"You will have to pay me," said Liliane suddenly.
"Pay you?" I said after the pause needed to recover from the shock of her words.
"Yes, pay me. If I am going to act the whore tonight, you will have to pay me."
Liliane smiled her provocative smile, the one that had captivated me when I was first introduced to her. This was earlier that evening, over pre-drinks on the beautiful terrace of a small luxury hotel. Some 120 real estate agents from my international company and some more wives were gathered on the last night of the biggest corporate offsite I had ever attended.
We were in the South of France, staying in one of the large hotels on the sea-front in Cannes, known as La Croisette. The occasion was a private conference bringing together executives from across our international network. On the last of our 2 nights in town, the most senior executive hosted a dinner at a beautiful, Michelin-star hotel. Set on the hillside of a beautiful old town we looked down over the rugged but verdant landscape that characterises the hinterland of France's jewel, the Côte d'Azur.
Talking and laughing on the sun-charmed hotel terrace, I was introduced to the wife of the head of our Paris office. As the conference was being held in France, he was nominally the host, although the shots were really being called by the most senior person over from New York.
"Liliane," she repeated, as the noisy laughter of colleagues had drowned out her first uttering of her name.
"Enchanted" I replied, in French, "my name is Robert."
Liliane chuckled.
"Is that the typical Englishman's extent of our beautiful language or do you know any more words?"
Her delicate accent was another blow. I was smitten. I guessed Liliane to be in her early 50s, like me. She exuded an easy, natural charm. Combined with her pretty smile, elegant light brunette hair and chic, evidently expensive ucream shift dress, this was all more than enough to win over any man. That this Englishman on receive of her charm-offensive (though I was not at all offended) was freshly out of a painfully-ended marriage and looking for excitement meant that I was like putty in her hands.
We laughed and joked some more as other colleagues joined in. But even as the group around us grew, glances were exchanged that hinted that maybe I wasn't alone in being caught up in the excitement of attraction to someone new. I did know her husband, though not well. I knew that he was considered a safe pair of hands to run the Paris office but not otherwise highly regarded. He was a bit of a blusterer, over-playing the excessive French charm, fuelled by an obvious delight in the finest foods and wines of his country. He filled out his suit and then some, and was redder of face than might be considered healthy.
As we were led into dinner around several large round tables, I felt a rush of further excitement when I realised I was to sit at the same table as Liliane, the acting table host. She sat with three other colleagues between us so we could not indulge in small talk but we could join in the wider conversations. And yes, we did share some more of those cryptic-seeming glances.
I decided I was going to avoid anything obvious. After all, she was married, and to a colleague at that. I was, however, fighting with the curious, warped logic of an ex-husband whose marriage had collapsed after a brief struggle to survive following his wife's confession of a six-month affair. If one's own seemingly dedicated spouse of over twenty years could have an affair, why couldn't anyone?
I chatted away to the colleagues either side of me, occasionally joining in wider conversations. The meal was delicious if rather too precious, prepared by the leading French chef whose success had enabled him to acquire this very elegant establishment.
It was around ten-thirty when a coach arrived to take us back to our hotel. Many of us headed for the hotel's bar, led by our ebullient Parisian host. I checked to see if Liliane was in the crowd. She was there, among a small group of colleagues, being the dutiful hostess. I joined her group, thinking I would see if this apparent connection was really anything. But I also knew that ultimately nothing could happen other than the excitement of a rather illicit flirtation.
Soon our group was interrupted by Liliane's husband. He was loudly insisting we should all go across the road to a night club famous for its Cannes Film Festival revelries, at his personal expense. I quickly looked over to Liliane and caught a slight wince of disapproval and boredom. A good number of laughing colleagues followed Liliane's husband out of the bar and off to party. A few more decided to call it a night and walked out to the hotel lobby and the lifts. Liliane and I stood alone out of our conference group.
"Buy me a drink," she said, "if that fool is going to throw away our money like that, I better preserve what I can. So you will buy me a drink - champagne of course."
I was never going to refuse. I guided Liliane to a comfortable-looking sofa as I ordered two glasses of champagne from a waiter. I had held back from drinking my usual quota over dinner. The wines we had been offered had been glorious, but I had wanted to keep my wits about me in case the evening presented interesting opportunities. Like the one that appeared to be developing now. There was no way I was going to sit sipping mineral water with a beautiful French lady sipping champagne beside me.
As she talked about the travails of being the head of a big regional office's wife, I took a closer look at this woman I was persuading myself might end up in bed with me. She was petite, perhaps just over five feet tall, slim in that curious French way. I had not noticed her holding back on any of the delicate but rich food we had been served at dinner, including the sugar-laden, cream-covered dessert. Her skin, though lined here and there, suggested she took full part in the beauty rituals of her class and sex. Of course, every French town is packed with beauty salons as well as the bakeries, butchers and pharmacies. She was beautiful, no question.
And she was married. I was sitting with her in a smart hotel bar drinking champagne while her husband partied a few hundred yards away. He had barely acknowledged her as he had left the bar. Probably he had his eyes distracted elsewhere, as some female colleagues from the US were evidently charmed by his attentions.
"So, since your marriage has ended, have you had many lovers?" Liliane asked suddenly changing the subject.
"There have been a couple," I said -
"A couple?" Liliane interrupted, smiling. "A ménage à trios - a threesome?"
I joined in her smiles, clarifying that I meant two lovers enjoyed at separate times.
"You enjoyed them?" she asked, emphasising the verb.
"Of course," I replied, "the excitement of the new, the chance to be a bit more adventurous, a little daring."
I knew I was crossing a line here from mild flirtation into serious suggestion of possible action. But her initial question about lovers and her 'ménage à trois' joke had led the way.
"I would like to be a bit more adventurous, a little daring," Liliane sighed, looking me straight in the eye.
"You are pleased with your room?" she enquired suddenly.
It was now clear where this was leading. Pleased with my room? Although it was only on the first floor and so had little in the way of a view, it was a huge suite at the front of the building and had made me feel very pleased with myself when I had arrived. Of course, I had also felt a little sad that I was going to be alone in this beautiful room for two nights. That might no longer be the case.
"I should like to see it," said Liliane.
"You are serious?" I asked hesitatingly.
"Of course I am serious!" she exclaimed, almost with irritation.
"But your husband - " I started.
"He is my concern, not yours," Liliane replied quickly.
Then:
"You will have to pay me," said Liliane suddenly.
"Pay you?" I said after the pause needed to recover from the shock of her words.
"Yes, pay me. If I am going to act the whore tonight, you will have to pay me."
I laughed but I was full of excitement and there was no possibility of me holding back now. If this charming, outwardly respectable wife of a senior corporate executive wanted to play the whore as she expressed it, I was going to play the punter.
"How much?" I asked, smiling.
"300 Euros," she replied, still with the rather stern look on her face that had appeared when I had queried if she was serious.
"That doesn't seem like a Paris rate,"I returned.
"How would you know? Ah," she said now smiling herself, "I am feeling generous, and I like you, Englishman, you are not the usual type of your country."
"I am not carrying that much cash for such a short visit," I explained truthfully.
"Then go and get some,"'she replied, "I will sit here with my champagne and wait for you."
I stood up, willing to go along with this now heavily erotically-charged game.
"But don't be too long," Liliane said. "Someone with the money already may come to pick me up."
The stakes were now higher than ever. I am sure these last words were entirely to provoke and excite me, signalling she was entirely available sexually. With an "I'll be as quick as I can", I hurried out into the lobby and enquired of the concierge the whereabouts of the nearest ATM. With a look that suggested this was a question he had heard on many occasions at this time of night, he gave me directions and I left the hotel.
The air was now cooler, it was almost midnight. I took stock of the situation. Perhaps this was Liliane's way of breaking up the flirtation and she will have gone to her room by the time I returned to the hotel. Or perhaps it was a ploy to give herself time to think through what we were proposing to happen. I took the time too. It was risky of course - but that added to the excitement. Plus she was beautiful and a beautiful Frenchwoman at that, and I was deeply attracted to her.
