Tête-à-Tête

A Web Novel in weekly installments of French Passion

Read the latest installment of Jan 2, 1997.

CHAPTER ONE: TOUCH DOWN

ONE #1, #2, #3, #4
TWO #1, #2, #3, #4
THREE #1, #2

For characters in story: check Biographies

#1

As the plane came into Paris, half-asleep, groggy from one bottle of wine too much, my skin moist, and sticky from body lying in odd positions, looking around I saw her again. We had brushed by each other reaching for that extra coffee, and spoke with our eyes. She wore those fashionable wire rimmed glasses, sparkling, with her awakeness, when I passed her on the way back to my seat, she was sitting by an elderly man, reading a book, with those pages uneven that you have to cut with a knife. Perhaps he was her father, but there was something between them, intimate, he was reaching into her bag, looking for something. I walked on and thought of the months, days ahead, the work I had to complete, the reason for this escape.

The wheels were starting to scorch the ground, and the greyness of airport hangers, and the blank tarmac that stretches and obliterates thoughts of being in a particular place, started to put things in order, no time now for a shave, just squeezing the odd notes I had made and making the moves to get out, to breathe the freshness of air; I looked up and she already gone, the grey hairs of her companion catching the draught of wind from the outside. The full scent of her, suddenly jumped me, that remembrance that comes back after, washed its way into me as I stood case in hand, saying thank you to the stewardess, with a heroic smile, and looking back the cups, the plastic wrappers, the food gorged and ready to trash piled became to much, and then her scent again, we had bumped our coffee cups splashing, and with mutual regard we said our sorry's, but stayed a few moments in each others glance, like we knew a story about to unravel. I needed a bed and I needed to sleep.

#2

Joe had no need for this, something about him, yes, but she didn't want another male in trouble with himself. He had all the signs, dressed in that eversotiresome black, hair clipped, but now past its due date. The white shirt, the day old stubble, a man pretending to be a pretender. No she didn't need him now. She hadn't come for Paris for this. A few years back he might be an amusement, a late dinner, coffee, worth a bit of a tease - but now. No, she had her own troubles, and Clive, her manager was one of them. She wished at times she could just kick him out. He'd been with her since the beginning, and his fatherly chaperone style was getting a bit too much. Maybe she was at fault. She had to talk about it to him.

Here she was dressed, understated, unusually. She was escaping. Tired of the attention, the circus that had come to surround her was taking her edge off. She had made her name on the edge and now it was biting at her, chewing at what made her. It had been three years now, since she first opened her salon, pushing her image that turned heads. Made the establishment of nature products, and natural beauty, or the opposing camp of extensions and piercings something to think about. Audaciously she squeezed her house, once an old furniture store, between a strip club and a sex store. Created whole walls with the rubber, the plastics, the devices, all the tacky items from the adult fantasy world she could find, then covered them with a sheen of clear plastic. It was like being stuck in a glacier or one of those mints you chew. She then cut into the floor long slim trenches filled with rich moist soil, which glowed from uv lighting. At first she thought of calling her salon Joe, with a circle round the e, and then as everyone knows it became TOM. People thought at first it was an abbreviation. Stood for something. Depending on who you talked to it was either "Tired Of Men" or "Tame or Mane". But for Joe it was only TOM. An attitude that was in her. People might fall down and say it was post-industrial funk in a suit, for later an exec would proudly show her tom style to the board. It was her power suit. After all hair is power.

Clive had gone ahead, and now was returning with thumbs up. The car had been arranged. Joe was still a little shocked not to be mobbed, cameras stumped in her face, and be able to walk calmly to the mid-size Renault rental, and with Clive behind the wheel caught behind the horns and incidentals of Parisian traffic. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him again, black suit, shaggy hair, waiting at the taxi rank, and then Clive turned "found this place - hope you'll like it".

#3

A quick shot of brandy always helps to bring meaning to the morning. Especially through the haze of horns, and the general moan of traffic. Yes. Paris. All I remember was getting in the taxi, ..... what time is it? A quick rasp of razor and a long shower brought me round. Down the steps, through the marble reception and out the door screaming for a black cup of coffee, and another cup, and another.

The farewell concert, the small grungy bar where they all had started out, where Jacqui had sunk her claws into him in photo and the bedlam that followed. The junking of all the stuff into a storage hole in another garage in another suburb like all the other burbs he'd played at. And she was there too at that last hurrah, along with the hangers on, wanting to suck the last bit of juice out dry. She had worked her claws around his mates, and had come back to him for a final roost. Like she had a hold over him. Like she was what set it all in motion. When she jumped the stage, and ran her nails down his chest, and the blood made its mark, and him in the ecstasy of words and the rocking of his guitar, and somehow Julian had caught it on camera, and the media jumped. Like he would be nothing if it wasn't for her. And she was there that last night coming back for more.

The veils rising slowly. Eyes. Her eyes. Looking at me. I didn't realise. So caught up in the past life. The absurd small cups of coffee, getting me to snap back. And then she turned. Sitting here at this table under the glass dome looking out onto the street, with the little man running back and forth with orders for this and that: napkins folded, and the sky turning light to dark - again. She had bleached spiky hair, a green top, with a black short skirt, reading a book, leafing a magazine, waiting watching. I caught in too much sleep, too long in the day. "You are John Spring - aren't you?" abruptly she turned and said. The words came out clean and concise, like a secretary or a banker putting you in place. Green eyes, clear skin, and I lingered for a moment. She turned back, opened the glossy magazine, and flipped the pages, like a bird ruffling wings. It had been a long time since I had heard those words. John Spring. Eight years ago. Hamburg. Berlin. A different time. A different face. A different name. Rising from the chair, leaving a few coins in the saucer, I went for the street. She looked up, a simple silver necklace with a crucifix hanging into the curves of her breasts. She began to open her lips ...."you are, aren't .?...". I walked on through her, through the seats and tables, and the road, and the Gare de L'Est, with cars snorting this way that and my mouth came down to her neck nipping at the smooth white skin and her eyes popping and her jumping to the flash of lights and as I turned a man sat down next to her and on I walked. The broad road, with trees rustling with masses of birds, darkness setting in, collapsed into a continuous backdrop and my legs and arms set themselves in the swings of long deserved motion and exertion.

#4

Lying in the bath, a candle burning, curtains drawn, Joe took the studio in. Clive was right, it was her. Bare, with nothing but white walls, girders that span the ceiling, and metal framed windows, and with a newly tiled floor, she could make the room happen. The bath was not extraordinary, but unusual - it was raised on a plinth, a skylight above, and gave the impression one could entertain clients immersed in bubbles, their only view of her being her draped fingers, drooped over the edge of the tub. There was a projection screen that one could pull down, for modest moments, but now was not the time.

Clive had left for his hotel, and she felt the luxury of heavy scents and the sun peaking in through the glass. Enjoying the sweat rolling down her cheeks, her brow, she oozed into sleep. Church bells, and the occassional siren, squeezed out a childhood memory, with bright green foliage, of running under bushes, up to the brink of a lake, and catching sight of a beaver, pumping its nose through the water to its pile of wood....... Footsteps, a turning of a handle, a sound of something heavy being dropped, a jingle of keys, ..... and her friend Celi, pulling at her dress, and her falling, falling, the splash of water and the weight and the brush of weeds ..... A ladder being opened, a clamp clamp of feet, sound of exertion ..... the cold water, gagging her throat, a scream then a deafness, dizzy then dark ......She woke and looking down saw a man in broad brown corduroys, a blue stained t-shirt, adjusting a wrench, and then pushing himself up between the girders and attacking a pipe with gusto, his shirt popping out of his pants showing a taut stomach with a slither of hair. He grunted as the wrench pulled the nut tight. He turned his hips, tried for a different angle, and readjusted the wrench, and squeezed. Satisfied, he jumped to the floor, picked up the ladder, and left. A woman of 17 or so entered, short scuzzy hair, carrying a portfolio. she looked lost, stood for a moment, opened her bag and put lipstick to mouth, and turning - her heart missing a beat, felt Joe's wet hand dripping down her neck.

"You must be Marine - right?" Joe let her fingers fall and linger on her shoulders.

END OF CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO