Carrie Williams - The Exchange

We sat together for a long time, much of it in a companionable silence. Kyle obviously didn’t suspect that anything had gone on between me and Morgan, despite his and Tatiana’s weird behaviour as they climbed into the taxi. In some ways, I thought, he must be a true innocent. They’d been so blatant, even I was shocked. But then of course I knew what was going on in their heads. Kyle didn’t.

‘So,’ I said finally, stretching. ‘I’d best make a move, I guess.’

Kyle turned to me. ‘You don’t have to,’ he said.

‘Do you have a spare bed?'

He placed one hand on mine. ‘No,’ he said.

For a moment the thought played around my head: What the hell? We could fuck, and nothing need come of it. Just a friendly fuck, and then never again. It might not be the best fuck of my life, but it would stop me wandering about the streets, meeting the wrong kinds of people, getting into trouble.

But then I looked into his eyes, and I knew that he was a gentle, sensitive soul – the very antithesis of Morgan – and that it would be very wrong of me to hurt him.

I shook my head gently. ‘I like you too much,’ I said softly, pulling his head to my shoulder. There was something childlike about him, something that needed protection. But I was the last person to be able to protect anyone.

For a while we just sat there, unmoving, and then Kyle stood up and went over to the window.

‘I wonder,’ he said, looking out into the blackness, ‘what Rachel’s doing now.’

When I opened the door to Rochelle’s friends, I didn’t know that I was opening the door to another world – a world that would change my life forever.

There were six of them, all but one of them guys, all of them gorgeous. The guys, it turned out, were fashion models. I’d never even met a model before – my photos are always of real people – so I immediately felt out of my depth.

The leader of the pack, it was clear from the outset, was Konrad, a too-cool-for-school half-German guy of about twenty-five, with cat-like green eyes that twinkled behind a curtain of chestnut hair and the squarest jaw I’d ever seen. I surmised pretty quickly that he was Rochelle’s boyfriend from the way he took ownership of the flat, lounging around on her – my! – bed, rifling through a drawer for something he said he’d left behind.

I was feeling a bit crowded in by all these strangers taking over my new space. They all seemed a bit manic too, and I wondered if they were on something. At any rate, I was glad when they suggested going out for a drink nearby. I’d been cooped up in the apartment for too long anyway – spying on other people, mainly. It wasn’t healthy.

We didn’t go far – just around the corner to the rue de Navarin. One of their friends, explained Konrad in excellent English, was the mixologist in the bar of the Hôtel Amour, and they often drank there.

I hadn’t heard of the ‘Love Hotel’, but Konrad quickly filled me in. It had opened a few years before, he said, in a former brothel – and you could still rent rooms for a few hours in the afternoon if you wished.

I didn’t know what to expect, but once inside, I discovered that the vibe was minimalism meets kitsch rather than seedy bordello. We sat out in the courtyard with its bright chairs, little metal tables and abundant foliage, and Konrad ordered us all caipirinhas. It was starting to grow chilly, but heaters kept us toasty.

The one girl in the party sat next to me, blowing smoke out into the air, seemingly oblivious to me, lost in her own thoughts. She was exotic-looking – possibly North African by origin, I thought, or with one North African parent. She had somewhat melancholic dark eyes and lustrous black hair.

I listened to the guys chat away in French and studied Konrad from a distance. There was something fascinating about his rampant self-confidence. Having little myself, and having been surrounded by people much like me, I was intrigued by those who had it in abundance. Of course, being model-level gorgeous must help one’s self-esteem.

‘So,’ the girl said suddenly, finally coming to life. ‘How are you enjoying life in Paris?’

I paused. ‘It’s too early to tell. I’ve only been here a couple of days. And this is the first time I’ve properly been out.’

She exhaled more cigarette smoke. ‘You’re a photographer, right?’

‘I am.’ I patted my camera bag on the table in front of me. ‘What about you?’ I said.

‘I dance,’ she said. ‘With Rochelle. My name’s Lisette.’

‘Oh, you’re …’

‘A stripper?’ She let out a slightly bitter laugh.

‘I’m sorry – I wasn’t going to say …’

‘It doesn’t matter. Although it’s a bit more than that. And a bit less.’ She looked at me closely. ‘Have you ever watched a show?’

‘I don’t think so. I … Well, no, I haven’t.’

‘Then you should. How about coming to the club tomorrow night? You can meet some of the girls first. And then maybe you can come out for a drink with us afterwards. I’m dancing tomorrow, so you can see my new routine. I’ve been working really hard on it.’

‘Sure,’ I said, ‘I’d like that.’ It was the truth, but only in part. The other half of me feared going to the club. Despite the things I’d photographed, I’d led a very sheltered life when it came to this kind of thing. If I felt out of my depth here in this bar, with this crowd, then that would go double for the club.

On the other hand, the idea did excite me. I imagined myself floating around, invisible, photographing the faces of the punters as they stared, rapt, at the stage. Photographing the girls, backstage, as they got ready for their nightly display. I would be a ghostly, unseen presence, an invisible eye.

This would be fertile ground for my art if I could find some way of working it to my advantage. But I wouldn’t know what I could get away with until I got there and sussed out the mood. Neither the dancers nor the clientele might accept the intrusion.

The courtyard was getting more crowded, noisier. Chic people were fluttering into it like exotic butterflies; DJ beats were floating out from inside the bar itself. Konrad ordered a few bottles of champagne, raising a glass in my direction.

‘To our new friend, Rachel,’ he said, ‘and her new life in Paris.’

I raised a glass back at him and smiled shyly as he winked at me. He was beyond gorgeous, in a different realm to me, but I couldn’t help but react to his beauty. It was like a drug. Rochelle must be very lovely herself, I thought, to have such an amazing boyfriend.

Of course, I’d seen her pictures on Facebook, and there were several framed photos of her around the apartment, but she looked different in all of them, so it was impossible to fix on any one idea of what she looked like. It’s the same with 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.