La Suite by M. P. Franck Page B

never be considering all this!
    PS Before I set
off seriously on one or all of these paths I want my body to be as
well prepared as possible. I’m aware that I haven’t been doing as
much in the gym as I used to and at my age I can’t afford to leave
anything to nature. That part I can take care of myself. However, I
can sense that first there’s something that needs to be cleared out
of my system. I need a good, hard massage. It’s becoming urgent for
me to find someone who can do me a serious massage, not an erotic
one, just a deep, deep massage. Once that’s done, I’ll be ready to
take the next step, I know.

Chapter
Thirteen
     
     
    Gaëlle
undressed and stretched out on the massage table, more in hope than
anticipation. Maybe this time, she’d find the massage she was
looking for, the one that that would leave her cleaned out, feeling
like a limp rag, but renewed. She thought of Jérôme, who had
returned many times from his masseur in an almost euphoric daze.
Quite often, she would find him asleep on the sofa shortly
afterwards. When he woke up, though, he was always keen to engage
in some sexy fun. Gaëlle smiled to herself.
    “You can dig a
bit harder if you want,” Gaëlle said, a few minutes later.
    “I’m using all
my strength now,” the masseuse retorted. “You’re exhausting me. You
sporty people are all the same!” Gaëlle sighed and lay back to try
and enjoy the rest of her session. This was the third masseuse she
had tried at three different beauty salons over the summer. None of
the women—girls, really—who gave massage were strong enough to give
her the feeling she wanted.
    Back home, she
sat for a long time, thinking hard. Somewhere, she knew she’d seen
a piece of paper with the word Masseur and a phone number on it, in
Jérôme’s scrawl. She knew that the man, whatever his name was,
didn’t do massage for women, but she’d lose nothing by asking, if
only she could find the number. She spent hours over the following
week, tracking it down at last to where Jérôme had left it, as a
bookmark in a dictionary. It was in page M, massage to maximum, of
course. She should have guessed! Gaëlle straightened it out and
reached for the phone. A man’s voice answered.
    “Brusque,” he
said.
    “I beg your
pardon?”
    “This is Jo
Brusque speaking.” Then silence. Gaëlle hastened to fill it, afraid
that the man would hang up.
    “It’s about a
massage…”
    “I don’t do
massage for women. Goodbye.” The man’s voice was firm and
final.
    “Wait! Please
give me a moment.” Gaëlle said. “This is Gaëlle, Jérôme’s
wife…widow…I was wondering…”
    “Jérôme’s lady?
That’s different. Come round tomorrow afternoon about five and
we’ll see what we can do for you.”
    “I don’t even
know where you are.” Gaëlle said, flustered by the change in the
man’s tone. She’d been prepared to make her case, but was now at a
loss as to how to continue. He gave her directions, which she
scribbled down.
    “Got it?” the
man called Jo Brusque asked. “Until tomorrow at five, then.” The
phone went dead. Gaëlle sat back, slightly puzzled. It was almost
as if the man had been expecting her, as soon as she’d mentioned
who she was.
    Gaëlle took a
bus out to the suburb where the masseur lived. It wasn’t a part of
the city where she’d feel comfortable leaving her car on the street
for any length of time. The block of apartments was typical of the
nineteen-sixties, all function and little grace. She made her way
over abandoned bicycles and the occasional dustbin to the third
floor, then paused. She was early.
    There was a
note on the door of Jo Brusque’s apartment. Gaëlle read—
     
    If I’m
expecting you for a massage, come in, sit down and wait. If not,
piss off.
     
    The man was as
blunt as his name. She pushed the door half-open and peered past
it. A small hallway led into a kitchen, where she could see a
single chair beside the table. She went in, sat down