Lobster Thermidor

He is already at the booth. His fleshy, speckled hand reaches for my waist and I force myself to melt against his body. His tobacco breath mingles with my Chanel No. 5. Any illusion that we are a grandfather and granddaughter has now likely vanished. I order the most expensive cocktail on the menu and he orders a glass of French Malbec.

‘How was Brighton?’ He asks.

‘It was beautiful. I haven’t seen the sea in such a long time,’ I reply wistfully, knowing that he does not care.

‘My mother used to take me to Brighton when I was a child,’ he smiled as his gaze bounced between my chest and lips, ‘Although, I always preferred the South of France.’

With that momentary back and forth, we revert to our usual roles. A long-winded soliloquy spilling from him and I am a captive audience, indulging his every word. His story of delicious oysters enjoyed in Saint Tropez in 1989 punctuated with my inflated compliments and questions.

He slides a shiny black card across the table, “This is for you.”

I see my name reflecting in platinum above an expiry date and I smile, ‘You make me so happy.’

I reach for it but he slides it back slightly, ‘I hope you can make me happy too.’

My usual rejection strategies exist like bullets in a loaded gun. I cock the hammer. Should I pout and feign offence that I don’t make him happy? Or perhaps, the classic timid virgin card might play better this hand?

His pudgy fingers tap the card, ‘You could go to Italy instead of Brighton. You could have 50 of those handbags. I’ve been looking after you. I want you to look after me too.’

We are interrupted by the waiter with our meals. A shiny red lobster sits on a silver tray. It is split down the middle and he eyes the buttery flesh ravenously. I don’t reply as he devours the meat and gnaws on the shell. His wine stained tongue writhes into the centre of a claw. My stomach turns slightly as my filet mignon bleeds beneath my knife.

His tongue runs against his lower lip, catching a shred of lobster meat, ‘We can discuss terms... I’m thinking twice a month?’

I imagine my faltering hands against his sweating spine. A frail collarbone wedged into my eye socket. The taste of sandalwood would end up on my tongue and I would wonder if the cologne was a gift from his wife.

A cube of steak melts in my mouth. My tennis bracelet feels heavy on my wrist. The manicured tip of my acrylic nail scratches the weft of my hair extensions. I glance again at the shiny card now slick with lobster grease.

When I return my gaze to his, I see a small desperate man before me. A man who has everything. Except me.

…

The rough threads of the hotel bed runner writhe against my bare thighs. The Birkin on my lap is heavy like an anchor dragging me to the sea floor. The groan of the faucet in the other room is a warning call.

I sense an awkwardness in him as he stumbles back into the bedroom like a toddler learning to walk. He pours us both a glass of wine and tells me I look beautiful. I thank him and an unfamiliar silence settles between us.

I cross my legs. I am aware that I am exposing a large amount of my upper thigh to him. Usually, his gaze will comfortably settle on my lips or chest. I am on his bed, yet he cannot look at me. A muttered cadence escapes his lips and his eyes dart nervously around the room

I frown, ‘Pardon?’

‘I need to admit something,’ he mutters, slightly louder this time.

I raise my brows, ‘Yes?’

‘It’s been… Quite some time for me.’

‘Oh,’ I somewhat laugh, ‘That’s alright.’

Suddenly, he seems to shrink in size. The aloof man before me seems to fade slightly, as though the innocent version of him is fighting his way to the surface. I search for this version of him. His eyes, now narrow and cold, were likely once full of hope. His teeth now yellowed from decades of tobacco had been just like mine once. His long stories were almost a desperate protest against running out of time.

Despite his hunched form, I sense animosity lingering with his shame. I wonder if my amusement may have caused a rift between us. It is a strange feeling to be concerned at the thought of losing him.

Without him, who would I be? Likely, returning to my damp studio flat where my designer clothes would have to hang in the boiler cupboard again. If I didn’t have to pawn them for money.

I notice he has been brave enough to look at me again. I am surprised that I feel pleased. He wants me, desperately, and I suppose I want him too.

I lean back, arching my spine ever so slightly, ‘How long?’

He looks down, ‘Perhaps, maybe, almost a decade.’

I find myself on my feet, slowly moving towards him. I reach for his hands and place them on my waist. He grips my sides, gently. I search again for that flicker of vulnerability. It surfaces as his hands hesitantly trail down my sides.

I turn around and suppose that it is better that way. He peels off my skirt and presses his face against my bare flesh. I am unguarded. My protective shell is torn from me.

We become one. I realise that I am made from crystal. I am expensive. I am so precious that I could crack beneath your fingers if you aren’t careful. He touches me. His hands are rough and calloused against my smooth skin. I stare up at the recessed ceiling as heavy grunts fill my ears.

It is over in minutes and he cannot look at me. His shield of success has been raised again. His fingers are slick with me and his temple dotted with beads of sweat.

Soon, I will be armed with platinum.