The Exchange by Carrie Williams

everyone, of course – but somehow with Rochelle it seemed exaggerated. She came across as a kind of playful, wilful child who raided her mother’s dressing-up box and created a whole array of different selves according to her mood. I wondered if this was the attraction for Konrad.
    As I watched him, I thought about all the incredible-looking women he must come into contact with daily. I’d already learnt, from snippets of conversation, that he’d done catwalk shows for Armani and Dries Van Noten. Female models must have been falling over themselves to snag him, but instead he went for a lowly dancer. Rochelle must be one very hot chick to net Konrad.
    I started thinking about the couple I’d watched earlier, and substituting myself and Konrad in their place, I found myself feeling uncharacteristically horny again. This wasn’t
like
me, to dwell on sex, and I wondered if there was such a thing as the Pigalle effect, whereby living amidst all this sin and debauchery got one’s sap rising. Or perhaps, I thought, living in Rochelle’s apartment was ‘infecting’ me with her spirit.
    I drank, and then I drank more. This, too, wasn’t like me. I’d always been very controlling – afraid of letting myself go, I suppose. But the champagne tasted clean and sharp and I liked the bubbly feeling it unleashed in my brain. I liked the way it loosened my tongue and the laughter that bubbled up inside of me, as if from nowhere. Joining in the conversation, I started to feel part of Rochelle’s gang, and that feeling surprised and pleased me.
    More people joined us, and some of the originals faded away. There was a constant ebb and flow of beautiful people around our table, and as the night wore on and stars flickered into life above us, I lost track of who was who. All that mattered was Konrad, at the centre of it all, the brightest star of all. Whenever he glanced at me, I felt as if I’d been bathed in a golden radiance, blessed by warmth and light. If he spoke to me, I felt flattered, even honoured.
    I’d no idea what time it was, but suddenly Konrad stood up, a fresh bottle of champagne in each hand, and announced that we were headed upstairs. His friend, the receptionist, had let him know that one of the guestrooms was free and that we could party there, if we wished.
    Some of the group took the winding staircase, others – myself and Konrad included – took the tiny lift. As it clanked up through the building, I tried to contain myself. Konrad’s thigh was against mine, and in the small space I could smell him – coffee and spice melded in an intoxicating mix.
    We stepped out of the lift and into a dark corridor. Konrad led the way as the others joined us from the staircase. Unlocking one of the doors, he gestured for us to go inside.
    I literally gasped when I saw the room. It wasn’t that it was luxurious, but it was outré. The walls, ceiling and floor were all painted black, and the wide bed, simply dressed with white linen, was mounted on a low platform. The ceiling was hung with dozens of mirror-balls, while opposite the foot of the bed was a free-standing clawfoot bathtub.
    The others – eight of them in total – were taking being here a lot more casually, so I guessed they might have come before. Or perhaps they were just too damn cool to express anything. Sitting down on the bed itself or on the edge of the platform, they held out their glasses as Konrad went around topping them up.
    As he got to me, he looked into my eyes and the alcohol made me feel brazen enough to hold his gaze.
    ‘Enjoying yourself, Rachel?’ he said.
    I nodded. ‘Very much so,’ I said, wishing I had the guts to kiss him, just like that.
    A knock on the door drew him away from me. It was his friend the receptionist bringing him a CD system with some speakers. Thanking her, he turned back into the room and busied himself setting it up. Then he flipped through the folder of discs she had given him, selected one and slipped it