okay – you are
right, my darling – and I should not be fatigued for the final
judging.  We shall go together.’
    She rises and speaks quickly in
French to her near neighbours – explaining about the babysitter –
they protest but they can see she has made up her mind. Monique turns to kiss
goodnight the Dutchman beside her – he stands and then stoops and sways
to receive her au revoir.  Monique then leans to the next person, and then
hops to the next, as if realising she can’t kiss one and ignore another. 
Soon, to general amusement, she is committed to lapping the table –
receiving a stiff response from the Belgian woman, a few words of
congratulation (no doubt about Camille) from the smiling Irishwoman, a friendly
hug from Ignacio.  Adam stands rooted and invisible – he’s amazed by
Monique’s nerve, to be able to do this among a crowd of erstwhile strangers
– he’d find it entirely inappropriate to perform the same ostentatious farewell,
drunk or not, or even to round the table merely shaking hands; many of these
folk he hasn’t even spoken with.  Slowly Monique nears the end of the home
straight, melting as she kisses Secretary Simone into an ostentatiously
wriggling embrace, eyes closed, a schoolgirl-like move that is
unselfconsciously reciprocated, prompting – Adam is certain – a
collective drawing of breath from those close by.  Flimsy dresses seem
momentarily to fall away.  Monique spins dizzily from this clinch into the
steadying arms of the French President who, Adam notes, already standing to
receive her, places one hand – that most visible to him – upon her
upper arm, while the other snakes low out of sight, perhaps around her
buttock.  But it’s a short moment, with none of the uninhibited body
contact just exhibited.  Then at last it’s over; indeed there’s a sense
that the show’s over.  Adam detects some relief about the table –
the circle has been broken and others, too, will be free to leave.  He and
Monique back away, now holding hands, he nodding his farewells, firing short
salvos of eye-contact to those who’ll accept, though he feels most attention
follows Monique.
    He pulls her gently but firmly
round and they climb the steps, enter the darkness beyond the archway; at
reception the lights have been dimmed, the porter has turned in, the wind has
dropped.  Adam lifts his head and basks in the rays of the night: from
afar a Scops owl, an invisible sentinel, sends out its penetrating
submarine-like ping, regular, echoing, the beat to which other night creatures
play their melodies; an insect orchestra, a cacophony of crickets, everywhere
and nowhere; moths and mosquitoes, out in force, fluttering, brushing his face,
eyelashes, fleeing perhaps their squeaking nemesis whose tiny note tracks about
the stilled air of the courtyard, their inevitable death squeals inaudible to
all but bat.
    Silent by his side, Monique is
close, in step, perhaps enjoying the respite, maybe possessed by some
engrossing thought that is able now to grow and fill the vacuum left by their
departure from the crowd.  Nevertheless, Adam heaves an inward sigh of
relief: she’s all his again.  He’s able now to reinstate this
belief.