Belle - Lesley Pearse [169]
While behaving outwardly in the relaxed manner of an uncle, he scrutinized her, approved her black lace evening dress and the lack of paint on her face. But then in a low voice he went on to caution her that she was to behave like a lady at all times, for a gentleman of Garcia’s standing would not want anyone to guess he had paid for a companion.
Finally he said that Garcia would be bringing her back here after the theatre, but he would have a fiacre waiting to take her home at twelve-thirty. He kissed her on both cheeks as he was leaving, but whispered a barely veiled threat that if she stepped out of line in any way she would be sorry.
The threat was enough to make Belle nervous. Then, when Bernard Garcia arrived a few minutes later, her heart sank even further, for he was short and fat, with just a few strands of sandy hair trailing across an otherwise bald head. He was at least fifty-five, perhaps older, and even his expensive hand-tailored dinner jacket and gold fob watch peeping from his waistcoat pocket could never make him attractive as a partner.
But he spoke near-perfect English and he looked at Belle as if he was the luckiest man in the world, and that endeared him to her. He made small talk about how cold it was, and said he had come to Paris on the train from Boulogne that afternoon and he’d had to take a hot bath to warm up. Then, when the waiter came with the menus, he asked what she’d like to eat.
‘You choose for me. I’m sure you know what they do best here,’ she said, for a menu in French was far beyond her. She smiled and patted his arm affectionately as if she was utterly delighted to spend the evening with him.
Maybe it was the superb red wine he ordered, or just his courteous manner, but she soon felt relaxed and happy to be Bernard’s companion for the evening. Despite his unprepossessing appearance he had a beautiful deep, melodious voice and a comfortable way about him. They talked mainly about England, which he knew very well. He didn’t tell her about his personal circumstances, and didn’t ask about hers.
The play he took her to after supper was Madame Sans-Gêne, by Victorien Sardou. Although he did explain what it was about to Belle, she couldn’t really follow it. But she didn’t mind. It was just wonderful to be sitting on a red plush chair in a box, knowing that many of the elegantly dressed people in the theatre were looking up at her and wondering who she was.
This was so much better than working at Martha’s where she had to accommodate ten or twelve different men in one night. While she was dreading the moment when they got back to the hotel room, because she sensed Bernard had high expectations, the chances were that he’d fall asleep very quickly.
But she was totally wrong about that. Bernard ordered champagne for them when they got back to the hotel, and asked that she sit on the bed to drink it wearing only her stockings and camisole.
Sensing he was the kind who had fantasies about wanton women, she was happy to behave like one. She writhed about on the bed letting him get a good look at her, and when he still remained sitting in an armchair, she went over to him and sat astride his lap, taking one of his hands and placing it on her breast, the other on her vagina. His face was getting more and more flushed, his dark eyes glittered, and he pawed at her frantically but ineffectually, as if he had never touched a woman’s body before.
She unbuttoned