Faces of Fear by Graham Masterton Page B

other. Even though Chloe wasn’t Marianne, there seemed to be the same affinity between them, the same erotic magnetism. When they started talking, they talked as if they were continuing a conversation which they had broken off only yesterday, and as the afternoon began to darken they leaned closer and closer together across the table, until Gerry’s hand was resting on hers, and they could smell the coffee and the cider spirit on each other’s breath.
    At 4:30, Chloe looked at her watch and said, “Oh, no! It’s so late! Father will be furious!”
    â€œCan I see you tonight?” asked Gerry.
    â€œI thought you were supposed to be going back to Paris.”
    â€œI’ve changed my mind.”
    â€œNot just because of me?”
    â€œWhat other reason could there be to stay in Arromanches?”
    He walked her back along the windy, twilit promenade until they reached her hotel, Le Due Guillaume. They pushed their way through the revolving doors into the empty, overheated lobby, which smelled of polish and French cigarettes. Unexpectedly, Chloe took hold of both of Gerry’s hands and kissed him.
    â€œMeet me at eight,” she smiled.
    â€œI’ll bring some champagne.”
    â€œNo, no. Just bring money.”
    â€œMoney?”
    â€œYou want to make love to me, don’t you?”
    â€œFor money?”
    â€œWhy not? All women are prostitutes, in one way or another. If I can’t be the greatest cellist of all time, perhaps I could be the greatest prostitute of all time.”
    He looked at her for a moment, trying to read her expression. “This is a game, isn’t it?”
    â€œA game? Only if you want it to be.”
    They ate in the hotel restaurant. It was off-season, of course, and they were the only diners, apart from a very old couple who scarcely spoke, and a single bald man who read a book while he ate and kept clearing his throat. The waiter’s shoes squeaked monotonously as he brought them moules marinieres, demoiselle lobsters and stuffed Seine shad. Their eyes glittered in the lamplight.
    â€œDo you think it’s possible for two people to be exactly alike?” asked Gerry.
    â€œOf course not. There will always be differences. Even one person isn’t exactly alike to all of the different people who know them.”
    Under the table, Chloe dropped off her shoe and began to massage the side of Gerry’s calf with her stockinged foot. It was so gentle and so familiar that he could almost believe that she was doing it absent-mindedly, but all the same he felt his penis stiffen, and he knew that he wanted her very much.
    He didn’t care whether it was impossible that she looked so much like Marianne. It just seemed to him that Marianne had been trying to get back to him, in one form or another, ever since her death. Why shouldhe deny her any longer – especially when he wanted her so much. Blurred pictures of the orchard flickered through his mind; and the waiter’s squeaking shoes became the squeaking of a yellow waterproof on a rumpled bed.
    After their meal, they sat in the hotel lounge and finished their wine. The clock by the fireplace sonorously struck twelve.
    â€œI’d better go,” said Gerry. “At midnight, I turn into a langoustine.”
    â€œDon’t tell me you forgot your money?”
    He had already half-risen from his chair. He sat down again, and took hold of her hand. “Listen, don’t get me wrong. I think you’re fabulous. I want to make love to you. But before we get into anything serious, I have to be sure about the way I feel.”
    â€œWho said anything about anything serious? This is commerce.”
    Her words sounded cold but she said them with such a teasing smile that Gerry gave in. He took out his billfold and said, “How about 7,500F?”
    She took the money and tucked it into the front of her dress. “Come on,” she said, and led the way to the