favored a demure apple-green one-piece. The pool’s heater has been “fixed” and for the first time we all swim in the small azure rectangle—Preston and Lois, Annique and me. It is both strange and exciting for me to see Annique so comparatively unclothed and even stranger to lie side by side, thigh by thigh, inches apart, sunbathing.
Lois obviously assumes Annique and I are a couple—a quite natural assumption under the circumstances, I suppose—she would never imagine I had brought her for Preston. I keep catching him gazing at Annique, and a mood of frustration and intense sadness seems to emanate from him—a mood of which only I am aware. And in turn a peculiar exhilaration builds inside me, not just because of Lois’s innocent assumption about my relation to Annique, but also because I know now that I have succeeded. I have brought Preston the perfect French girl: Annique, by his standards, represents the paradigm, the Platonic ideal for this American male. Here she is, unclothed, lying by his pool, in his club, drinking his drinks, but he can do nothing—and what makes my own excitement grow is the realization that for the first time in our friendship—perhaps for the first time in his life—Preston envies another person. Me.
As this knowledge dawns, so too does my impossible love for Annique. Impossible, because nothing will ever happen. I know that—but Preston doesn’t, and somehow that ghostly love affair, our love affair, Annique and me, that will carry on in Preston’s head, in his hot and tormented imagination, embellished and elaborated by his disappointment and sense of lost opportunity, will be more than enough, more than I could ever have hoped for.
Now that Lois has arrived I stay away from the Résidence Les Anges. It won’t be the same again and, despite my secret delight, I don’t want to taunt Preston with the spectre of Annique. But I find that without the spur of his envy the tender fantasy inevitably dims; in order for my dream life, my dream love, to flourish, I need to share it with Preston. I decide to pay a visit. Preston opens the door of his studio.
“Hi, stranger,” he says with some enthusiasm. “Am I glad to see you.” He seems sincere. I follow him into the apartment. The small room is untidy, the bed unmade, the floor strewn with female clothes. I hear the noise of the shower from the bathroom: Lois may be a clean person but it is clear she is also something of a slut.
“How are things with Annique?” he asks, almost at once, as casually as he can manage. He has to ask, I know it.
I look at him. “Good.” I let the pause develop, pregnant with innuendo. “No, they’re good.”
His nostrils flare and he shakes his head.
“God, you’re one lucky—”
Lois comes in from the bathroom in a dressing gown, toweling her thick hair dry.
“Hi, Edward,” she says, “what’s new?” Then she sits down on the bed and begins to weep.
We stand and look at her as she sobs quietly.
“It’s nothing,” Preston says. “She just wants to go home.” He tells me that neither of them has left the building for eight days. They are completely, literally, penniless. Lois’s parents have canceled her credit cards, and collect calls home have failed to produce any response. Preston has been unable to locate his father and now his stepfather refuses to speak to him (a worrying sign), and although his mother would like to help she is powerless for the moment, given Preston’s fall from grace. Preston and Lois have been living on a diet of olives, peanuts and cheese biscuits served up in the bar and, of course, copious alcohol.
“Yeah, but now we’re even banned from there,” Lois says, with an unfamiliar edge to her voice.
“Last night I beat up on that fuckwit, Serge,” Preston explains with a shrug. “Something I had to do.”
He goes on to enumerate their other problems: their bar bill stands at over three hundred dollars; Serge is threatening to go to the
Lois obviously assumes Annique and I are a couple—a quite natural assumption under the circumstances, I suppose—she would never imagine I had brought her for Preston. I keep catching him gazing at Annique, and a mood of frustration and intense sadness seems to emanate from him—a mood of which only I am aware. And in turn a peculiar exhilaration builds inside me, not just because of Lois’s innocent assumption about my relation to Annique, but also because I know now that I have succeeded. I have brought Preston the perfect French girl: Annique, by his standards, represents the paradigm, the Platonic ideal for this American male. Here she is, unclothed, lying by his pool, in his club, drinking his drinks, but he can do nothing—and what makes my own excitement grow is the realization that for the first time in our friendship—perhaps for the first time in his life—Preston envies another person. Me.
As this knowledge dawns, so too does my impossible love for Annique. Impossible, because nothing will ever happen. I know that—but Preston doesn’t, and somehow that ghostly love affair, our love affair, Annique and me, that will carry on in Preston’s head, in his hot and tormented imagination, embellished and elaborated by his disappointment and sense of lost opportunity, will be more than enough, more than I could ever have hoped for.
Now that Lois has arrived I stay away from the Résidence Les Anges. It won’t be the same again and, despite my secret delight, I don’t want to taunt Preston with the spectre of Annique. But I find that without the spur of his envy the tender fantasy inevitably dims; in order for my dream life, my dream love, to flourish, I need to share it with Preston. I decide to pay a visit. Preston opens the door of his studio.
“Hi, stranger,” he says with some enthusiasm. “Am I glad to see you.” He seems sincere. I follow him into the apartment. The small room is untidy, the bed unmade, the floor strewn with female clothes. I hear the noise of the shower from the bathroom: Lois may be a clean person but it is clear she is also something of a slut.
“How are things with Annique?” he asks, almost at once, as casually as he can manage. He has to ask, I know it.
I look at him. “Good.” I let the pause develop, pregnant with innuendo. “No, they’re good.”
His nostrils flare and he shakes his head.
“God, you’re one lucky—”
Lois comes in from the bathroom in a dressing gown, toweling her thick hair dry.
“Hi, Edward,” she says, “what’s new?” Then she sits down on the bed and begins to weep.
We stand and look at her as she sobs quietly.
“It’s nothing,” Preston says. “She just wants to go home.” He tells me that neither of them has left the building for eight days. They are completely, literally, penniless. Lois’s parents have canceled her credit cards, and collect calls home have failed to produce any response. Preston has been unable to locate his father and now his stepfather refuses to speak to him (a worrying sign), and although his mother would like to help she is powerless for the moment, given Preston’s fall from grace. Preston and Lois have been living on a diet of olives, peanuts and cheese biscuits served up in the bar and, of course, copious alcohol.
“Yeah, but now we’re even banned from there,” Lois says, with an unfamiliar edge to her voice.
“Last night I beat up on that fuckwit, Serge,” Preston explains with a shrug. “Something I had to do.”
He goes on to enumerate their other problems: their bar bill stands at over three hundred dollars; Serge is threatening to go to the
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