Diana in Love (Dirty Diana #2)

Chapter Six

Chapter Six

Jet lag wakes me before dawn so I dress quietly and slip out of the hotel. I walk the streets around the neighborhood and then venture farther out, along the Seine and into Le Marais. The sun is just starting to rise. The bistros are gleaming and the cobblestones look wet. I stop to take a picture and without second-guessing myself, I text the photo to Jasper.

Guess where I am. Any chance you’ll be passing through?

I slip my phone into my bag and follow the sunlight. It bathes the streets in pale orange and the boulangeries in the quartier are so fragrant, I fill my arms with two baguettes and two pain au chocolat and three warm croissants. Back in the room, I find Alicia and L’Wren awake and sipping espresso. L’Wren is wearing butter-yellow silk pajamas and making notes on the hotel pad. She’s on the phone with the concierge.

Alicia is spread out on the floor, stretching her back and reading. “Free time until this afternoon,” she whispers. “And we’re moving lunch back one hour.” She’s holding the same book she was so engrossed in on the plane. “You know who this is, don’t you?” She sits up and points at the author’s name. Sandrine Lemaire. The back cover features a full-length photo of Sandrine, sitting primly on a stool, legs crossed, smiling into the camera. “She’s the French Katie Couric. So buttoned-up. But her memoir is insane. It’s been translated into a million languages. Very erotic.” She tosses it at my feet. “It’s dog-eared at all the good parts.” I pick it up and admire the simplicity of the plain back cover with the title in tiny gold font. Playing with Dolls.

“Research for Dirty Diana.” Alicia smiles. She finishes stretching and settles next to me on the couch. “Are you still meeting Petra today?”

I nod, already half absorbed in Sandrine’s book. The first page is a list of reviews—sprinkled between raves, the book proudly blurbs some of its own bad press:

Depraved and disgusting enough to win the attention of nitwit fans.

Rancid.

Written purely to titillate, devoid of merit.

Alicia peers over my shoulder, smiling. “You should see the online reviews—they’re even more entertaining.” She scrolls on her phone and reads me her favorites:

“?‘I read this cover to cover while my lover was on a business trip. It’s hilarious that while I was reading, my Apple watch kept reminding me to breathe…This memoir was really empowering for me during some hard times…An absolute revelation! Love the honesty of her bedroom life…’?”

“You can borrow it,” Alicia tells me. “I’m going to take a shower, then I’m going souvenir shopping for Elvis and eating at every creperie I find along the way.”

L’Wren and Alicia leave at the same time, with L’Wren heading to the spa and reminding me, “Have fun with Petra and we’ll see you at two.”

Alone in our suite, I write a postcard to Emmy, then pace the quiet room, waiting to hear from Petra. After a few minutes, I lie on the couch, holding the book above my head at arm’s length. I flip to a random page:

The process of growing up is understanding that we are not the center of the universe, that other people aren’t here to serve us. And that’s true! But in fantasy, you can take a break from that, you can even pretend other people are your dolls, that, yes, they are here for nothing but your entertainment. An orgasm is the safest place I find to do that.

Afterward, I emerge, reenergized from my secret depravity, to tidy my kids’ bedrooms and be the loving, generous, respectable, socially engaged person that I am during the other twenty-three and a half hours of every day.

My phone chimes with a note from Petra, letting me know she is ready to meet.

Near the fountain. Jardins du Trocadéro.

—

I take the long route along the Seine and try not to think about the fact that Jasper never replied. I spy a penny candy stand at the end of the block and stop at the rows of vibrantly colored sugar-filled canisters to fill up a bag with gummies. L’Wren will be sure to scold me for buying cheap candy when we’re surrounded by the best Parisian chocolatiers, but the sweets remind me of Emmy, and I pop them in my mouth as I make my way to the fountain.

Walking alone in Paris feels dreamlike. Couples gather to dance the tango at one of the amphitheaters that line the Seine. I politely make my way through the small crowd. The men are dressed in crisp button-downs with casual sweaters draped over their shoulders. Not a burnt-orange UT football polo shirt in sight. I’m mesmerized by a couple in all-black clothing who float across the makeshift stage, the man holding perfect form, the woman’s head turned dramatically away from him. Applause fills the air.

I pause in the middle of the Pont Alexandre III bridge, which is covered with carvings of cherubs, nymphs, and winged horses. I gaze at the river. The scene takes my breath away. Parisian landmarks are filled with romance, not ego. I watch a photographer take a picture of a bride posing in front of one of the many streetlamps, elegant and lithe in a white silk dress. She is carrying a handful of pale pink roses.

When I finally arrive at the gardens, Petra is easy to spot, sittingon a bench by herself, a large soda and a McDonald’s bag by her side.

I can’t help my surprise. “Are you eating a Big Mac?”

“Egg McMuffin with cheese. Fry?” She offers me the bag. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s a tradition. Mitch and I used to come here one June morning every summer and eat McDonald’s and look at the blossoms.” She grins. “You can take the kids out of Texas…”

Her smile quickly fades. I sit beside her, both of us quiet, and follow her gaze to a perfect view of the Eiffel Tower.

“You must miss him every day.”

Petra holds out her soda, her eyes still fixed in front of us, and I take a sip. “In the evenings, every hour on the hour, she shimmers for five minutes.” Petra cups a hand to her mouth. “Good on you, old Monsieur Eiffel and your steel innovations! What a man. Can you believe that a gigantic gleaming guillotine was the big runner-up idea?”

“That’s not true.”

“I’m afraid it is. Just when you were ready to start romanticizing another culture’s civility, you daffy American!” I take a warm fry from the bag and watch two small kids daring each other closer to the fountain’s edge.

She nods. “Mitch liked to know every bit of inconsequential history about a place. All the what if s and almost s.”

I pull out my notebook and while she tells me about why Mitch wanted to live in Paris, I sketch the sweating soda cup, the straw, and the beginning of her fingers resting on the side of the bench behind it.

Petra glances at my drawing, then looks away. “So, I got you here. Tell me more about what you’re making.”

I tell her about the interviews I’ve recorded and how no one, apart from a few people, knows about what I’m making. “Not even my husband. Ex-husband? And one of my best friends has no idea because I’ve been too chicken to tell her, but she’s here in Paris with me, and I still haven’t told her. I guess I just have to figure out how to share it, which parts are interesting.”

“It’s all pretty intriguing, Diana. It makes you that much more interesting.”

I laugh, shutting my notebook and stashing it in my bag. “I could be interesting, if only I wasn’t working for Allen.”

“Debatable.” She studies my face, frowning. “I’m sure there are plenty of interesting accountants. But most of them don’t make porn. So you just leapfrogged them.”

“It’s not porn.”

“Whatever you call it, I’m intrigued.”

“Have you thought at all about the firm?” I ask while Petra is still smiling. The question feels slightly desperate, but I can’t seem to shake Allen’s look when he asked me for help.

She ignores my question and peppers me with more questions about Dirty Diana and how Liam and I have put it together so far. I describe the site’s layout with the portraits I’ve made of the women with links to their interviews. “And where do you record?” When I tell her I don’t have a dedicated space, she frowns. “Have you ever thought of really building the site? Of spending some money and growing an audience. A brand. I know, bad word.”

“I don’t know. I’m still recording fantasies at the office after everyone leaves. Maybe. One day. So far, I’m happy taking baby steps.”

“Baby steps are for babies, Diana.”

“And we’re still in infancy.”

She frowns again. “I kinda love that…but I also have an extra floor of office space in Dallas. It’s just sitting empty. No one’s using it and it would be free. I like thinking of someone creating something there.”

“Aren’t we here to talk about your business?”

“Are we? Boring. Can we not pretend you came all the way to Paris to talk about the firm?”

“Sorry, it’s just…I kinda did.”

She sighs. “Mitch loved Allen and I can honor that.”

“So that’s it? I can tell Allen?”

“I will give it every serious consideration. Promise.” She stands, crumpling her McDonald’s bag. “Let’s go. I have food shopping to do, and you’re coming with.” She throws the paper bag into a nearby trash can, and I follow her through the gates of the park.

She loops her arm in mine. “You know, whatever it is you’re building, Diana, I could help you.”

“Baby steps.”

—

Petra takes me to her favorite green grocer and then to a butcher she greets like an old friend. When we step outside again, I’m conscious of two men approaching.

“Emile!” Petra calls. “This is Emile and his friend, Gabriel. This is Diana.”

“Enchanté.” Emile has a warm smile. Gabriel is striking, with dark eyes and thick, salt-and-pepper hair. He kisses me on both cheeks, and I feel an immediate attraction.

“It’s so nice to meet you both.”

Emile turns to Petra and speaks in rapid French before kissing her tenderly on the mouth, then slipping into a clothing store with Gabriel, who glances at me and smiles as he follows Emile inside.

Petra turns to me, a slight blush on her cheeks. “Oh, I forgot you’re an American friend. Honestly. I forget. Emile is my secondary. Was. Is?”

“Secondary?”

“Mitch was my primary. And Emile was our secondary. We were in an open marriage.”

“Oh. Right. Of course.”

“It’s okay to be surprised. Everyone expects our show was a full picture.”

“Surprised? No! I mean, very cool.”

“You’re a horrible liar.” Petra laughs, both of us looking at our reflection in the store window and just beyond that, Emile and Gabriel hunched over a table of cashmere T-shirts. Petra turns on her heel. “Don’t worry, they’ll catch up.”

“Honestly, whatever works,” I say. I hurry to keep pace with her. “I couldn’t get one husband to work for me. So.”

She isn’t really listening, instead snapping a picture of a peach-colored building. “That’s the exact paint color I want! For the foyer.” She texts the photo to her assistant and keeps walking. “Things have been a little tense since Mitch died. He was the one who really held us together. I didn’t know that at the time. But now…and I would never tell Emile this, but it all feels a little empty.”

“It’s still so new,” I offer. “I imagine it’s very lonely.”

She pulls us into the doorway of the next shop, as if to let me know she’s done sharing, and tells me, “Mitch loved Emile. And I loved Mitch. And I loved us all together.”

After a few more blocks and two more shops, Petra and I make plans to meet for drinks. It occurs to me that I haven’t made any solid progress for Allen, but still I casually suggest she extend the drinks invitation to Gabriel and Emile. She smiles knowingly and tells me, “Of course.”

I hurry through the busy crowds to my lunch with L’Wren and Alicia. L’Wren has chosen her favorite spot for couscous and we sit at the zinc bar, eating tagine and drinking cold beer. When we get back to the room, I lie down for a nap but end up diving back into Sandrine Lemaire’s memoir.

Ever since I first started making my own money, I only ever cared about spending it on girlie things: touchable fabrics, tea dresses, high heels, stockings, and, after my divorce, pretty wallpaper, curtains, and carpets, in shades of rose and cream. And yet the thing that brought me the most pleasure to contemplate? Other beautiful women—the girlier the better.

This longing to have sex with doll-like women has been with me since I was a schoolgirl. Being short, brunette, and an outsider, I was excluded from the clique I most wished to join, an array of blondes, all of them scented like fruit lip gloss. These girls were all slender and had trimmed the skirts of their school uniforms to mere inches below their little bubble butts. I found them to be idiotic, cartoonish, and awkward, parroting vapid gestures they had no experience of. But I would have given anything for the spotlight of their attention to fall on me. I was invisible to them. If they did notice me, it was only to mock my outfits and interests.

I never saw these girls again after the age of eighteen. But from the time I turned twenty, when I first started sleeping with men, my erotic imagination bound those girls’ wrists behind their backs while I had sex with them.

I was incredibly turned on by these fantasies. I found myself drawn to men with cocks so large and so thick that I could allow myself to imagine them as extensions of my own body. That’s my erection now, I’d think, and I am going to use it. But to be clear, I never wanted to make tender love to any girl about whom I’d fantasize. I wanted to hold her hair by the topknot, tip back her head, and kiss her roughly. These girls are my dolls to play with.

I flip the book over and study Sandrine’s author photo again. Her perfect posture. Her pantyhose. Her perfectly blown-out hair and small, ordinary smile. I would not have pictured her like this. I’m fascinated by the disconnect.

When the man I was sleeping with was pushing and grunting and moving around inside of me, I’d tell my fantasy girl, You don’t have to move. Stay still. You see, a boy I once slept with had said this exact phrase to me, and his words had made me feel awful, as if I didn’t even need to be there, not really. But I liked to imagine these words emerging from my own mouth. I liked to imagine the terrible looks on my girls’ faces when they felt both ashamed and aroused. Or when they felt manipulated and confused because they were so shocked by the ways I found to turn them on. With my deep voice, I’d whisper filth in their delicate seashell ears. All the things that had been said to me in the years I had been having sex, when I was young and vulnerable, I now said to these dolls, even when I masturbated. “I’m only going to put the tip in,” I’d say before I tricked them. I turned them over and around into shapes they hadn’t been meant to bend into. Tough, baby, you’re my doll.

I kept having these fantasies as I got older, even after I married my first husband, and they only intensified after our separation. I never want to be cruel or degrading to any woman, let alone someone younger and more vulnerable than me. But in my fantasies, my power is my greatest pleasure. My ex-husband once said that every time he’d dated a woman with a younger sister, she’d had these same instincts. He’d done more sexual exploring than I had and had had many threesomes with his ex-girlfriend who, big sister that she was, had always wanted the other girl to be treated rough.

I don’t ever want to be the doll. I don’t want to be played with, I want to do the playing. I want to be the puppeteer. But I am a woman, so that isn’t handed to me. Less and less so the older I get. I don’t want to be put on the shelf or discarded. I do this to the girls in my head like an offering to the gods so that it doesn’t happen to me.

I rest the book on my chest. Alicia has folded over the corners of every page that describes a sexual encounter and now the book is bulging. I assume a good part of the book is like this. Not the memoir people must have expected. Maybe because of how graphic it is—or maybe because she never apologizes for it. There is no mention of being one way for the public and another in private, she just is. I fall asleep thinking about Dirty Diana and its total absence of me. I ask women questions I never ask myself. Should I be sharing more? And if I did share a fantasy, what would it be? I’m inspired by the way Sandrine opens up, as if nothing is off-limits. She makes herself vulnerable while I’m hiding behind my sketches.

—

I wake up with just enough time to shower and meet Petra. L’Wren and Alicia are on the couch drinking wine. Alicia is playing Edith Piaf through her phone’s tinny speaker and L’Wren is wearing her cheap felt beret from Alicia.

“Diana!” Alicia jumps up and hugs me. “How was your nap?”

“Good.” I think of inviting them for drinks though it’s clear they have a head start. “Are you in for the night?”

“What night?” L’Wren asks, hugging me too. Up close I see their eyes are glassy and stoned. “You mean tonight? Not tomorrow night—no, that wouldn’t make any sense.” L’Wren breaks the hug and holds Alicia by the wrist. “Are you this stoned or is it just me?”

“I’m barely stoned. I can totally still do this.” Alicia twirls and bows at the exact same time our hotel doorbell chimes, which they both find hilarious.

“Room service!” L’Wren shrieks. Instead of opening the door, she runs to the mirror and applies lipstick. Alicia calls her on it and they start laughing again, still not answering the door.

“I’ll get it.” I let the waiter in and he spends the next several minutes removing silver lids from plates, revealing dish after dish—delicate sea scallops covered in leeks, an enormous cheeseburger, an entire plate of fries, and a neat row of cheeses. L’Wren and Alicia watch his every move in quiet awe.

When he leaves, they dig in.

“So that’s a yes, you’re in for the evening?”

“We love you so much, Diana.” L’Wren dips a cornichon in mustard and eats it in one bite.

“Yes,” Alicia agrees. “But you’ll have mooch more fun out on the town. Did I just say ‘mooch’?”

I decide to wear my new dress to meet Petra for drinks. I can’t think of a single occasion in Rockgate that would call for a dress this special, so I pair it with the blazer and head out the door.

In the elevator, I get a text from Jasper. Just the sight of his name on my phone gives me a rush.

Just saw your text. You’re in Paris!

I wait until I’m in the street to respond. I’m here. Very happy to be.

I’m sure the last thing you need is more on your itinerary but…

I break into a grin. He’s coming to meet me.

…my good friend Fred has a show on in the 9th arr. It’s sort of…unmissable.

My heart sinks. I walk for several minutes, watching my phone and waiting for the part where he tells me if he’ll be there too. When nothing more comes in, I type, Sounds like I have to see it.

He hearts the message and then disappears.

—

Petra is already at the café, at a table squeezed in close next to Emile, and she applauds when I walk in. “Paris looks very good on you!” She beams and I catch Gabriel taking me in. It’s crowded and we shout happily to be heard. Petra makes sure we’re never without a drink, and Emile runs across the road to the tabac. I haven’t felt this blissfully stupid while drunk since high school. A tingling sensation runs through me—an overwhelming sense of relief that I don’t need to lay eyes on Jasper to feel this happy in Paris.

The more Petra has to drink, the longer she rests her head on Emile’s shoulder. He kisses her hair every few minutes and she sighs dreamily. When she does, I catch Gabriel’s eye and we both smile. The warmth of Petra and Emile is contagious, and I get more and more excited each time Gabriel inches his chair closer to mine or leans closer to whisper in my ear instead of shout.

Emile tells me about the first time he and Petra met—it was in a crowded café like this one and he noticed Mitch and Petra right away. But the crowd was thick and he was sure they’d disappear soon. A few minutes later, he looked up from his drink and Mitch was standing over his table. Mitch introduced himself and asked for his number. They flirted for just a moment before he returned to Petra’s side. And then, moments later, Petra sent Emile a suggestive photo.

“How suggestive?” I ask, the warmth of Gabriel’s knee touching mine beneath the table.

“A bit of her naked shoulder.” Emile smiles. “Maybe a little more.”

This sets us off joking about how to take a sexy picture and fooling around with our phones. Everybody starts with exaggerated pouts into the camera, then the men flex their muscles and send the photos to each other, laughing. After my third drink, I wander to the bathroom and without letting myself grow chicken, I take a picture of my naked breasts and text it to Gabriel. When I get back to the table, he smiles at our shared secret, then pulls out my chair, scooting it closer to his, and drapes an arm across my shoulders. I breathe in the scent of his musky cologne mixed with the gin on his breath.

Another friend of Emile’s appears and Petra and Emile peel off with him, kissing us good night. Petra gives me an easy smile. “Catch up tomorrow?”

Gabriel asks if I’m hungry. “We can go for Indian. Can you bear no little bistro?”

I don’t want the evening to end.

He takes us to a place not far from the Boulevard Saint-Germain. When the host seats us, Gabriel ignores the banquette across from mine and slides in next to me. The room is crowded and buzzy—no longer so loud that we need to shout—and it’s nice to share the same view and to take it in together.

The champagne is cold and I feel it in my chest. A waiter in his long white apron nearly collides with another.

“So you’ve always lived in the States?”

“I grew up in California. Then New Mexico, briefly. Now Texas is home.”

“Where everything is bigger?”

“Exactly. And you said you’re an agent?”

“Yes. Writers mostly. Some actors.”

“Do you have kids?”

“Two. At university. You?”

“One. Seven years old.”

“You have a lot to look forward to.”

“I feel that way.”

“And you’re enjoying Paris?”

“Yes, very much. And we have so many plans.”

“Tell me.”

I whip through some of L’Wren’s itinerary and he laughs. “It’s a lot, but you should enjoy every minute. I love to travel. I go to New York every spring; I should look you up. How far is Rockgate from Manhattan?”

“I’m sorry.” I laugh. “I’m trying to picture you in a town with two Walmarts.”

“You never know.” He leans in close, brushing the hair from my neck and kissing my shoulder. My cheeks flush.

I turn my face so that my lips brush his. He kisses me and runs his hand through my hair.

He pulls away and whispers in my ear, “So how do you feel now?”

“Not as hungry.”

We sit against the banquette, both looking out over the room. He puts a hand on my leg. The waiter sets a curry in front of us.

“I know what you want.” Gabriel slides a hand down my thigh, over my skirt until it finds the hem, just above my knee. “But first you have to tell me.” He stops there, asking permission. In response, I let my legs fall slightly open, letting my knee rest against his. A rush of excitement courses through me.

The waiter brings over the last side dish, a tamarind rice. The plate hits with a soft thud. He straightens the tablecloth and walks away.

Gabriel turns to look at me, his eyes warm. Then he settles against the backrest and picks up his wineglass. The hand under the table is gently stroking my skin. “Tell me again,” he says.

“I want you to touch me.”

Slowly, his hand moves up the side of my bare thigh. My skin grows hot beneath his touch, a warmth quickly spreading from my stomach to between my legs.

I continue staring straight ahead as his fingertips lightly brush against the warm skin of my thighs. I take another sip of cold champagne, set the glass down, and let my hand fall over his. I tug my underwear aside. He glides his fingers inside me. From afar we look like a lived-in couple, making an effort to leave the house and spend an evening dining together. But beneath the table, he is exploring me with his fingers and the thrill is, of course, that we are new to each other.

The waiter approaches the table once more and I make my whole body still; Gabriel continues to push his fingers inside me, speaking to the waiter in rapid French. The waiter turns to me and I dip my head, shifting my hips, feeling a sharp secret explosion of pleasure as Gabriel straightens up, pulling the silk fabric back into place, lifting his arm onto the table and laying it over mine as if nothing happened at all.

The waiter fills my glass and leaves. I feel like a teenager again. My face is burning. Gabriel grins. He begins spooning food onto our plates. “Will you try it all? You are all right with spicy?”

After dinner, Gabriel walks me along the bank of the Seine. He invites me back to his apartment. It’s simple and tasteful. A tufted velvet chair in the corner. Blankets resting on a plush couch. He sets the Moka pot on the stove for coffee.

A cat jumps onto my lap. Gabriel walks back and forth to the tiny kitchen, preparing coffee and whiskey and oranges. He sits down across from me.

He rubs at his face. He settles into a chair. His voice is soft. “It’s nice to have you here. I was so glad to have a good reason not to go to an event I was supposed to attend tonight.” An ottoman covered in an old kilim sags under stacks of books and scripts.

I watch him, poised, long legs crossed on the coffee table. It’s not unnerving for him, I don’t think, to be so physically intimate with someone so fast. He moves easily between modes. It’s sort of thrilling.

“You want milk?” He’s very attentive.

He stands over my chair and we laugh over the photos we sent back and forth. He kisses my neck and tugs on the straps of my dress. I help him, cinching the top of my dress down to my waist. “I like this one.” He takes my phone and shows me the photo. “I like to see this part of your neck, and then the breast and then just a bit of nipple, not too much.”

I open my bra and take the phone so I can snap another photo. He cups both my breasts, kissing me and lifting me out of the chair. We play like this in his living room, taking pictures of each other. The room spins and I feel young. On his couch, I lie on my back as he kisses my calves, then my knees. I aim a shot at the slope of my stomach and my fingers in my own dark pubic hair pulling tight the fabric of my underwear so it bites into my skin. He slips an arm under me and pulls me up, kissing me all the way to his bed.

My heart races. I didn’t think I would have a first time with someone, ever again. Even the way he looks at me is different. A confident intensity, as if he knows exactly what he wants to do to me. When we’re both naked, he sits on the edge of his bed and pulls me onto his lap. We have sex like this, moving and moaning into each other’s mouths. I tilt my head back as he kisses my neck and I smile, catching a glimpse of his unfamiliar bedroom. A stranger’s things, the feel of a stranger’s lips, a strange city. My new dress like a crumpled flower on his bedroom floor.

We fall back on his bed, first catching our breath, then going quiet. I enjoy the heat of his body next to mine. I lie like this for what feels like hours, watching the sky lighten through his bedroom windows, feeling the sweat on the skin of his arm, his soft breathing.

“I can make coffee.”

“No, go back to sleep.”

We kiss goodbye and I tell him how much I enjoyed myself. I walk back to the hotel, dreamy and bathed in morning light. I think about the reader reviews to Sandrine’s book and make up my own about last night:

Went in not knowing what to expect and was pleasantly surprised!

The positions worked nicely for both of us. Three and a half out of four stars!

I totally lost myself! Much like Diana did between the sheets!

I entertain myself like this the entire walk back to the hotel.