She panics. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Just forget I told you.”
“No, no. I think that’s one of the loveliest things anyone’s ever said to me.” I want to know how it was, whether she came, if she felt good afterward, or guilty, or weirded out. Because she was thinking about me and because she was so young I feel it’s too intrusive to ask those questions. But did I meet her back then? Anton Bell at Notre-Dame with his daughters. Do I remember that?
“What?” she asks, noticing me thinking.
“Did you all visit me backstage after the show? I’m trying to remember.”
She groans. “Yes. And you were so nice to us. Lisbet was frightened of you because she was only three and you had been so scary onstage as the priest. She hid behind Mum, but you talked to her gently until she came out and smiled at you. I thought you were, um... Well, I thought you were wonderful.”
“Oh, minette,” I say, smiling at her. “That’s lovely. But I feel very undeserving of the honor.”
She’s puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“I didn’t do anything to make you feel special or safe or secure. I didn’t earn it.”
Swirling the wine in her glass again she says softly, “You sang very well and you were nice to us. You earned it.”
Perhaps. What I have earned is her sitting quietly here with me and telling me these secrets. I like very much that she trusts me to be careful with her. I take a sip of my wine, giving her time to come back to my original question.
She watches me, her eyes very wide and curious in the dim light. “If—if I do what you suggested, what would you do?”
“Nothing. Just sit here. You can pretend I’m not here. I can close my eyes or I can watch you. I can talk to you if you like.” I try to keep my voice level so she doesn’t know how very much I want to watch.
She catches her lower lip between her teeth. “You can keep your eyes open. I’d like that. And I sort of like the sound of your voice.”
How bittersweet it is for me to hear people say that now. But I put that out of my mind as this isn’t about me, it’s about her.
She still looks uncertain as she looks down at herself and then back at me. “I want to, but I don’t really know how to get started.”
“What would you do if you were alone?”
She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. Seeming to come to a decision, she stands up, her eyes still closed, wriggles out of her underwear and sits down again. The way she moves, arranging herself back on the cushions, opening her legs, I think she
must have decided to pretend I’m not here. Her dress is rucked up, and she’s naked from the waist down. The soles of her feet are pressed together and her knees are open.
“Frederic?” she says softly, her eyes still closed, her fingers stoking herself lightly.
“I’m here. Are you comfortable?” She nods. “Good girl. Will you tell me something that turns you on?”
I drink my fill of her with my eyes, and she looks beautiful, her face sweet with repose and her eyelashes against her cheeks. Her forearms rest on the curves of her hips. There’s a short fuzz of dark blond hair between her legs, like she’s trimmed it with a pair of nail scissors, and below the soft pink folds of her pussy. Her touch is feathery, uncertain, but as the seconds tick by I can see her relaxing into a circular rhythm. There’s something very innocent about her movements and I want dearly to move closer, to help, to taste, but I stay where I am.
“A fantasy, you mean?”
“If you like.”
She thinks for a moment. “Even if it’s weird?”
“Anything.”
“All right,” she says, still stroking herself. “Sometimes when I can’t sleep I think about someone. A stranger. I can’t see his face. I don’t know who he is. He’s not a nice person.”
“Does this person want to hurt you?”
“Not at first. He’s a burglar or a kidnapper. He has rope, and a knife.”
She trails off into silence, uncertain. It sounds similar in theme to some of the stories she’s written, though a more extreme version. I pick up the thread, my voice low and unhurried. “He comes through your window masked, dressed in black. His heart’s racing, adrenaline pumping. There you are, in bed and alone. Perhaps there’s someone else in the house, or he thinks there might be, because he tells you in a low voice that if you scream he will make you regret it.”
I watch her face closely. Her mouth is parted and her breathing is shallow, so I continue.