Slightly Too Much Makeup

Christelle walking towards me, waving, arriving with a smile, perfect teeth on display. Holding out each cheek to be kissed, then again, slightly formal bearing in mind past sexual adventures. Putting her hand under my arm, directing me, keep moving R, don’t look back, some man is following me, let’s find a place with more people.

Making our way eastwards along The Mall, turning left up the stairs, chatting. No sign of anyone following, but the story quite believable, just about every passing man taking an extra look. Her poise and style and sense of dress, noticeably superior, and set off by calves of unsettling shapeliness.

To my mind, however, this new Christelle at my side, she’s, well, too buttoned-up. The men looking at her are doing so in Piccadilly, a place of teethgrinding materialism, the role of a woman for them, look good in a sportscar or at a social event, they're probably thinking less about her than about what her presence on my arm says about me.

Slightly too much makeup on her face, dammit Christelle, it’s me, R, you don’t need all this stuff, how about you get rid of it, maybe let’s go somewhere and you can lose the couture as well.

Tea in the grand entrance of her hotel, served in clinking china by unctuous waiters. Christelle talking. In London to buy art at some auction. Husband’s recent appointment as chief executive. Upcoming holiday on some island. More of same. Conversation free of sparkle or wit, as if rehearsed, all directed at effect.

Hey R, actually I’ve had to change my plans a bit, I don’t have much time, but I did want to say hello, it’s been fun. Me thinking, well, if you’re short of time, it must have been really important to you to show me how thunderously successful you are, how everybody must envy you, the time we did have, that’s what you spent it doing. But managing to stay courteous. Saying goodbye, the same tedious kissing rigmarole, promising to stay in touch.

Walking back across St James’s Park, remembering, all those years ago, the excitement. So electrifying at the time, now it feels as if maybe then I didn’t have the years to realize, I was just a bit part in the script she’d written for herself, and for those around her, including me. Thinking, well, not all bad, helluva thrilling bit part.

Still, interesting to ponder, her boundaries, years ago they felt so much wider than mine, now they feel so much narrower. Who’d have thought it, Christelle, that you’d be so happy in some gilded cage? That’s if indeed you are happy.

The trees in the park standing leafless in mute commentary. Her spell over me, gone. And mine over her. Nothing of Christelle left in me now but a slight ache of loss.