enchanting.
Hubert de Cotigny sat in his favourite armchair by the study window and watched his wife step onto the terrace. He'd switched off his desk lamp so the window held no reflections - just the watery blue light from the pool, a golden hammock moon through the trees . . . and his wife.
Suzie de Cotigny was barefoot, dressed in a long silk wrap that licked at her heels as she walked. And Suzie de Cotigny knew how to walk. A slow, measured progress, like the music, shoulders back, hands brushing her hips, tossing her hair like a catwalk model. He watched her glide to the side of the pool where she paused to untie the gown. Parting it, sliding it from her shoulders, she let it drop around her ankles. As usual she was naked, belly flat as a board, breasts taut and full.
Raising her arms with a languorous grace, she drew back her hair into a coiling black snake and took time slipping on a band from around her wrist. A fabulous body, de Cotigny decided, long and svelte, not an ounce of fat, not the slightest tan mark, his eyes ranging down the length of her, from the dark puckered tips of her breasts to the curve and swell of her hips and the trimmed shadow between her legs. As he watched, she stepped to the edge of the pool, went up on tiptoes and her slim brown body knifed forward into the blue illuminated water, lost to view. He knew he wouldn't have to wait long. Soon enough she'd haul herself from the water and the performance would continue. The new world performing for the old, youth for age. One pleasure providing for another. And beyond it all, lacing the darkness, a sublime soundtrack.
They'd returned home later than usual, after drinks with the mayor at the Miro opening at the Musee Cantini on rue Grignan, and dinner at Aux Mets de Provence on the Vieux Port with his daughter, Michelle, and her husband, Thomas. Which de Cotigny counted as something of a triumph, the four of them sharing the same table, only the second or third time they'd managed it. Michelle was the very devil to pin down and had yet to be won over by her American stepmother.
'She's too young, Papa,' Michelle had told him tartly the afternoon he'd broken the news that he and Suzie were getting married. A small ceremony at the Prefecture the following week; he hoped his daughter would come. 'I mean, she's only a couple of years older than me, you know?'
'Six, to be precise,' de Cotigny had replied. 'And how old exactly is Thomas?' he'd continued. He didn't need to be told. Deputy editor of Le Provençal, vegetarian, environmentalist, all-round do-gooder and bore, Michelle's husband Thomas Thenard was only a few years younger than Hubert was. He'd given his daughter a look and she'd flushed with annoyance.
'It's not the same at all, and you know it,' she'd snapped, determined to have the last word as usual, marching from the room and slamming the door smartly behind her. But a week later she'd come to the wedding, and grudgingly toasted the bride and groom. And though she'd kept a certain distance since then, it seemed to de Cotigny that recently his daughter's resolve was weakening.
Down to Suzie, of course. Suzie was the one who made the calls, kept up a dialogue, refused to be snubbed. The invitations to lunch or dinner, the boat, the picnics, the villa, the little soirees she hosted. When she put her mind to it, Suzie de Cotigny could charm the scales off a rattlesnake.
Which was what Suzie was really good at, the talent Hubert de Cotigny valued above all others in his young wife. The way she played people, seduced them. Found them out. Sensed what they wanted, sensed how to please them. And, in so doing, pleased herself. The control she enjoyed.
Which was how it had been with the two of them, right from the start. The only woman he'd ever met who understood what he wanted and found no fault with it, made no judgement, happy to pander to his particular requirements and draw her own pleasures from them. The reason he'd pursued her. The reason
Hubert de Cotigny sat in his favourite armchair by the study window and watched his wife step onto the terrace. He'd switched off his desk lamp so the window held no reflections - just the watery blue light from the pool, a golden hammock moon through the trees . . . and his wife.
Suzie de Cotigny was barefoot, dressed in a long silk wrap that licked at her heels as she walked. And Suzie de Cotigny knew how to walk. A slow, measured progress, like the music, shoulders back, hands brushing her hips, tossing her hair like a catwalk model. He watched her glide to the side of the pool where she paused to untie the gown. Parting it, sliding it from her shoulders, she let it drop around her ankles. As usual she was naked, belly flat as a board, breasts taut and full.
Raising her arms with a languorous grace, she drew back her hair into a coiling black snake and took time slipping on a band from around her wrist. A fabulous body, de Cotigny decided, long and svelte, not an ounce of fat, not the slightest tan mark, his eyes ranging down the length of her, from the dark puckered tips of her breasts to the curve and swell of her hips and the trimmed shadow between her legs. As he watched, she stepped to the edge of the pool, went up on tiptoes and her slim brown body knifed forward into the blue illuminated water, lost to view. He knew he wouldn't have to wait long. Soon enough she'd haul herself from the water and the performance would continue. The new world performing for the old, youth for age. One pleasure providing for another. And beyond it all, lacing the darkness, a sublime soundtrack.
They'd returned home later than usual, after drinks with the mayor at the Miro opening at the Musee Cantini on rue Grignan, and dinner at Aux Mets de Provence on the Vieux Port with his daughter, Michelle, and her husband, Thomas. Which de Cotigny counted as something of a triumph, the four of them sharing the same table, only the second or third time they'd managed it. Michelle was the very devil to pin down and had yet to be won over by her American stepmother.
'She's too young, Papa,' Michelle had told him tartly the afternoon he'd broken the news that he and Suzie were getting married. A small ceremony at the Prefecture the following week; he hoped his daughter would come. 'I mean, she's only a couple of years older than me, you know?'
'Six, to be precise,' de Cotigny had replied. 'And how old exactly is Thomas?' he'd continued. He didn't need to be told. Deputy editor of Le Provençal, vegetarian, environmentalist, all-round do-gooder and bore, Michelle's husband Thomas Thenard was only a few years younger than Hubert was. He'd given his daughter a look and she'd flushed with annoyance.
'It's not the same at all, and you know it,' she'd snapped, determined to have the last word as usual, marching from the room and slamming the door smartly behind her. But a week later she'd come to the wedding, and grudgingly toasted the bride and groom. And though she'd kept a certain distance since then, it seemed to de Cotigny that recently his daughter's resolve was weakening.
Down to Suzie, of course. Suzie was the one who made the calls, kept up a dialogue, refused to be snubbed. The invitations to lunch or dinner, the boat, the picnics, the villa, the little soirees she hosted. When she put her mind to it, Suzie de Cotigny could charm the scales off a rattlesnake.
Which was what Suzie was really good at, the talent Hubert de Cotigny valued above all others in his young wife. The way she played people, seduced them. Found them out. Sensed what they wanted, sensed how to please them. And, in so doing, pleased herself. The control she enjoyed.
Which was how it had been with the two of them, right from the start. The only woman he'd ever met who understood what he wanted and found no fault with it, made no judgement, happy to pander to his particular requirements and draw her own pleasures from them. The reason he'd pursued her. The reason
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