Work in Progress

some extracts from

1st draft totally unpolished work in progress.

Starts in Valdois*, rural France, 1963.

(pronounced valdwah)

On a perfect morning in late June, Lucien set off for school. Had he been unblessed he could have walked there in five minutes, but Julia was in the world. The fresh-made smells of France unrolled before him as he pedalled off to greet her: coffee at the Lion D'or, breakfast from a dozen windows, the bouquet of the village baker.

Past the washing-stones down by the pond, then out into woods. The pull of her grew stronger. Each leaf, each shifting of the breeze, seemed well aware that Julia herself was coming ever nearer. He had no need for any thoughts, nor room. The morning poured itself into his senses. History grows gently in such places, each day laying down its sediment upon the one before. The path he took to the château had seen knights and pilgrims, hunters, soldiers, troubadours. Through staying quiet, it had forgotten nothing.

One more turn, and there it was. Le Chateau Valdois. High above him, shrouded by its trees, he could only see a corner. He waited fretfully by the huge wrought-iron gates. Perhaps she was ill today? Perhaps her father the Vicomte had taken her to Paris? Young though he was, he knew perfection is a fragile thing, not staying long.

.............................

....“When people wish to prove they are alive, they dance, for no better proof is possible. And for this great gift, second only to love itself, no piece of paper is required. So, to those of you who stand here feeling glum and disappointed, ask yourself only 'did I try my best?' If you did, then smile and let it go. And even if you didn't, let it go as well. Welcome, every one of you. My home is yours tonight.”

He smiled until the wild applause had faded.

“Julia, my darling, may I ask for the first dance?”

“Yes, papa, you may!”

Hooting, cheering, stamping on the floorboards greeted her announcement, celebrating his good fortune as he walked her to the middle of the room. Hush fell, and a solitary accordion began to play the lovely, lilting melody with which all fêtes and dances in the village traditionally began. No one present would forget the next three minutes. Father with his daughter, floating elegant and graceful, hand in hand in proof of life.

The village band then struck up all together, and these youngsters on the brink of independence danced as they had always done, unchanging down the generations. But only one song played. The band then promptly packed their instruments away, with twinkles in their eyes and knowing grins. Her classmates looked at Julia perplexedly, but she was equally astonished. And she was even more bamboozled when her mother stepped to the fore and clapped her hands for their attention. A delicate and charming woman in her middle thirties, every lad had eyes for no one else as she addressed the room.

“Boys and girls – or should I say Mesdames et Messieurs? It's getting harder to tell by the day! - you have worked hard, very hard indeed. I want you to let it fall from your shoulders. As my husband says, this is your house tonight, and that means the music should be yours as well.”

So saying, she unveiled a curtain which had been covering a corner of the room. Behind it were boxes of equipment the like of which the kids had never seen, complete with a grinning man who, the viscountess had been assured, understood these boxes and knew what he was doing.

A moment later, the new music of England and America punched into the air. They whooped and screamed, howled with joy and disbelief, and once the Viscount had been escorted out to safety by his wife, the whole class went completely crazy.  

Chapter 5 ~ eight years later

“Ah! He sounds sweet! How old is he?” asked Lucien, pouring her another glass of white. The moules mariniere and bread had just arrived. Julia grinned at his question, half mischievous, half guilty.

“Oh dear! That's the thing! The poor babe only turned eighteen last week. It's the first job he's ever had, and he's absolutely thrilled with it. I've never met anyone so full of bounce: always happy but always in a rush. He makes me feel positively old!”

“Well, and so you are, you little cradle-snatcher! I thought you liked your men a good twenty years older than you? - so long as they have visible means of support pouring out of every orifice, of course.”

Julia laughed, then ate another mussel. “Oh! I do! I do! But project seduce-the-boss isn't coming on too well. I've caught his eye, but I did that ages ago as you know, and it's still the only part of him I've caught. Too much damn competition, is what I put it down to.”

“Competition?” said Lucien gallantly. “You don't have any competition. You're Julia."

She raised two pleased but disbelieving eyebrows. “No competition in Valdois, maybe, but this is Paris. There are fifteen pretty women right here in this restaurant, three of whom could give me a run for my money, and any minute one might walk in so inconsiderately gorgeous she makes me look like a dog's backside.”

Lucien looked at her doubtfully.

“If you know of a dog's bottom that looks even remotely like you, my dear. I'd not just like to make its acquaintance, but become on deep and intimate terms.”

“Just how much more intimate would you like to be, dear?” she asked, patting his nose with a piece of bread. She had a point. They met up at least twice a month on their own, and a meal and a chat was always followed by bed at either his place or hers. Both had other lovers than each other, but neither they nor the circle they moved in made much of a distinction between good friends and sexual partners. In the milieu of the Sorbonne and the Left Bank, the emphasis was on making life agreeable; to reserve oneself for 'one true love' was frowned upon as rather anti-social. They were young, and their grand passions could come later. Julia and Lucien had at least fifty friends in common, and met up far more often as part of a group than in private chats like this one. Life had been good for both of them, and was only getting better. They'd both graduated from the Sorbonne a few months earlier, and while a degree was quite enough for Julia and she was glad to be working, Lucien was still following his dream and had started his post-graduate studies.

As to her morose outlook on the chances of hooking Xavier de la Fontaine, it was depressingly well founded. He had a lovely wife, an even more stunning mistress, and a Moroccan girl was kept at all times on his yacht, whether it was moored along the Cote d'Azur, in Capri or Tangiers. Few knew this private jewel was unsure of her age or patronym and didn't have a passport, her identity defined entirely by a family crest between her legs and four initials branded neatly round her porthole. He owned the fashion and high-culture magazine Julia now worked on, and had extensive interests both in France and the Near East. His family was not properly ancienne like Julia's, but some enterprising predecessor had put his finger in the pie after the monarchy was overthrown, investing his ill-gotten gains to fabulous effect in armaments and spices and the last years of the slave trade. He still owned a crusader castle in Alexandria and a palatial mansion outside Casablanca but, preferring Paris and his villa on the Cote D'azur, he only used them for a month or two each year.

“So how many times has Fontaine called in at the office since I last saw you?”

“Precisely once,” pouted Julia. “And even then, we minions hardly get a look-in. He just breezes into the editor's lair, while all of us break out in a fight about which of us is going to bring their coffee. It's pitiful, Lucien, it really is; about nine of them rush off to the Ladies to preen themselves and check their make-up, stick their chests out when he finally emerges. I even saw Claudia fish a random file out of the lowest drawer of her filing cabinet. It was so embarrassingly obvious it made us cringe; even Fontaine noticed it and smiled.”

“Dear-dear,” tutted Lucien with a sparkle in his eye. “You'd never stoop so low, of course.”

“Of course!” she grinned back. “I rely on nothing but my natural charm and personality.”

“Really? When did you get those?”

“I acquired them at birth, thank-you-very-much, not like all you peasants down the hill.”

“Thank you for your insult, M'am. God knows we need them - they're all we have to eat down here.” So saying, he respectfully doffed a cap which wasn't there. Julia's high birth had been a source of much hilarity at the Sorbonne, and still was amongst their group of friends. In less radical circles however, that portion of society which shaved, it added that little something extra to a girl who was already special.

The boeuf bourguignon was good here. Lucien had to watch his pennies, and she liked watching him tuck in. The bill would be on her and always was, but that was not an issue for her or him either; his day would come, and it had long been agreed the day he got his professorship he would get a bank-loan and take her for a five-course feast at Maxim's. Her papa had always been more generous with his love than with his chequebook, and her allowance throughout her Sorbonne years had been spartan, but it had still been double what most of her comrades lived on. To live on the cheap and still live well; that was an art, and they were artists at it. On being given a staff job on the The Look of France a few weeks earlier, she'd abandoned the modelling and catwalk work which had helped see her through university. Now, with a decent salary plus daddy's pittance, she was doing fine.

“Ah! That was good,” sighed Lucien, pouring both of them some more cheap red. He didn't add a '...and thank you for the meal,' because she had more cash than he did and therefore it was only right. Not only was she used to it by now, she felt the same way too. Life was a big party to which everyone had been invited, but in the view of Paris under thirty, the best party of them all by far would be to up sticks generally and have a revolution. Policemen had been put on earth to have things thrown at them, and those who demurred were either square or fascist and had failed to understand their Trotsky.

“So why does Fontaine want a classy intellectual magazine like yours? For someone who owes his money to making cannons for Napoleon, it seems an odd investment, surely?”

“Well, he's owned it for years. I've hardly spoken ten words to him, but by all accounts you're right – it's a sort of chip-on-the-shoulder thing. His real money comes from armaments and god-knows-what, but he's also got the most prestigious mag in the country. He loves style and fashion and food and culture – the French way generally – and it puts him at the centre of all that. He's forceful and magisterial and built like an ox, with a voice so deep you think you feel it in your chest, so maybe the mag is the nearest he can get to having a feminine side. And if you think about it, an office-full of extremely well-presented women, all very much belonging to that world, all either scared witless of him or wishing he would notice them or both – well, it isn't the worst place for an industrial magnate to hang out for an hour or two, is it?”

“No, I suppose it isn't. If I were an evil greedy capitalist bastard, I might even do the same.”

“Yeah? I'll tell the editor you might be putting in an offer later.”

“Okay, you do that. And tell everyone they can only use the bottom drawer of their filing cabinets as soon as I take over. The boss must have his perks.”

“Indeed he must!” pronounced Julia. “Otherwise, what's the point in being boss?”

They shared a smile in memory of old times. They'd grown up, moved on, but the magic of Jean-Patrice had left its imprint in their souls, and lay inside them dormant. Julia's bed had four rotating lovers, Lucien's three, but those far-off days remained their most intense, their only drama of the heart. They ordered two espressos, lit up two gitanes, chatted, watched the world.

“So. This puppy of yours – what's he called, and do I need to remember it?”

“Hah! Probably not!” she laughed. “But just in case, it's Phillipe.”

“Fair enough. If I forget, I'll just call him puppy. But since he works for Dior and you've given up the modelling, surely he's out of the picture for good – assuming he was ever in it in the first place, which I find doubtful considering he's only just come out of nappies.”

“Oh come off it, Lucien! I can't speak for you, obviously, but by the time I was eighteen I'd left my nappies far behind me.”

“So you're really saying he's a contender?” he asked derisively.

“No! I'm just saying he's sweet, that's all. Like, he puts everything he has into the moment, always doing his best, always being nice to people, helping out and worrying in case he isn't. He's all gentle and funny and bouncy and earnest, and he makes me feel, er -”

“Young again?” ventured Lucien to the twenty-three year-old. She made like she was going to stub her gitane out on the back of his hand.

“Yeah! In a way. Either that, or else he makes me feel all experienced – you know – all femme fatale and older woman. Like I'm bewitching him, that kind of stuff.”

“Okay, but why d'you need to bewitch him when you've got me to bewitch instead?”

Julia big-smiled at this.

“'Cos we don't bewitch each other, darling. We do everything else, but not that.”

Lucien pondered this as he walked her back to what he called his pit, and what the landlord called a compact basement studio. Once inside, they cleared sufficient books and clutter off the sofa to be able to sit down. A languid easy cuddle. A glass of wine, a cigarette. One kiss led to another, but she was surprised he didn't start unbuttoning her shirt for access the way he usually did. She began to do it for him anyway, but stopped. He looked horrified! Completely shocked!

Her mouth opened, but he put a finger to her lips. Mystified but smiling, she watched him dredge a pen and notepad out of somewhere in the student carnage.

Julia! What do you think you're doing? I'm Lucien, not Jean-Patrice! No way would he have given me permission, not even for your baccalaureate. I'm sorry but I'm going to have to tell him what you just did.”

She gasped wide-eyed when she read this. She stared at him, but for the first time in many a year he refused to look her beauty in the face. Instead he stared down at his hands, folded shyly on his lap to hide the bump he shouldn't have. She took the pen, but couldn't think of what to say. But then she used her other hand to squeeze herself through blue denim jeans. That made the words come easy.

Please don't tell, Lucien. Please! You know how cross he'll be. You know he'll make you turn around, and then I'll have to put my hands down on the tree-stump while he spanks me on my knickers. I won't ever do it again, I swear I won't! Listen – if you promise not to tell, I'll try and get you five seconds of my panties from the front – not all of them of course, just halfway up - and then two seconds of the back as well if I can get him to agree to it. How's that, sweetie? Deal?

Her eyes were closed. She was somewhere else. In Valdois, by the river's edge. After reading her plea-bargain, Lucien left character just long enough to unbutton and unzip her Levis. She slipped her hand in gratefully, but her jeans were far too tight to reach to where she wanted. Everything had been so easy all these years for both of them. Now, suddenly, there was that old familiar rapture of the difficult, the frustrated, the hard-earned. Lucien had started this for her sake, not his, and was amazed to find himself back in the vortex too, with all that primal pulsing magic of the innocent and infantile. Back then there'd been a stone he always steered round to the left, not right, in case his mother died. The spirit of the woods was watching over him, and he'd go home to find her still alive.

“Poor Julia. Poor old you. You know I want to very much, but you also know I can't. Just be brave and tell him after school, because you know he's always nicer to you if you're honest and own up to things. Just tell me to turn round, then bend over the treestump and tell him what you did. And don't worry anyone will see you, because me and Valerie will be on lookout while you get it. When he's finished just say sorry and it will all be back to normal. Besides, you know he can't do it all that hard in case your daddy wants to see you later in his study.”

She read this huffing through an open mouth, her hand now rubbing, squeezing, with full force, trying desperately to make sufficient difference through the denim. His hand joined hers to help her do it. Her handwriting, usually so elegant, was a mess.

“Oh Lucien! I know you're right, and it wasn't fair of me at all. I promise I'll own up to kissing you, and admit I asked you to keep quiet. What I've done is really bad, so he's bound to make me choose between double with my panties normal, half with both sides tucked into the middle, or only have a little bit but have to take my knickers off. But like you say, he can't make my bottom red or even rosy, as Monsieur Arras might mark down my homework down and I'll have to see Papa about it. I know it doesn't happen all that often, but Jean-Patrice says we're not taking any chances and I'm really grateful he's so good about it.

They groaned. They gasped. This was a drug, but it was tough. The iron self-control of school was back. She could squeeze her thighs and he could press his naughty lump, but that was all. Listening to Teacher for hours on end, desperate to avoid the dreaded question: “You two: why are you so fidgety this morning?”

“Go put a skirt on,” Lucien croaked.

“I don't have one here. This is your place, remember?” she just managed back.

“Fuck.”

“I know.”

They gave up, gave in, and dived into each other's mouths. She clambered up and held his head between her hands so hard it looked as if she meant to eat him, she pinioned Lucien underneath her, his waist locked tight between her thighs. Tongue on tongue with lips wide open, their faces buried in each other as well as in the past, exchanging all their hot impassioned breath as though they only had one lung between them. He had to pull her off him by her hair before he suffocated. He turned the tables, forced her down, hands pressed on her ears and temples. Her back was flat along the sofa but she wouldn't put her knees down and lie prone, so he had to work around; he forced an arm between her legs, his elbow pressing on her crotch. He kissed whatever he could get his lips on from her forehead to her throat. Her beauty maddened him, and the more of it he took from her the fiercer grew the flames.

He tried everything, pulled her hair and bit her neck, but there was nothing he could do to put his fire out. She sought him out at every turn, greedy for his lips on hers, retaliating his passion with so much bliss he was unable to subdue her. Frustrated at his own excitement, he retreated down and sucked her nipples through her shirt, then gorged on as much tenderness and cotton as was possible to put his mouth on. Moaning as her buttocks ground the sofa, head flailing one way then the other, she squeezed her breasts in with both hands to feed the shark as it attacked. Wanting her insanely now, Julia crying out for more while all her pearls were still denied him, he absurdly tried to pull her jeans out of his way, even though they were tighter than a rabbit's skin and her ass was halfway through the couch.

“To hell with this,” he muttered. “You, Miss Julia de Valdois, are going to be fucked.”

But the word was not yet father to the deed. He plucked her off the sofa, and she put up about as much resistance to being carried as a bag of shopping; a kitten in its mother's jaws could not be more obliging. He threw her on the bed ass first, rolled her like a log, lifted up her heels so high she was compelled to make herself a wheelbarrow. He dragged her down towards him until the soles of her feet were pressed against her stomach, her arches resting on the bed-board, hen reached his hands around her waist and began to skin his little rabbit. Her undone zip and button had destroyed her Levi's will to fight, and her jeans and panties were so strongly bonded they both came down together and conceded him her legs and bottom. It took him more time than he wished to spare to get the damn things off her ankles, and when the last bit passed her toes he hurled them at the bedroom wall, then grabbed her firmly by the calves.

“Get that shirt off. Right now.”

“Oh yeah? And how the hell -?”

Her feet were higher than her head by far and she was lying on her stomach, locked in place by Lucien's grip. The only way she could comply with his request would be to levitate, but the boy who'd sat beside her all those years, been her playmate, then companion, then her worshipper, and now her friend and lover too, was in no mood for minor details. He released her with a growl and stormed around and sat down where the mattress ended, right beside her head. Peremptorily he took her by the armpits, manhandled her across him and raised her shirt above her bottom.

“Oi! Get off! What the hell d'you think you're doing?” she protested. It did her little good, and a crisp hard smack hit her left buttock.

“Ouch! You bastard, Lucien! Piss off!”

His answer was a splat!-splat!-splat! in quick succession. She mewed just like a little kitten.

“Is that how you spoke to Jean-Patrice, you silly little thing?” He reinforced the question firmly even as he asked it.

“Oouw! Get off me! Let me go!”

“Right – that does it. I was only going to do this for a minute, but now you're going to get a proper spanking.” Julia felt the firmness of his hand and it meant business, so she decided to change tack.

“Yiee! All right-all right! That's enough now, darling – just let me take my shirt off like you said, okay?”

“Fine. We'll stop for that, and then continue.”

This was not what she'd expected. Finding herself free, she got off him, pouted, waited for Lucien to forget all this and pull her to the bed, then took her shirt when he didn't. She'd been naked in that room dozens of times over, but now, like this, it felt so different. She began to feel those old sensations. The last time she'd ever had to knock and enter Daddy's study she'd been seventeen, and that was long ago and in another lifetime.

Lucien took her hand and drew her to him, and this time she did not resist. He gently rubbed her bottom for a second, as if to say well done. He spanked her with a calm authority that was exactly like Papa, starting just as he would carry on, no ups and downs or variations, as certain as a metronome set to one beat every second, she got a burning hand-clap on the full of her bare buttocks. No harsh words and no emotion, no wildness or excessive force, but on and on and on and on. His power met her bottom and exploded as if falling from on high, majestic in the pain it caused, uncompromising and implacable, requiring her to feel his justice. She whimpered but she did not speak.

The first few minutes, he thought mainly of himself. So many ancient hurts he'd long pretended he'd forgotten all came pouring out. The oldest and the deepest was: what glory, what fabulous perfection must it be to have been born as Jean-Patrice? To be just the little finger of his hand would be sublimity, so to be all of him, see what his eyes had seen, would be to live the life divine. He listened as she gasped and moaned, her desperate struggle to be good, conditioned reflex stopping her from struggling excessively or wailing please to show her mercy. And as he looked, he understood. She had ancient hurts as well. He began to spank her much more lightly, landing on fresh pastures of her buttocks and varying the speed and pressure. Once he'd transformed to Jean-Patrice's style, which he'd never seen himself but had been many times described to him by Julia and Valerie, he brought comfort to his special girl.

“You are my daughter, Julia. And yet I'm told you flash your underwear at little gypsy boys. There are no words I wish to waste, and none I wish to hear from you. You are of this House, and bear the name de Valdois. You have brought it only shame. You will report to me again tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. There is no end to your disgrace.”

She burst out sobbing, and Lucien considerately started spanked her much harder. She flailed her heels and banged the carpet for the first time in her life, twisting like a fish to try and free herself.

“I'm sorry, father! Please I am! I won't ever do it ever, ever!”

Immediately, he slackened off but didn't stop, returning to Jean-Patrice's much more random rhythm and smacking every inch on offer of her big delicious buttocks.

“Are you sorry, dearest? I'm so pleased, and that's all I want to hear.”

She howled out from her deepest heart. Lucien had touched something primal.

“You've done something naughty, very naughty, and I've had to smack your bottom. I'm cross with you because you've done something you shouldn't, but you're still my little girl and I still love you. You've said you're sorry and I know you mean it, so although I'm going to spank you just a little bit longer, you've been very good and very brave. I've made everything all right again, and I want you to remember that with every spank I'm going to give you.”

It was so quiet he could hardly hear it. She whispered thank you to her daddy.

Profoundly moved and also hot beyond all reason, Lucien watched her fight her runny nose, her pain and tears, and put herself on best behaviour. Her heels came down, her toes went up. She dropped her head, her palms went flat. In gratitude beyond all bounds she offered everything she had: her rump, her love, her hope and dreams, her desperate need to be forgiven. He spanked her as a lover does, not so soft as to annoy, not hard enough to cause distress. A pulsing heartbeat gave the comfort babies find before eviction out of paradise. At the speed of Middle Bear, neither boring nor exciting, he was careful to ensure his smacks all fell outside the crimson puddle at the centre of her buttocks.

Finally, to his delight, he broke the spell of all those years of formal training. Sheepishly at first, as though hoping he wouldn't notice, she began to grind against his cock.

“Good girl, Julia, that's the way. Don't worry, because I'll always love and punish you, no matter what you do.”

“Oh daddy! Daddy! Thank you!” No whisper this time, but loud and clear and glorious. No more hiding from the thrill of being firmly warmly simply beaten. Not only was the man in charge of her not cross about her frantic needy rubs against the iron cock below, but the hand which wasn't spanking her was actually rewarding her incredibly from anus to her pussy. Never, ever, even close, had she been half this gasping, needing, dripping, thrilling. For those moments Lucien became a temporary god from Mount Olympus, and watched her come and come and come again, needing no more than his little finger and the pounding he kept giving to the plump and grateful bottom bouncing underneath him.

When Lucien reached the outer limits of what his cock could stand, he plucked her from his lap with all the chivalry and ceremony of a butcher with a carcass. After sailing through the bedroom air, she landed on her ass. She'd never been this ready to be taken in her life, and said so plainly as she watched him burst out of his denims. And it was fortunate she felt that way about it, because Julia de Valdois was fucked so hard so fast so often she had no idea which way was up or where and why and who she was.

.......................

Philippe Carcenier woke to sunlight through the curtains, and in those infant seconds of recalling name-life-and-location as consciousness came to him, a tingle went along his body. Words hadn't quite formed, so he didn't yet know the tingle could be given names, like feeling great or being happy, but it wasn't long before he cracked it. Half a second later still, he'd worked out why he felt this way: this wasn't a boring Saturday or Sunday. Today was Thursday, a working day, and therefore he'd see Julia. He breathed in deep. The bed was warm, so was his hard-on, and life was utterly delicious. He took his cock in hand and thought of her. He didn't take his time because the clock said seven-twenty, but he was young and could afford to squander. He imagined Madame Dubois, the Editor-in-Chief, had allowed him to sit under Miss de Valdois' desk for half an hour so long as he did not disturb her. Madame Dubois, an elegant lady in her early forties who did indeed employ him as her office runaround and little helper, had often been this generous before, though she would have raised a smiling eyebrow had she known it. He saved more complex fantasies for when he had more time, and besides, the under-desk one was a favourite; he liked that Julia was so kind and understanding, and never made a fuss about it.

He rose, and there was nothing which did not bring pleasure. The warm water felt so good as he splashed his face, as did the sunlight on his shoulder. From a blue sky morning, light was flooding through the bathroom window, transcending and transforming through a comet's-tail of floating dust. He smiled at the gobs of shaving-cream mixed with bristle as he flicked them off his razor; today, as every day, he simply found them satisfying and didn't much care why. As Philippe washed, the noises from the street were sociable and pleasant. He belonged to this apartment, to this arrondissement, to Paris herself. All of this was here for him as much as anyone, and all he had to do to be a part of this was contribute and make sure he was of service.

Toast and coffee for his breakfast – how good they smelt! They even stayed good long after he had finished them, as his tongue kept finding memory-molecules. A fresh shirt! Ah yes, that cool delicate sensation as cotton settles on the skin. And yet he didn't 'appreciate' a thing or count his blessings, because he was eighteen and therefore went one better: he lived them fully as they happened, and one cannot count what has no number. He looked at the bored impassive faces on the Metro and in their boredom, found much to interest him. How many people he would never meet at all! How many secrets, stories, mysteries and fascinations had the world and his companions on it, yet he was doomed to only know a tiny fraction of them! This frustrated him intensely sometimes, but only for a second – and then another face or scent or thought or feeling would come wandering by and offer its enchantment. Little riches everywhere, like sparkling fish caught in a net.

Walking through the doors which had The Look of France engraved above them! Philippe felt so proud! A household name, the epitome of chic and style, yet he and he alone would open all its mail! The Editor herself would find him useful all day long, for anything from indexing the photo archive, to running out to buy a file with which to do her toenails. Nineteen women in Editorial, and seven men down in Production, all knew his name and seemed to like him. Even Baron Xavier de la Fontaine, no less, had wished him a Good Morning! A man so princely and so stern, a man whose presence everyone found terrifying, could actually recognise the errand-boy! It was an honour just to bring his coffee, even though his hands quaked as he did so. Philippe had never seen such natural grandeur in a man before, hadn't known such opulence, such radiating power was possible. Fontaine had sacked two people in the past ten weeks, but Philippe owed his job to this harsh prince, this mighty bear, as one poor soul to see the door had been his predecessor.

Out of the elevator now, through the swinging doors, and onto the office floor. Only a handful of staff were in as yet, as he was very early; he made sure he always was. Madame Dubois was pleased with his progress, and her good opinion meant everything to him. It meant Julia, new friends, being useful, it meant keeping his job. He look at the desk where Julia would soon be sitting, and that was when it hit him: he was completely and utterly in love. Just as when we don't feel too good and shrug it off, then suddenly admit internally we are now ill for the duration, Philippe's worldview changed that instant. The force of adoration knocked the breath out of his lungs: so this is what it is to love!

The divine disease of human beings had been threatening for weeks, but until this moment he'd only revelled in her company, thought about her all the time and fancied her like crazy. Now, suddenly, he was stricken with the full malaria, shatteringly more intense. It was extremely physical, not nebulous at all, as if the thickness of his blood had changed. Strong and healthy though he was, it almost knocked him out. Eight-thirty came. She wasn't here. He was devastated, panicked, crushed. Then she walked in, five minutes late. It was hot high summer now, and she only had a cotton dress to hide her absolute perfection. Her beauty made him gasp; hair luxuriant in shining bronzes, coppers, chestnuts, framing hazel eyes and stunning cheekbones. Every inch of her was lovely beyond hope, but for Philippe, as for every man and boy from Lucien and Jean-Patrice on upward, her lips had always been her central glory. They just weren't fair, not when she smiled or cried or laughed out loud, and still less so in the old days when she sucked her thumb to pout, or ate the peach or the banana she'd discovered in her lunch-box. Angels fought for such a mouth as hers, so fabulously succulent that even in his fantasies Philippe had never dared go near it yet, and he'd kept his cock exclusively fixated on her gorgeous legs and derrière.

As he slit open scores of envelopes, he knew he was profoundly altered. He wished he had some reason to approach the goddess of his life, but it was always ten o'clock before she wanted her first coffee. Next week there would be lots more jokes and chats around the room, and he'd be invited into his fair share of them, but right now the monthly deadline for the magazine was coming up, and everyone was stressed and busy. But he knew she liked him very much, and always had a smile for him. What screaming nightmare if she didn't! For the first time ever, Philippe Carcenier counted up his blessings.

~~

Three weeks later

A balmy August evening found them sitting at an outside table, underneath a lime tree. Julia watched Lucien read the menu like a wolf. She hoped he'd go for the plat du jour and not the steak, but felt guilty just for thinking it. To work at The Look of France one had to dress accordingly, and she'd also moved to a new apartment only five minutes away from the office. Just off Place d'Italie, it was smarter than her old place but twice the price for not much bigger. As a junior staff-member still in her first year, cash was rather an issue. Most of her best friends, Lucien amongst them, lived in borderline poverty; they were good for her soul, and in some cases her body as well, but a calamity for her bank balance. Her monthly allowance from papa was the equivalent of perhaps two hair-do's and three pairs of shoes a month, so she was far from being the golden fountain of de Valdois wealth they all liked to think she was.

When his steak arrived, she watched him eat it with a smile. They talked about their mutual friends, his studies, politics, her projects for the magazine. All these were a pleasure in themselves, because they loved to chat and did it well, but both had a delicious sense of expectation for the later evening, once the wine had done its work. Lucien hadn't failed to notice she was not in her habitual jeans, but in the sweetest little skirt. No passer-by beneath that tree, or on the Metro as she travelled in to meet him, had failed to notice it as well.

Hunger sated, came the time for wine, gitanes, espressos; the smell of France was in their nostrils. While in their ears, tinkling cutlery and glasses, humming conversation from the other tables, the rubber-banded engines of the passing deux chevaux. They smiled at one another. Life could be so pleasant.

“So then, what progress on the Fontaine front? Surely the hook's well and truly in his mouth by now, and you're reeling him in?”

Julia chuckled. “I can see you haven't met this guy, have you? Or seen his picture in the papers, even. But nope, none of us have landed him – mainly because he isn't landable. Like I keep telling you, he's got all the ass he wants and isn't in the market.”

“What rubbish you talk sometimes, Julia. With his kind of money, there's always room for one more ass.”

“Hmm, maybe. Thanks for the encouragement. And it's not all bad news, I admit. He's coming in a bit more often now, and although we're all getting nowhere slowly with him, at least I'm getting there a bit less slowly than the others. When he comes out of Madame Dubois' office to encourage the troops and chat with us plebs, he'll pick a desk and stand by it, and everyone within three metres is expected to stop what they're doing, laugh at his jokes and listen to his words of wisdom. And guess what?”

“He's picking your desk more than anybody else's.”

She reached out to pat his hand, as if he were a three-year old who'd learned to spell his name.

“Clever boy! However did you manage to work that one out?”

He rolled his eyes lugubriously skyward, as if wondering why he put up with this woman.

“One: you said you were getting there less slowly than the other girls. Two: I'm looking at you. Case solved. Next!”

“Hmm,” said Julia, patting her chin with a finger as though in thought. “'I suppose 'Next' would be the curious case of Philippe and Madame Dubois. She-”

“Hang on – who's Philippe?”

“You know – puppyboy. Didn't I mention him last time? I'm sure I did.”

“Oh yeah, sorry – carry on.”

“Well, she called me in the other day to go through a piece we're doing on Cahors, and when I thought we were through, she said 'Oh, by the way, you have an admirer.' So of course I said 'Really? Who?' and looked at her all excited like she was going to say Fontaine, and I know she read my mind because she was grinning her head off. When I saw it wasn't him, I guessed who it was, of course.”

“How totally bizarre.”

“What? - that somebody finds me attractive?”

She mock-pouted, and gave it everything she had.

“That, and also how come Madame Dubois found out about it before you did.”

“Well yes,” she said, abandoning her play-pout in favour of leaning in towards him to emphasise the strangeness of it all. “Apparently she'd called him in earlier to ask what was the matter. Seems she keeps finding things filed wrong, and lately we all know to our cost that some of his coffee-rounds are strong enough to kill a horse and others taste like pond-water. Worst of all though, he'd opened a letter marked clearly marked private on the envelope – she'd fished through the wastepaper basket to check – and was wondering in a general way why he seemed to be in a daydream all the time.”

“I see. So dreaming about you is now his full-time occupation, yeah?”

“It sure is. It's always been pretty bad since he arrived, but a couple of weeks ago he really seemed to step it up a gear. Just about every time I look up from my desk, I see his face from across a crowded room.”

“Ouch. Poor kid. But I still don't get how Madame Dragon-Lady was the one to tell you. Red hot tongs couldn't drag that kind of information out – not from a boy his age, not in his position, and certainly not to the boss.”

“I know-I know! You'd think so, wouldn't you? But that's exactly what happened! He went all quiet when she asked what was wrong, and when she asked a second time, apparently he blurted out: 'I'm in love with Julia, Madame Dubois. Very, very badly, and I don't know what to do.'”

“Oh. My. Goodness.”

Lucien blew out air, leaning right back in his chair to take this in. “Fuck. A. Duck.” - he added after some consideration, before leaning in again to find his cigarette. Julia looked at him sparkly-eyed. She'd thought it would impress him, and it had. She'd already told this story to several of her friends, but Lucien's reaction was the most entertaining yet.

“How the hell did she respond to that?” he asked when he'd composed himself again.

“Well, she told Philippe the truth. She said she'd guessed something of the sort, and that I probably had as well. Fortunately she didn't add '...and so has the whole office.' She said she sympathised, but that he was here to do a job and opening private mail wasn't acceptable. She said on a personal level she was very fond of him, and so was everybody, and that he'd been making good progress until all this. She told him he had a month to turn things around, and though that didn't mean he should be terrified of any little mistake, if another confidential letter got opened he would have to leave straight-away.”

“Bloody hell. What an awful situation to be in. Poor guy,” muttered Lucien, clicking his tongue. He and Julia, who felt just the same, shared a look of sympathetic eyebrows.

“So,” he asked, “how are you coping with it yourself? Is it a major issue as far as spoiling your day? You know – constant heavy pressure?”

“Hmm, that's a difficult one. When it was just flirting and fancying and that sort of thing, I actually rather liked it. Like I said the other time, I've never been the older woman before and it was playful and fun. But yes, it's very different now, because I know one exasperated look, or one word out of place, would stab him through the heart.”

“And have you? - accidentally stabbed his heart, I mean.”

“No. Well, I don't think I have. In fact the other day I put my hand on his, when he put my coffee down, just for a second, and gave a little squeeze. I wanted to let him know I knew, that it was all okay and he needn't be ashamed.”

“Good old Julia. I'd expect nothing less from you. What was his reaction?”

“What you'd expect, I suppose. He blushed like a beetroot, then kept looking at his hand the rest of the day.”

“Well, at least it sounds like you've got nothing to worry about – not physically I mean. There won't be anything in the papers about 'Teaboy Breaks into Trainee Journalist's Window' or that kind of thing, will there?”

“Oh good heavens no! Honestly – he's the sweetest, most sensitive boy you could imagine. He'd never touch a hair on my head. No, it's him we need to worry about, not me.”

“Does he attract you at all? In any way?”

Julia paused for long reflection. Took a puff of Lucien's gitane and a good sip of her wine before eventually answering.

“Yes. I find myself moved by all this. It's more than just being touched because he's got a crush on me. Maybe he reminds me of how you used to make me feel when we were younger. You know – incredibly special, an untouchable princess, someone to be longed for and adored.”

Lucien took her hand. “You are incredibly special, you are a princess, and anyone who doesn't adore you is a fool. All that's changed is the untouchable and longing bits. Well, for me at least. Unfortunately for him, it's his turn now. Have you even pictured going to bed with him?”

She winced, slightly embarrassed.

“Not going to bed as such, no.”

Lucien understood, and stored away the knowledge without labouring the point. Some things are spoiled when said too loud.