Angelique Femme Fatale

By Jaqueline Manon

Young Angelique is a recent immigrant to Canada from France, running from a broken heart, a broken family, and a life that she seeks to leave behind in exchange for a new existence in a new world. She meets the mysterious and beautiful Nina, a woman for whom money and power have no boundaries and the social morals imposed by society have no bearing. Nina runs a business that offers fantasy services to men, with slave/master relationships and dollars running the operation - more dollars than Angelique has ever seen and a lifestyle beyond her wildest dreams. Nina gives Angelique the sense of power and control she so craves , and a sense of cognition and awareness. She gives Angelique a number of her slaves and counsels her protégé on how to handle them, warning against falling in love. But Angelique falls for the married Nina, and later for the strange and handsome Geoffrey. Can Angelique flourish in this illicit world, or will the pull of real love, new sensation, and desire trump the fantasies she is paid to perform?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jaqueline Manon
• Release date: Aug 24, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301105588

Jaqueline Manon

Immigrating to Canada in the early sixties and finding work in a factory by day while studying finance at night the author moved into a secretarial role and continued her University studies eventually becoming an executive for a Fortune 500 Company where she held the position of Vice President for seventeen years. Never having children she is now retired and lives with her husband in the Muskokas in Ontario.

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Chapter One

Angelique

Nice, France, July 1963

The South Coast of France in the Mediterranean is a natural paradise, with gorgeous mild temperatures for most of the year. This is where my wedding was to take place. In three months I would be married to the love of my life, a doctor. I was engaged for one year, and my parents had agreed that the 24th of October, my 21st birthday, would be the perfect day.

Our home was nestled high on a hill overlooking the sea. Flowers bloomed in a million colors all around me, and I stood on the balcony and thought that I was in paradise.

My father was a doctor as well, and I had lived a privileged life as his eldest daughter. Despite the fact that he had been imprisoned for five years during the war, he had managed to provide his four children with excellent educations. Swiss boarding schools, skiing vacations in Austria, we children had it all. When I had completed high school and two years of the associate's degree for medical assistants, I decided to work for Dad, running his busy office. I loved my family, I loved my work, and I was madly and completely in love with my fiancé.

Damien and I often discussed how wonderful it would be if I could help him when he opened up his own office. We would work together as a team. Both of us had the same interests: medicine, opera, ballet, theater, classical literature, symphonies, and sports. He was twelve years older and in his early thirties.

That day, when I stood on the balcony and looked down into the fantastic beauty of the tropical gardens beneath me, I was thinking of the night when Damien had taken my virginity. That first night in his room at the hospital, one year ago, was a memory that I would always cherish. That first night with a man is a night no woman will forget. There was pain, there was blood, and I was ashamed by how I had soiled the bed. He was wonderful. He changed the sheets and told me, It will be better in time, my darling, believe me.

I was not so sure when I drove home from the hospital, where he lived as an intern. I remember that I thought, Is that all? Is that it? Where is that fantastic feeling they are always writing about? All these books I had read about passionate love and romance… I wondered if they were all just a dreamed-up fantasy.

But he was right. Making love turned out better and better, and I was more and more in love.

And then disaster struck. A catastrophe I could have never imagined, a misfortune of unbelievable proportions.

I am going to see Damien, said my father. It was 5 in the afternoon.

I'll come with you, I said. I would love to listen and learn. No, not tonight. He smiled. There are some things I have to discuss with him—strictly medical, doctor to doctor. And so he drove away, and I remained at home.

When he left, I stepped into our garden and collected a glorious bouquet of white roses. I placed them in a crystal vase and put them in my parents' bedroom. Then I drove down to the beach and jumped into the ocean. The water was warm, the sun setting. I took my blanket, stretched it out onto the soft, warm sand, and looked into the sky, dreaming and contemplating my wedding. I must have spent an hour there, maybe more, but suddenly I had a feeling that I needed to return home. I packed quickly and drove home.

When I entered the living room, I noticed the silence. This was unusual, since the house was always full of classical music, which Mother played - constantly. My father and my mother looked at me with an expression on their faces that I can only describe as dismay, consternation, and almost panic—the same expression I had noticed when my grandpa passed away.

Sit down, Angelique, said my father, then he stood and got a bottle of wine.

He slowly filled three glasses and placed one in front of me. He opened his cigar case, lit the cigar slowly, and placed it immediately back into the ashtray. Then he took my hand, looked at me with his wonderful blue, kind eyes, and very quietly almost whispered, There will be no wedding, Angelique.

I looked at him, then looked at my mother. She sat there with a face devoid of any expression. Her eyes were rigid; she looked like a statue made of stone.

What happened?! I cried out. You just came back from visiting Damien—is he ill? What on earth happened?

No, he is not ill, Angelique, but he had to make a medical decision, and for medical reasons he decided that he cannot go through with the wedding.

What medical decision?! I shouted. He is perfectly healthy—what happened to him?

It is not him, said my father. It is you.

Me? There is nothing wrong with me, I whimpered. What is wrong with me?

My mother got up and went into the bathroom, and I heard her vomit. When she returned, her face was snow white, and she pressed a handkerchief over her mouth. She put her hands onto the table, and they were clenched into fists. Her knuckles were white, and she looked down to the floor.

Look, Angelique, said my father very slowly, and he pronounced every word so carefully, as if he was talking to someone who could not understand the language. We are both doctors, and it is only ethical that we tell each other the truth. Damien is a doctor. Damien's father and his mother are doctors. I had to tell him that the chances that you will bear a healthy child are very limited.

What are you talking about, Dad? Why would my chances be limited? I am perfectly healthy.

You are perfectly healthy, but your mother's brother has never been healthy.

I never knew Mom had a brother, I said, stunned. What has this got to do with me?

Your mother's brother has been in an institution for the last twenty years. A mental institution, where he is cared for. You know what happened to your brother, Angelique, said my father sadly.

Yes, but my brother is manic depressive, and that illness can be cured. Everybody knows that!

But he no longer lives with us. We all hope that the doctors can help him. But despite the fact that you are healthy now…. He looked up to the ceiling, the typical gesture he did when he did not know what to do or what to say next. Don't you think I would not have tried everything in the world to save your brother? I could not!

How can you say this? You told me a thousand times that there is hope. It is just unfortunate that there is this illness in our family.

That is right, Angelique. You said it. This illness is in our family, and unfortunately there is very little, medically speaking, that we can do. Perhaps in fifty years, but now we have to live with it.

Damien will marry me, I said. And I know it beyond the shadow of a doubt. We have not had a single fight. He adores me. I am a medical assistant. I have learned all I need to know with you, Dad, to help him in his new office. He will never marry another woman. We belong to each other—we are the perfect match, and I will see him now.

You will not see him now, said my father. He is not at the hospital.

I will phone him then.

You won't reach him, Angelique.

My body began to shake, and when I picked up the glass of wine, my hands shook so terribly that I spilled the wine all over the table.

Come with me, said my mother. Come with me and we will go to bed. We will talk tomorrow.

I grew up in a home where it was inconceivable to say no to either my mother or my father. I had never said no. My sisters had never said no. In my entire life, I had never seen my parents argue. My father made the decisions, and my mother abided by all the decisions.

She took my hand, and we walked upstairs to my room. She watched me undress; she had a glass of water in her hand with some tablets. She held onto the glass with both hands, and tears ran down her cheeks.

There are things in this world, my darling, that are difficult to understand, she said, but I will explain them to you very carefully. When you are my age, you will understand. Right now it is very painful. Remember that we women are in this world to have children. We are in this world to care for our husbands. This is our life. I will help you, my darling. Take these tablets and go to sleep.

I swallowed the tablets, and my father entered the room.

You know how much I love you, he said, and you know how proud I am that you have been such a good student all your life. My own life is full of sunshine because you work with me. I do not want you to suffer. I will give you something so that you can sleep.

He gave me an injection in my arm, and I woke up sixteen hours later.

I was calm, so calm that I was surprised. I was collected, not drowsy. There was a stillness in me, a placidity. He must have tranquilized me, I thought. I felt peace and serenity, a quietness within myself. Nobody was in the house, and both cars were gone.

I called Damien at the hospital.

Dr. Allard canceled his schedule, said his friendly secretary. Do you know why? When will he be back?

Oh, he has several operations tomorrow, she said. I expect him in the operating room at 6.00AM.

I called his apartment. No answer. I called his sister. She had not heard anything.

I took a taxi and went to his apartment. His car was there, so I walked up the stairs and opened the door. I had possessed a key for a year.

He sat in the living room. Unshaven, he looked like a bum, with a whiskey bottle in front of him and cigarettes all around. He never smoked, and I hardly ever saw him drink. Perhaps wine, but certainly not whiskey.

I knelt in front of him. I put my arms around his legs and looked into his face.

Damien, it's not true, is it? I mean, it could not possibly be… right?

He bit his lips, first his upper lip and then his lower lip. He always did that when he was nervous. He looked at me, and the canary in the cage started to sing. It was the only sound in the room.

So you are discarding me? You're throwing me away three months before our wedding? There has never been an issue or any discontent between the two of us.

I wanted children, he said.

We can have children, and if you are afraid, we can adopt some. Our life is more important, I said very calmly.

I have been thinking about this all night, Angelique. I have not had a second of sleep, but I am a doctor, and I know the ramifications. Children, like for instance your brother, could destroy our entire existence. I cannot accept that risk.

So I am abandoned, cast off? I am only worth something if I can bear children? My love to you means nothing because there are a million women you can have—women, with good genes. Is this correct?

Don't use this word 'discarded,' Angelique—it sounds pathetic. A woman lives and is born to have children. A woman exists to be a mother. You can never be, in fact you should never be, a mother. Is that the advice I can give you? My God, it is the worst advice I ever thought I would have to give. I wish I would have never known about this, but your father is an honorable man, an ethical man, and I admire his courage. I will never forget his integrity, and believe me, it was the hardest thing he has ever done in his life.

I have loved you more than I ever loved anyone in my life. I got up and went to the cage with the canary.

Goodbye, Peter, I said. I hope you sing for Damien forever. I looked at Damien. I knew him so well. By his demeanor, I understood perfectly that our dream was over.

I left his apartment, and there were no tears. I felt an unbelievable hatred within. That hatred consumed me like a fire. I bit my teeth together until it hurt and went home by taxi.

The house was empty, my car gone. I was sure that my mother took it to prevent me from seeing Damien.

I selected two of the largest suitcases I could find. I took my passport, my birth certificate, my high school diploma, my driver's license, and my medical assistant's diploma. I chose the nicest clothes and the nicest shoes. Moving like a robot, I calmly singled out what I would pick to wear. Almost impassively I selected item by item. I took my brother's picture off the wall and packed it. It took no more than an hour before I was done. Then I wandered through the house and selected a picture of the whole family: grandma, grandpa, my sisters, Mom, and Dad. I took it out of the frame, folded it up, and stuck it in my purse.

I wrote on a large piece of paper, I am in Paris—will call, and I left the house.

When the taxi arrived, I asked the driver to wait a minute and ran back into the house to pick up my portable typewriter. I asked the driver to take me to the bank. I withdrew every penny I had and stuffed it all into my pocket.

We drove to the airport. I was lucky: the plane to Paris was due to leave in forty-five minutes. I boarded.

The view from a window in a plane flying from Nice to Paris is so spectacular, it is indescribable. I saw the fantastic coast of the Mediterranean, the blue water, the white rocky coast, the roads I had driven a thousand times, the tropical flowers, the thousand sailboats, and the yachts. I started to cry.

I will never love a man so long as I live, I said to myself. I don't need them, I despise them, and they make me nauseas. I detest them, and I hate them. I even despised the weakness of my mother. She did not fight for me. She knew exactly what Dad intended to do. She could have prevented it, but she did not. Nobody cared for me. They destroyed my life, and they would never see me again. Never. I was old enough, I spoke three languages, I had a fantastic education—I could do everything I wanted. I was not stupid, I was good looking, I was young, and my life was just beginning. I had a pen pal in America. Yes, this is where I would go. I would go to America. I would contact him, and he would help me.

I knew Paris very well—in fact, I knew Paris like the palm of my hand. I will go to Montmartre, I thought, and I will lose myself again in the steep and cobbled streets. I will go to the Basilica of Sacre Coeur, the fantastic white church that sits on the crest of the hill. I will ask God why he has punished me to this degree, when I have never done anything wrong. I will ask God at the Basilica. I will probably not get an answer, and so I will never go to church again.

I will go to the American Embassy first. I have a friend in America, ………my pen pal,

Michael, I thought….. my pen pal!

For years we wrote to each other, when I was a teenager. It started when I was sixteen. We all had pen pals at that time. Corresponding in a foreign language was the in thing to do. Our parents promoted it, and our schoolteachers told us that it was a splendid idea. It was so exciting to receive a letter from America. It lasted for almost three years. We exchanged pictures, and we called each other. When I met Damien and wrote that I was engaged, he stopped and never wrote to me again. But we were friends. He is my only friend right now in this world. I will call him.

Michael, I thought, Michael. He could be married by now. Almost two years had gone by, but I was confident, and I looked out of the plane's window into the blue sky with a million clouds flowing by. They looked so soft, so light, yet my heart was so heavy. There are other embassies, I thought, the Australian Embassy and the Canadian Embassy—the fastest way I will get out of this country the better. Dad will definitely fly to Paris with Mom to get me back. It will still be impossible to say NO, so I must disappear somewhere that he cannot find me.

I will rent a room where I belong: my favorite place, the Montmartre.

Play a waitress for a while or a bar hostess and wait for my visa.

When the plane landed, I called my sister from the airport. Angelique! she yelled, what are you doing in Paris? Listen to me—you never listen. You are driving the parents insane. What is wrong with you?

I will always be in contact with them, I said, very composed. Not a week will go by when I will not try to write, and I will call you frequently. My life in Nice is over. I will not return. Tell them I love them forever. Tell them I am grateful for the twentyone years they have cared for me. Tell them I need to find my own way.

Chapter Two

Paris,1963— Poverty And The Little Woman

I spent my first night in Paris in a tiny old hotel. It was very expensive. This shabby little place, I thought, it will kill me financially. I need to find a cheap room.

I got up early in the morning. Next door was a secondhand bookstore.

I purchased Bonjour Tristesse by Fancoise Sagan. I saw a second book, The Woman Destroyed by Simone de Beauvoir, and I bought that book as well. I loved these authors. They knew what it felt like for a woman to be trampled on and kicked into the ground. It would make me feel so much better to read these books. I wandered around and noticed a flea market, and I purchased a little portable radio. Amazingly, I could listen to BBC World.

There were many rooms advertised in Montmartre. Large pieces of paper were nailed to the doors of houses. Many of them must have been there for a while, because the rain had washed away the letters. I checked quite a few—at least five—but found to my horror that none of them offered any means to use a bathroom with a shower or a bathtub. The toilet had to be shared and was always on the same floor as a little sink. Every room had a small table, and on it stood a very large ceramic dish and a large ceramic milk can.

What is this for? I asked.

Well, of course to wash yourself, said the stunned landlady. And how do I get the water into this big milk can? I cannot fill it up in the sink in the toilet, it is way too large.

Oh, I will fill it up each day when you leave. I will clean the dish and give you a new towel. The water is warm, because it stands there all day, she said assuredly. What more do you need?

Thank you, I said and left.

It was late in the afternoon on my second day in Paris, and I started to get nervous. I bought a pack of cigarettes, a small bottle of gin, and several bottles of tonic water. I had never smoked, and I had never desired hard liquor, but I figured it would probably make me feel better. My shopping bags were heavy now with my books, my radio, and my drinks, and I knocked on one more door with a large sign in the window that said Room to Rent. A tiny little woman opened the door, and she smiled at me with this huge smile—not one tooth in her mouth. She was no taller than 4'2" and wore some old baggy pants with a large sweatshirt and no bra.

Come on in, my little darling, she said. Come on in. I have a wonderful, comfortable room for you. She pulled me by my skirt, grabbing it with her hand so I had to follow her as if I was a blind person and could not find my way alone. I figured she was seventy-five-years old, maybe older.

Sit down here, she said and gave me a little push. I almost fell onto the large sofa behind me.

Before she could go any further, I said quickly, I need a shower.

You need a shower every day? Yes, every day.

This is a strange habit. She chuckled. I have no shower, but you could use my basement where I do the laundry.

Show me, I said.

She got up and grabbed me by the skirt again. By now I wondered if she needed to hold on to something, and I let her drag me down the stairs into a very dark basement. Two large washbasins were there, obviously for laundry. The room had a cement floor, one tiny window where I could see the shoes of people walking on the street, a light bulb hanging from the ceiling, a large table, and an iron on an ironing board.

Take the hose, she said. You see?

She took a rubber hose and attached it to the faucet in the laundry basin, opened the water, and out came big stream of water. It ran onto the cement floor, right into a little hole in the corner.

She laughed loudly and kept on chuckling, and her mouth was wide open like a little hole in her face, but she looked friendly and I liked her.

How can I close the door and make sure nobody shows up when I take the hose? I asked her.

Nobody will show up. It's my laundry room. She smiled. Take the table and move it in front of the door if you are worried. She grabbed my skirt again.

Why don't you take my hand? I said and took her hand in mine.

Oh this is nice, very nice, she said, and she gripped my hand with an amazing strength. I realized that she needed me to walk, or to see—I wasn't sure. We marched up into her living room again.

The room to rent was very small, but it had a nice window. It had a bed that looked like a futon; an old tall, deep cupboard; a table; a chair; a lamp; a beer glass on the table; and an ashtray. A large blue ceramic dish and a ceramic milk can were on the floor. I'll take it, I said.

I want a month's rent now. She smiled. When she mentioned the money, I realized that it was very cheap and extremely affordable.

You must give me a receipt to show that I paid you the rent, I said.

You are a strange little girl—don't you trust me?

Oh I trust you, and I like you, and I like your hose very much. I laughed. But I need you to write me a receipt, and I need a key to the front door.

OK. She grinned, and I took her hand before she could grab me by the skirt again. We walked into her kitchen. She sat down at a table, and I noticed that other than a stove, a sink, and some cupboards, there was nothing in the kitchen. No refrigerator.

Where is your food? I asked.

In my cold storage room, she said proudly and took out a piece of paper and a pen.

And what is your name? Angelique.

With large letters, she wrote the date. It looked like I wrote when I was in grade four, but it was clear and without errors: Angelique has paid one month's rent, good until August 1963, and then the next rent is due. She signed it, and I gave her the money.

I will be back within an hour with all my things, I said. Merci, miracle, oh miracle."

I led her to her chair in the living room, and she clutched my hand.

A miracle? I asked.

I am sorry, she said. I am almost blind, and I have been trying to rent this room for a long time. God is good.

The key worked perfectly when I returned with my luggage. I inspected the room very carefully. I looked under the old carpet to see if there were cockroaches, and I looked under the bed to see if I could see any insects or spiders crawling around. I lifted the futon, but everything was clean and the linen even smelled good.

The windows had not been washed for years, but the drapes were clean. I had only eaten a sandwich at noon but was not hungry, and so I sat on the bed and felt dreadful. Really terrible.

My God is this primitive, I thought. It was old-fashioned and antiquated. I had to wash myself with a hose on a cement floor in the basement. How crude. The old hate flashed up again. I hate Damien, I thought. I hate men—oh what despicable bastards they are. I loved my father so, but his honor, his ethics, and his integrity… confound it, curse it. Ethics, ethics—this is what counted for my dad. Integrity was much more important than I was.

I opened up the gin bottle and took the beer glass, which stood on the night table. I filled it with half gin and half tonic. Then I opened the cigarettes and started to smoke. The cigarettes made me cough like hell. The drink tasted extremely strong but very good. The half-glass of gin and tonic had a devastating effect, probably because I had an empty stomach. When I got up from the futon, I almost fell onto the floor. I poured a second drink and smoked a second cigarette.

It's lousy to start anything, I thought. Just like making love. It takes some time to appreciate smoking and drinking, just like it takes a long time to understand lovemaking.

On my third day in Paris, I learned what a hangover was like. I was sick to my stomach, had an awful headache, and I was so hungry that I searched my purse to find something to eat. I had a small bag of peanuts from the plane—how wonderful they tasted!

My breakfast in the little café was the best breakfast I could remember. I felt alive again. An hour later, I had a job: a job as a hostess/waitress at a bar that opened up at 4 in the afternoon.

I would have to work from 4 to midnight. I liked the owner immediately, and I liked the atmosphere of that little place. I loved the cute uniform they provided: it fit me like a glove. They treated me like a member of their family.

I was so pleased when the owner said, You can eat as much as you want. You can choose your dinner from the menu, and you can eat in the staffroom. Typical generosity for an employer in France, always concerned about their employees. You can never drink liquor—water and juices are all you are allowed to have. You will have two fifteen-minute breaks, and you have an hour for dinner. You can start today.

The time I worked in this bar formed my mind and character. It indoctrinated me into the world of men. I met them sober, and I observed them drunk. I realized that they generally did not value women. They were interested in beauty and sex. All ages, professions, good looking or ugly, fat or slim, rich or poor, old or young, once they had consumed a certain amount of liquor, their real personalities came out. A stunning, good-looking man, educated and professional in his demeanor, could turn into a vicious animal with appalling vocabulary. They slapped my behind, they squeezed my breasts, they got up and tried to kiss me, they slipped their hands under my skirt and tried to feel me, and they tried to pull down my panties, but the owner of the bar came out flying like a rocket. He would use obscene language and get rid of them. I was never hurt, and the tips I received were very generous.

Every week I mailed a postcard, telling my parents how happy I was. I did not phone my sister anymore, because Mom picked up the phone twice and I could not stand hearing her cry.

Listen to me, Angelique, she cried. Listen—you never listen. Dad figured we could work things out with Damien.

But Damien was not interested, right?

There was silence. I said quickly, I love you, Mom, and hung up.

The lady at the American Embassy told me that I needed a sponsor and that I would receive my green card quickly if I could come up with a sponsor. I called Michael, my pen pal.

What are you doing in Paris? he asked immediately. I ran away from home.

What? Why?

I have bad genes, and Damien will not marry me.

What on earth does this mean, 'bad genes'? he asked, almost sarcastically.

I cannot bear children.

Have you had a fight with Damien? No.

Come on, Angelique, don't give me that bullshit.

It's true. Can you sponsor me? I need a sponsor to come to America.

You must be kidding. This means a financial obligation—are you crazy?

Michael, I pleaded, I will earn money, and I can speak three languages. Please—I will never be a burden. Please, for goodness sake, please help me.

I'm married and I have children, he said flatly. Sponsoring is out of the question. However, I will help you once you are in America.

You have children? My God, we only stopped writing to each other two years ago.

I had children then. His voice was cool and detached.

Are you still in sales? Do you still have the house, the car, and ….. I started to cry and sob, so I could not hear exactly what he said.

What did you say, Michael?

It doesn't matter what I have, what I do not have, or what I do. I will help you, I promise, once you are in America, but I will not sponsor you, OK?

OK, Michael, I said. Stay healthy. I hung up.

I went home, sat in my room, and sobbed. I got