‘Anyway, he’s beautiful and intelligent. I’m addicted. You know, he has lived in Paris. He speaks to me in French. I like it.’ She took a sip of mezcal. ‘We spent last weekend making love and only went out for dinner. One evening we played a game where we thought of all the French words that we use in English, I guess because Los Ingleses -’ she said with a touch of scorn, ‘- don’t have an equivalent.’
‘Such as?’ I prompted.
‘Double entendre.’ She smirked. Then slowly, accentuating each word, she said: ‘Avant-garde, chic, panache, liaison, espionage, sabotage.’ She paused, then added with a raised eyebrow, ‘Agent provocateur, ménage a trois. They’re all very particular, no? Dangerous and sexy.
‘Coup de grace, for example, the final merciful blow.’ She paused, her eyes half closed, her lips in a pensive pout. Then parting them slightly and beginning to smile, she added: ‘He’s teaching me about that. Me encanta. J’adore.’
I let her have her moment, then added: ‘Silhouette.’
‘Indeed, another very particular, beautiful and sexy word.’
I couldn’t agree more. ‘I have another for you,’ I said, ‘Guillotine.’
‘Too true,’ she said, flicking her hair back. ‘He’s married.’
I nodded grimly.
‘But you know what I say, Jackie? Marriage is for quitters. It’s a fait accompli.’ She laughed lightly and finished her mezcal. ‘Otro mas?’ she asked.
‘Sure,’ I said downing the rest of my glass, shuddering as the liquor spiked my soul with a mixture of pleasure and pain.