Dockside Ch. 03

"Yes. He would."

"I suppose there's not much that man misses. He's the real deal, isn't he?"

"What does this mean -- this 'real deal'?"

"There are a lot of pretenders out there. Lot's of academics and politicians who claim to know so and so, and use that to press some thin agenda down your throat. It's an altogether different thing to have been a part of something so grand, to take those memories with you and hold on to them in silence. Not try to use them, or sell them. I could talk to him for days, for weeks, you know."

"Why don't you? He'd love that."

Night was falling, and as if on cue rain began smacking along the windows, smearing the blue glow of evening into streaky trails as the lights of cars and houses streaked by. The train seemed to be moving with incredible speed, but it was still smooth, silent, belonging to a world apart from the gathering darkness.

"What do you think of driving down with Henri?"

"You're insane if you do, but you'd have fun. Both of you."

"Would you rather make the drive? The two of us?"

She seemed to gather her thoughts for a moment. "No, no. If you must drive the car, better you make the trip with him. He would love the excuse to drive such a distance once again, and you would learn something of each other. He'll drive you crazy, though. You were warned, alright?"

"Yes, alright." She was looking out the window, almost agitated. "What's wrong?"

"I can't say why, but I'm hungry."

"Want to try the dining car?"

"Could we? Yes. I think so."

"Yeah, why not. After the past few days, it's probably a good idea to have some truly dreadful food. You know. Re-acclimate to the real world."

"You're kidding, right? This is a French train. The food will be wonderful."

And she was right. Again. Why was I not surprised?

_______________________________

We just managed to catch the last flight out to Gatwick, and crawled bleary-eyed through the terminal and down to the express into London, then grabbed a taxi to the marina. There was, of course, a note taped to the companionway door.

It was a note from Ted. He was most courteous, I must say, given the circumstances. He asked that Michelle call as soon as we got in, and she took out her cell phone and retreated to a far corner of the marina and called. I wanted to crawl through the boat, look for booby trapped doors and trip wires set to detonate huge bombs, but in the end restrained myself. I knew that, in the end, Ted was a gentleman of sorts and would refuse to blow up any vessel moored right outside his restaurant. Insurance would never cover the damages after even the most cursory investigation.

Michelle returned.

"He wants to meet with us. He said something about your wife wanting to be here, as well."

"Excellent."

"What?" she exclaimed. She looked worried now.

I looked at my watch, then took the sat-phone from its cradle at the Nav Station and dialed my home number.

"Hello?" That voice, so gratingly familiar. I wondered if she was alone, but found I really didn't care.

"Claire. How are you?"

"Well, the Flying Dutchman himself. Where are you? Paris? Honfleur? A bordello in Hamburg?"

"No. London. On the boat."

"As you suggested, I've talked to this Sunderland fellow. He seems a nice man."

"Yes, he is. Did he like the idea? Us meeting, perhaps for dinner, over here this week?"

Michelle's eyes went round, and she appeared a trifle angry.

"Yes. Yes he did. I've booked a flight Friday evening on British Airways. Get in Saturday morning about seven."

"Alright Claire. Now it's a bit difficult, but you clear customs first, then pick up your bag and go through another checkpoint. Pack light, and I'll meet you just outside that second checkpoint."

"Oh, Lloyd, you don't have to go to that . . ."

"Nonsense. Claire, I mean it, pack light, but bring something nice for dinner, perhaps a play. I'll get you a room here in the marina."

"Why can't I stay with you on the boat?"

"She's a mess, Claire. Stinks to high hell."

"Oh, alright, but you could stay with me, you know?"

"We'll see. Lot's of workmen scheduled the next few weeks. Anyway, I'll see you Saturday morning."

"Lloyd, thanks for understanding. I think we can work this out, patch things up, if you still want to."

"Yes, we've got a lot to talk about. Saturday morning then?"

"Alright Lloyd. Goodnight."

"Night."

I pressed the 'end' button and, expecting the worst, turned to Michelle.

"What was that all about?" she asked, a mixture of anger and perplexed amusement rolling across her face.

"Ah. Just a new move. One your Grandfather taught me."

"Oh, my."

"Oh, my. Indeed. So tell me. Does Ted have any particular style of woman he favors? Other than French chefs?"

____________________________

Claire arrived, as promised, Saturday morning, and I was waiting for her outside customs in the main lobby. She was, as I'd assumed she would be, dressed to kill. Men passing by turned and cast appraising glances at her legs, possessive wives whacked errant husbands' attentions back to more acceptable focal points, and I even cast an approving look at her once or twice. She was still aggressively attractive, at least when she wanted to be, and she knew it well. In any duel, her sultry looks were still her weapon of choice, and I found this predictability comforting, indeed, reassuring.

I wanted her off balance, of course. She was in a defensive posture, trying to protect her king, what she still thought of as her part of the board. I assumed the best way to do this was to come on to her, appear contrite and apologetic, fawn over her a bit and so draw her out; she would think, hopefully, to have gained the upper hand and try to turn the tables on me. Her ego would take care of the rest.

There was no better way to do this than to take her shopping, and to spend an outrageous sum on making her irresistibly sexy. This, of course, was something she knew how to do; indeed, Claire had this sort of assault down to a well-honed art. I had simply to supply the American Express card and stand back. Sparks would surely fly.

Of course we started at Harrod's, then we walked among the better shops in Knightsbridge. And I had never been so slavishly simpering toward her in all my life; to say that I fawned over her would be to insult all deer everywhere. I was a slut, a whimpering, tremulous slut, and after an hour she was beginning to regard herself as something of a dominatrix again, and enjoying her public humiliation of me in a most English way.

I've never had so much fun with my clothes on.

We went to the Savoy and had a late lunch, then I took her to the hotel.

By that point she wouldn't even think of sleeping on the boat, and when I asked if she wanted me to stay the night with her, she said she'd have to think about it. I retreated, tail between my legs, to the elevator. After the door closed I started to laugh so hard I began to cry.

So this was what it had all come down to. Almost thirty years of marriage, dashed on the rocks of a practical joke. There was a mirror in the elevator, and a quick look revealed the face of a stranger that in some ways resembled me. But he was no doppelganger. No, not at all. That man's eyes were empty, devoid of charity.

I looked at the stranger in the mirror.

"About goddamn time," I said to him, "you fucking wimp."

The walk to the boat was lonely, and frightening. I smiled all the way.

___________________________

There is a certain measure of comfort in predictability, and until one finds oneself at that fork in the road, I suspect more than most of us are really quite dreadfully predictable. I detest manipulative people, always have, which was why I was in such a peculiar state. It's fair to say that as I moved around the boat that afternoon I hated myself completely, and yet I was loving every minute of it. C'est la vie, eh?

But, I was there, now. That fork in the road was staring me in the face, taunting me, daring me. Who was moving the pieces on this board?

We were to meet in the hotel bar for a drink, then head out for dinner at an allegedly quite upper crust club that Ted belonged to. I walked up to the hotel a few minutes early and found 'the Sunderland's' already visibly ensconced inside the comfortable gloom of a nice, dark corner table. I stopped by the bar and ordered one for myself and one for Claire, though if she remained true to form she would be late. Quite late.

Well, actually, predictably late.

And she was... but it was worth it.

She had made a full court press this time. I'd never seen her so gloriously over the top before. A vision in black, even Michelle seemed taken aback; Claire walked into the room and men simply stopped what they were doing and looked, no drooled, as she walked by. I've never seen a more sophisticated combination of elegance and pure out and out whorishness. She looked like Cartier's version of a steely eyed dominatrix: black strapless dress replete with over the elbow gloves, glittery black stockings and outrageously high heels, dripping a dozen years worth of Christmas presents from Harry Winston, and all crowned by a slim black mink casually draped over her shoulders.

And poor Ted Sunderland. His eyes were about half way out of their sockets. I could see veins pulsing in his temple, his nostrils flaring, and could only imagine what was going on under the table.

I introduced Claire to the Sunderlands and for a moment, just a moment now, I was afraid the evening would soon be going tragically wrong, for Ted seemed tongue-tied and -- dare I say it -- shy? He was smitten, and Claire could hardly stand it. But of course I remembered that no response would more thoroughly arouse her, and while he stammered and fawned and made a complete ass of himself I felt almost overcome be a kind of wild glee.

Yes, everyone was being so predictable. Except, of course, me.

Even Michelle. I've never seen such manifest jealousy in my life. I couldn't ignore Claire; no, that would have given the game away. So, I had to lavish attention on Claire as well, and soon Michelle was chafing under the collar from the lack of attention. She tossed down her first drink, ordered another, and rifled that one down too. I wasn't paying enough attention, obviously, but soon she had quite a stack of swizzle-sticks in front of her, and was decidedly glassy-eyed. So too, for that matter, was Ted.

This could get out of hand. In a hurry.

Predictably, they did.

I had no way of knowing what everyone's real expectations for this evening were. Michelle and I, well, I assume our objectives were clear, at least to each of us, but I had no real clue what Ted and Claire wanted from this evening.

Claire? A reconciliation? A chance to rub my face in it before filing for divorce? Perhaps one last fling for old time's sake?

And Ted? He had indeed begun to act the possessive, addled husband. The poor man was wallowing in hypocrisy, playing the straight and narrow for all it was worth, bathing Michelle in guilt, tossing recriminations about like croutons on a Caesar salad. And now, whatever his intentions for the evening might have been, he was smitten and completely off-balance.

And Claire was too, I could see. Sunderland had charm, real charm, ready and on tap; the man could turn it on and he was a marvel to watch.

And that's when I felt a hand under the table, slipping up my thigh.

I wasn't Claire. She was too far away, her attentions too focused on Ted. I turned, looked at Michelle, and was stunned by what I saw.

Chin in hand, a fantastic leering smile on her face, she was looking at me the way, I suspect, one might look over a nice, fresh Dover sole. So, thank goodness for long tablecloths!

Her hand drifted to its intended target and she began a little, well, a massage. Her eyes took on a dreamy, faraway look, as if she was feeling everything I was and enjoying the hell out of herself. And it had been a week since France, a week without seeing her, being with her, and... and...

Yes. Predictable. Every goddamn time.

Claire was, thankfully, on her third gin and tonic by this time, and poor Ted was off to the races, and was that his hand under the table, reaching up Claire's silky leg?

Oops, yes, she was biting her lower lip in just that way... carefully, oh so carefully, but the signs were all there. The flush on her face, the growing fullness of her lips, ah, there, did you see that little tremble, I wanted to shout. She always does that when she's getting close. Come to think of it, so do I, and I had just experienced a little tremble myself.

Ah, ah, ah... oopsy-daisy. Right over the edge. Michelle took me right over the edge, and she sat there like the Cheshire Cat. This big, self-satisfied grin floating in the air, a minor triumph for the night etched on her face. Thanks for black trousers, right?

"Your little friend," Claire said at that point, "seems to have had a little too much to drink."

"I haven't had enough, you cunt." This from Michelle. Sweet, petite Michelle.

"Ted? Perhaps you'd see me to my room?"

"Delighted," Ted said. I don't know how he managed to speak so well and drool at the same time. Must take a lot of practice.

They were up and gone before you could say 'simultaneous orgasms' twice, leaving me with a very drunk French woman by my side.

So... predictable.

It was fun walking back to the boat that night. Michelle tucked into my side, barely able to put one foot in front on the other, speaking in French and saying, I'm sure, the most dreadful things about American women and English men. I got her down below and carried her to my bunk, well, our bunk, and covered her with a blanket and kissed her on the forehead.

I went to the galley and pulled a Dr Pepper from the fridge and stepped up into the cockpit. I could see the hotel across the marina, and above a forest of masts I could see the back-lighted silhouette of two people kissing madly, passionately in what I thought must surely be her room.

I held up my can of Dr Pepper in salute.

"Thanks, old girl. Thanks for coming through for me one last time."

I tossed off the soda while I watched the two of them go at it for a while, then the light in her, uh, no, their room winked out, and I smiled.

____________________________________

Michelle and I sailed to Honfleur a few weeks later, just before for Christmas, actually, and we jumped on a train and made it to Avignon for Christmas Eve. We all made it to Henri's place, even Michelle's grandfather, and we had a time of it. Two days later Henri and I retraced our way to Honfleur and picked up the Smart Car and, as promised, we made a mad dash across France together. We managed to talk a bit, and it turned out he knew one or two places to go for some good chow, too.

New Year's Eve, and all of us were packed in the old stone cottage. Henri and Michelle talked about going in together, opening a new place, and they asked me to draw them something interesting. Didi and I talked about the differences between Christmas in America and France, and the old philosopher sat in his chair, pipe in hand, contemplating his next move.

Everyone had been so predictable, he said to himself. Thank God.

The old man lit his pipe, then sat back and watched his smoke curl up to the ceiling. He smiled, laughed a little, then flicked his match into the fireplace.