She laughs at that. And then stills, as my fingers slip into the top of her panties. She is wet and warm and—for the moment—mine. Her head back on the headrest, her seat reclined. Her lids at half-mast. Anouk, glassy-eyed, disheveled hair. The wild one.
“How do you know it’s not just your face?” I repeat.
“Because I think you want all of me. And…” She trails off. My hand moving against her, my mouth on her nipple through her sheer bra. The feel of her entirety tensing beneath me. This power, divine.
This thing we have, whatever it is, unlike anything I’ve experienced. And for all my confusion about labeling it, I could not deny what she said that time in the studio. We were having fun, were we not?
“And?” I push when I know she is ready to climax.
She shudders. Her thighs clenching, her nails raking my scalp, her body lifting off the seat.
And in the moment after, her voice low and soft, she says to me in French, “And I think you’re bored with your cliché of a husband.”
XXVIII.EN CAS D’URGENCE.
SRI LANKA.
NOVEMBER. 2015.
We get away for her birthday.
In mid-November, when the kids are consumed with school and soccer andNutcrackerrehearsal, and François is still shooting interiors on the soundstages at Sony, Anouk and I jet off to the other side of the world. Seven days, six nights at the Amanwella resort in Sri Lanka.
We are celebrating. Not just Anouk turning thirty-nine, but the fact that following studio visits from a curator and members of the Hammer’s board of advisors, exhibitingOn Beautyin one of their galleries was a go. My team at Cherry and Martin were thrilled.
I told the kids that I was taking a girls’ trip, and managed not to feel guilty about it. I told Fran that it would be mostly yoga and meditation. But really, there is little of that. There are sunrise boat rides across a lagoon and massagesen plein airand one-on-one surf lessons and a helicopter tour to the Hill Country, and biking through quaint villages, and picnic breakfasts at a nature reserve with exotic birds and leopards, and a visit to a baby-elephant sanctuary. And there is fucking. Naturally. Although the locals would likely call our behavior unnatural. But to anyone outside of our premium ocean-pool suite, it looks like an indulgent girls’ trip. And mostly, it is.
It is early Saturday morning when the first calls come: 3:17AM, to be exact. A text first, and then another, and another. My phone vibrating incessantly on the nightstand. Anouk’s ringing out loud. After several seconds, she stretches out one languid arm and silences it without looking at the screen. Half asleep on the other side of the bed. I swipe mine from the stand, eyes adjusting in the dark.
There were at least a dozen messages. Four from François.
Are you okay?
Are you seeing this?
Have you heard from anyone?
Call me.
A sort of subdued panic takes over my brain. It could not have been the kids. Nor my parents. The line of questioning did not add up. And yet his urgency. I quickly slip out of the bed onto the cool tiles, cross through the suite, and out onto the terrace, shutting the glass doors behind me.
“Cile.” He answers at the first ring. “You’re okay?”
“Yes, I’m okay. I was sleeping. It’s the middle of the night here. What’s going on?”
“There’s been an attack in Paris. Multiple attacks. It’s really bad. I don’t know who is safe, who is not.”
“Where? What? A bomb?”
“Bombs. Shooting. Everything. All over. Restaurants, the stadium, people are climbing out of the windows at Bataclan. I had to leave set early. Turn on the TV.”
“I… We…” I was still trying to get my grounding. “There is no TV.”
“I’m on my way to get the kids from school. I want them to be with me when they find out.”
“Okay. Is that necessary?”
He’s quiet for a beat, and then, “What kind of hotel has no TV?”
