Free Voice Over by Celine Curiol Page B

finger. She feels like coming out with two or three choice inventions, stuff her supposed clients would have done to her, that might dampen his ardour. But she holds back. You’re a friend of Ange’s? She nods. Yes indeed, Mr Diplomat, a very good friend, we share the same tastes. He must be wondering how Ange ever could have met such a girl.
    He offers to take her to a private club with its own terrace. An irresistible proposition, he must think, for any woman with a passion for billing and cooing outdoors in temperate climates, a deft nod to romanticism. Taxi. The driver lowers the window to ask if the ride will be long enough to be worth the trouble. Someone has left a business card on the back seat. Olivier Chedubarum, Photographer, 01 52 29 07 18. She slips the piece of cardboard into her bag. Sharp clack as the driver automatically locks the door. Through the rear window, she catches sight of a man in a hooded tracksuit moving along with a supple stride. His face is black. Don’t like seeing ’em round these parts. Stepping sharply on the accelerator, the driver sets off. Streams of red lights and yellow lights against the backdrop of a sleeping city. Walled off behind a surface of glass, with the help of the night-time calm, each remembers a past when things were different. Inside the car, silence from the bodies of three strangers who have nothing to say to one another. She sees a woman holding a poodle’s leash in one hand, clutching her
jacket to her chest with the other. Further on, a man is letting out a stream of urine into the corner of two walls, his feet spread wide. At place de la Concorde, she hears the sound of a zip. Reluctantly she turns her eyes away from the large lightning bugs that have metamorphosed into streetlamps. Mr Diplomat has his fly open. She reads the words Calvin Klein on the wide elastic band of the boxer shorts stretched over his abdomen. He caresses the back of her neck. She knows what he is waiting for. His eyes pant; he feels sure that he is within his rights. She has no idea what the going rate for a blowjob could be. Her role is starting to get to her. I don’t do it in taxis. She leans into his ear and closes the zip. He looks irritated but doesn’t dare complain. He tells the driver to go faster.
    In the main clubroom, wall lamps project long cones of orange light onto the brickwork. Wafting into the glow, cigarette smoke appears to solidify. The rest of the room is swathed in a suggestive penumbra. Electronic music. He has ordered two cocktails: a red sludge, its alcohol content nearly undetectable. She asks him where the toilets are. Four women are looking at themselves in a mirror that spans the entire wall above three washbasins. Low-cut flowing dresses, close-fitting trousers, gold jewellery, expensive-smelling perfumes. They are inspecting themselves: eyebrows, nostrils, corners of the mouth, spaces between their teeth, breast elevation, armpit odour. They could almost have stepped out from a fashion advert. Perhaps they’ll take her for the bathroom attendant. All the cubicles are occupied, toilets are flushing at full blast, bladders are emptying, the clockwork expulsion of liquid steadily poured for them by their attentive escorts. Even princesses have to go to the bathroom. She waits to one side to avoid being made party to the conversations.
She listens in. I bought it today, very nice, on sale at Armani, I just love the smell of this soap, you have lovely hands. A tall, stunning blonde with a mane of pale curls and an aquiline nose is going on about herself. She’s feeling totally depressed, she’s found work, didn’t dare refuse it, but actually it pisses her off; it’s not like Bernard needs the money. Out she goes with a sigh, perfect and dignified. As the door swings shut, shoulders are shrugged. Apparently things between her and Bernard aren’t all sweetness and light, which is why Lydia accepted the job, for the