The Gigolo

Posing of such magnitude took a great deal of effort.  Paul made it look easy, unstudied even.    The arm draped across the back of the chair; legs crossed at the knee; languid hand, palm down.  But the strain showed  in the eyes. It was a mistake to close his eyes whilst his head tilted to face the sun.  There was puffy discolouration, visible at that angle, beneath both eyes.  I’d never seen him take alcohol, just a  short cup of coffee.  Left undisturbed he might maintain that disengaged attitude for an hour.  But  that was the game.  Disengaged but admired; the  essence of detachment that drove women mad to possess him, if only for an hour

I might say the Rolex Oyster was fake.  But I don’t think it was.  Worn like a trophy; a plainsman’s scalp hung from a Sioux Indian’s belt.  The long-bodied jacket was a study in faded elegance.  My Jock prejudice saw only subterfuge, hiding a post lockdown, blowsy arse; a rear gone soft on winter fare….  Sitting in Mediterranean sunshine, at table outside The Nautique, gave me that whimsical, philosophical bent.  A passion shared with most of the  clientele. Very French; brutally honest; deliciously nasty…