Grignan, or Nocibe on rue St-Ferreol, or Clairtiss on rue Pisangon with its lacquered blue door and cabinet windows, Boni would tug at his arm, draw him back, look with imploring, then promising eyes, and lead him in. As easy as that.
Probably because Jacquot loved it too. All those flimsy, wispy nothings which, later, she would bring to such animated, stunning, unimagined life. For Boni, underwear wasn't clothing, it was costume. Theatre. Extravagance. All colour, texture and form. The black and the white; the pastels and creams; the scarlet, greens and blues. Clean, crisp cotton; rough, abrasive lace; shiny, sliding silk and satin. The panels and trims, straps and hooks, ruffles and cups; all those sly, secret conjunctions and gentle overlappings. All of it, delicious counterpoint to her smooth, tanned skin.
And shopping was Boni's way to sharpen his appetite, quicken his pulse. Her passion for it, her mischievous tempting, making sure to include him in any decision - smoothing the satin cup of a bra against his cheek, taking his hand to run it across the ribboned bodice of a wasp-waisted basque, a questioning look as her fingernail traced a stiffened border of filigreed lace or a dangling length of ruched garter.
For Boni, it was all a part of the performance. The first act. Intimacy in public. A conspiracy of sorts. With Jacquot to begin with and then, when the sales assistant approached, with her as well. Boni would draw in the newcomer as though she, too, had a part in the action, creating - with a smile, a touch, a shared confidence - a teasing, taunting complicity between the two of them that played to his role in all of this, both of them looking to him for confirmation, a nod, his own complicated smile of approval.
'Hey, dreamer. Wake up. We're off.'
Jacquot came to with a start. Beside him Gastal nodded ahead impatiently. The traffic was moving again, thanks to an old Citroen van merging from the right. It had run up against a corner bollard, crumpling its corrugated flanks, and was blocking the busy one-way street feeding into theirs. For the last five minutes he and Gastal had been waiting for the gridlock to ease, stalled on rue St-Ferreol, right outside Nocibe's show window. Now, with the van driver clambering out to inspect the damage, waving off the blare of horns from cars caught behind him, the road was clear. Jacquot put his foot down and Nocibe's shop window slid behind them.
Nocibe. Of all the places to be caught in traffic, thought
Jacquot, making the lights and swinging out towards Le Panier.
For most of the day - briefing Guimpier, calling by on Rully at La Conception, meeting up with Gastal, chasing down this Raissac character, and then trailing the wrong car - Jacquot had managed to forget his lonely apartment, forget the woman he'd spent the last two years with, forget the fact that she was now - he was certain of it - gone for good. But five minutes stalled in front of Nocibe's front window and it had all come streaming back.
The only good thing, Jacquot decided, turning onto Quai du Port, was Gastal's ferocious mood, stoked up by getting it so ridiculously wrong with the Mercedes. By the time they reached Headquarters and Jacquot pulled in to let him out, Gastal had worked himself up into quite a state.
'Fucking door,' he swore, tugging at the handle until Jacquot leant across to release the lock. Without bothering to acknowledge Jacquot's help or his cheerful 'À demain', Gastal hauled himself from the car, brushed past the guards at the security barrier and disappeared inside the building.
Jacquot chuckled as he pulled away from the kerb and headed home. Serve the fat bastard right, he thought. Playing the big deal like that. Watching The French Connection too many times. Who did he think he was? Popeye Doyle?
15
T
he Mozart was soft, sweet, lulling in the darkness.
Steady and graceful. Flute, harpsichord and a weeping violin. The Third Concerto in G major. Just
Probably because Jacquot loved it too. All those flimsy, wispy nothings which, later, she would bring to such animated, stunning, unimagined life. For Boni, underwear wasn't clothing, it was costume. Theatre. Extravagance. All colour, texture and form. The black and the white; the pastels and creams; the scarlet, greens and blues. Clean, crisp cotton; rough, abrasive lace; shiny, sliding silk and satin. The panels and trims, straps and hooks, ruffles and cups; all those sly, secret conjunctions and gentle overlappings. All of it, delicious counterpoint to her smooth, tanned skin.
And shopping was Boni's way to sharpen his appetite, quicken his pulse. Her passion for it, her mischievous tempting, making sure to include him in any decision - smoothing the satin cup of a bra against his cheek, taking his hand to run it across the ribboned bodice of a wasp-waisted basque, a questioning look as her fingernail traced a stiffened border of filigreed lace or a dangling length of ruched garter.
For Boni, it was all a part of the performance. The first act. Intimacy in public. A conspiracy of sorts. With Jacquot to begin with and then, when the sales assistant approached, with her as well. Boni would draw in the newcomer as though she, too, had a part in the action, creating - with a smile, a touch, a shared confidence - a teasing, taunting complicity between the two of them that played to his role in all of this, both of them looking to him for confirmation, a nod, his own complicated smile of approval.
'Hey, dreamer. Wake up. We're off.'
Jacquot came to with a start. Beside him Gastal nodded ahead impatiently. The traffic was moving again, thanks to an old Citroen van merging from the right. It had run up against a corner bollard, crumpling its corrugated flanks, and was blocking the busy one-way street feeding into theirs. For the last five minutes he and Gastal had been waiting for the gridlock to ease, stalled on rue St-Ferreol, right outside Nocibe's show window. Now, with the van driver clambering out to inspect the damage, waving off the blare of horns from cars caught behind him, the road was clear. Jacquot put his foot down and Nocibe's shop window slid behind them.
Nocibe. Of all the places to be caught in traffic, thought
Jacquot, making the lights and swinging out towards Le Panier.
For most of the day - briefing Guimpier, calling by on Rully at La Conception, meeting up with Gastal, chasing down this Raissac character, and then trailing the wrong car - Jacquot had managed to forget his lonely apartment, forget the woman he'd spent the last two years with, forget the fact that she was now - he was certain of it - gone for good. But five minutes stalled in front of Nocibe's front window and it had all come streaming back.
The only good thing, Jacquot decided, turning onto Quai du Port, was Gastal's ferocious mood, stoked up by getting it so ridiculously wrong with the Mercedes. By the time they reached Headquarters and Jacquot pulled in to let him out, Gastal had worked himself up into quite a state.
'Fucking door,' he swore, tugging at the handle until Jacquot leant across to release the lock. Without bothering to acknowledge Jacquot's help or his cheerful 'À demain', Gastal hauled himself from the car, brushed past the guards at the security barrier and disappeared inside the building.
Jacquot chuckled as he pulled away from the kerb and headed home. Serve the fat bastard right, he thought. Playing the big deal like that. Watching The French Connection too many times. Who did he think he was? Popeye Doyle?
15
T
he Mozart was soft, sweet, lulling in the darkness.
Steady and graceful. Flute, harpsichord and a weeping violin. The Third Concerto in G major. Just
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