London Broil Page 15

  The Sun story was illustrated with a photo of Jenna Hicks and a grim-looking James talking with police; Jenna’s white shirt was smudged with dirt and had clearly lost its top buttons; she was holding it closed with her left hand. The Mirror took a different approach; its headline read “Chivalry Not Dead: Dashing Editor Saves Damsel In Undress.” The story referred to James as a “bon vivant” and “boulevardier,” and the photographer had managed to snap a photograph of Jenna’s shirt gaping open to reveal a good deal of her generous cleavage. Most of the other papers had followed suit with similar photographs, even when the stories were relatively brief and businesslike. The Herald story was the most laconic and included only a photo of a policewoman pushing the suspect’s head down as he was transferred to the back of a police car. The byline was not Jenna’s.

  Laura found the number of the Herald online and called it, asking to speak to Jenna.

  “I’m sorry, she’s out of the office at the moment. May I take a message?” said the voice on the other end.

  “Yes, tell her it’s Laura Livingston. I saw the papers and I’m calling to make sure she’s okay.” She left her number and hung up. About twenty minutes later her phone rang.

  “Laura? It was kind of you to call. I’m taking a day off, but only because James insisted.”

  “I was worried about you. Were you hurt when that criminal knocked you down?”

  “As a matter of fact, I’m a stiff and sore all over, and I have a dreadful bruise on my tailbone. But you won’t tell anyone, Laura? Not even James? I spent years earning the respect of the men in that section, and I don’t want them thinking I can’t handle the job.”

  “Of course. You have my word. But what about the photos in the papers that show your torn shirt? Will this have a negative effect on your career?”

  “Let’s just say it’s going to be a while before they stop calling me ‘Ursula Undress, the latest Bond girl.’ They don’t dare say anything to James’ face, but they keep pretending to look in the car park for his Aston Martin and then braying like asses, as though they’ve done something funny.”

  “They’re envious, don’t you think?” Laura asked.

  “Yes, they’ve always been envious of James because women like him so much. I’m sure I’m not telling you anything you didn’t know,” Jenna replied. “But then again, he’s one of the few men I know who genuinely like women. Oh, he’s from a generation that can be a bit sexist. He calls a woman a lass, unless she’s old, in which case she’s a lady. And if he disapproves of what women wear, they’re tarts. But he never treated me differently from the others, never went easier on me or relegated me to fetching tea. This can be a very rough business…” Jenna paused, as if deciding what to say next. “But he’s a good man,” she finished.

  “Thank you for saying that, Jenna. I hope everything returns to normal soon. Can I bring you some groceries or something from the pharmacy?” But Jenna insisted that she was fine. It felt strange, seeing James through the eyes of another woman. She’d never heard him use the word ‘tart,’ but then, they hadn’t had many conversations on topics other than food and sex. Laura tended to dress conservatively, and she wondered if he would react negatively to provocative clothing. Perhaps his preferences had been shaped by Miss Sweeney’s sartorial habits.

  She returned to her flat Friday afternoon to find a small package addressed to her in James’ handwriting. Unwrapping the brown paper, and the white tissue within, she found a vintage orange embroidered bag with two black bakelite handles, a fringe along the bottom, and a snap closure. There was something inside. She opened the bag and drew out a package of very slender cigars enclosed in a small ziploc bag. They were less than five inches long and the label said “H. Uppman Demi Tasse.” There was also a slimline, highly polished brass zippo lighter and a tiny glass flask with a goldtone screwtop lid, filled with an amber liquid. She unscrewed the lid to smell it. Hennessy cognac. She felt tears overflowing her eyes and rubbed them away.

  A separate envelope in the mailbox had no postage; he must have dropped it off on his way to work. It contained one of James’ cards with an inked message in his neat hand: The pleasure of your company is requested at a fireside picnic, Saturday at 4:00. Cocktail attire.

  She skyped June, who was having lunch at her desk, to tell her about the car park episode and the gift.

  “Holy crap. That’s the coolest present I’ve ever heard of! I’m going to steal his idea and do something like that for Jillian.” Jillian was June’s latest girlfriend, though Laura didn’t know much about her yet. “Even better, he knows how to kick ass,” crowed June. She was a big fan of the martial arts and took classes in both Tae Kwon Do and kickboxing. “Kid, are you sure you can’t hang on to this guy?”

  25.

  Menu for a Fireside Picnic

  On Saturday morning, Laura was in a buoyant mood, having made one last visit to the Porteous collection to verify that the notation system in the two volumes of Pine’s Horace matched that in the missing pages. She decided that she needed something vintage to wear to the “fireside picnic,” something that would match the embroidered handbag from James. She already had a choker of orange vintage glass beads that matched the bag perfectly. Her guidebook said that Camden Stables Market had a number of vintage shops. In the very first one, she spotted a navy shirtwaist dress with a V-neck, not too low, a feminine gathered skirt, short sleeves, and buttons down the front. She wasn’t certain of the date or the fabric, but it draped well and was affordable.

  As she was taking it to the counter, the shop assistant said, “Are you interested in lingerie? We have some full slips that would work well under this frock.” She led Laura over to a rack full of lacy and frilly undergarments, many of which dated from the 1960s. Laura was no fan of lace, as it tended to be scratchy, but flipping through the rack, one item caught her attention. It was a full slip made of cream-colored nylon, and almost transparent, with only a modest band of lace edging around the bust and the hem. As soon as she tried it on with the dress, she knew it was perfect.

  Laura was squeamish about buying someone else’s shoes, and she knew the shoes in Primark and Topshop would be mostly heels too high for her to manage, so she went to the Capezio store and found a pair of navy dancing shoes that had a vintage look, with a T-strap and two-inch heels. They were expensive; between this and her splurge buying the volume of Juvenal from J. Roworth, she would have to forego several of her dinners out. By this time she felt exhausted and hungry, having lost her way more than once while navigating the unfamiliar shopping districts. Rather than try to find a tea shop, she went straight back to her flat with her treasures. She had a small box of juicy glacéed apricots that she’d been keeping as a treat for herself; she could bring these to James as a gift.

  Later, as she dressed and did her hair, she felt a familiar excitement, but it was bittersweet. Her stay here would end in only two weeks. How dull her life would be without James! Pushing this thought from her mind, she fastened her cream-colored bra, another of her favorite front-closure styles. It was a demibra with low cut cups and underwires, though not a push-up. She hoped it would give her enough lift to fill out the dress. And instead of wearing her panties, she put them in her tote bag along with her overnight things. Her khaki trench coat completed the look. Rain was not expected, but she slipped an umbrella into her tote anyway, just in case. In London, as in Pennsylvania, one never knew.

  After James buzzed her in, she took off her trench coat and draped it over her arm so he would see the vintage handbag set off against her navy dress. As before, he was standing at the door to greet her, wearing a dark suit, with a white shirt and a wine-colored, satiny tie. He kissed her at the door and took her coat and gift, saying “You look very fetching, Miss Livingston.” He put out a finger to touch her orange choker. “Did you like what I sent you?”

  “Oh yes. I bought this whole outfit just to go with it, except the beads. I already had those,” she replied.

  “Did y
ou try one of the Uppmanns?” She nodded as he put his arms around her. “What did it taste like?”

  “It smelled a bit like cedar, and tasted like toasted nuts. And with the cognac, it was heavenly. The smoke had a creamy quality to it. “

  “Like a creamy dairy product?” he asked, smiling. As she bent to remove her shoes, he said, “No, you can leave those on for now. This way,” and putting on a pair of dark Raybans in an aviator style, he guided her over to the fireplace, his hand in the small of her back. It was a sunny day and bright light was streaming through the three skylights and the windows, but not bright enough to require shades. “What are those for?” she asked.

  He grinned and said, “My picnic fantasy. Tonight you’re going to indulge me by disrobing in front of the fire. Would you like a kir royale?” He pointed to an ice bucket with a waiting bottle of Champagne, a Moët, but she couldn’t see which kind. Before the fireplace, which had a low gas flame, he had spread several layers of blankets, studded with cushions from the sofa and a few bed pillows, and beneath these was the large persian rug. Nestled on the blankets was an old fashioned wicker picnic basket. He popped the cork on the cold Champagne, poured a drop or two from a bottle of crème de cassis into each of two flutes, and then gently tilted the Champagne into the flutes, handing her one. She set her tote and handbag on the blankets, and walked over to his wall of pictures, beneath the three large windows.

  There was a baby picture of his twin girls, a closeup of their grave, chubby faces looking wonderingly into the camera. And a candid picture of himself and Sita in evening dress. Sita was facing the camera as a bearded, thirtyish James looked adoringly at her, his face in three quarter view. Gods, he was ravishing at that age, she thought. Most of the other pictures on the wall were either abstract paintings or arty photographs. Her favorite was the centerpiece, a large photograph. On first inspection it looked like a desert landscape with shifting sand dunes against a brilliant blue background, but gradually the viewer realized that it was the body of a reclining golden woman, viewed from behind, and larger than life size. It was in no way prurient, but instead had a classical purity.

  “I bought that when I got my first job as a reporter. It was more than I could afford and it took me a year to pay it off. I’ve never regretted it,” he said. They stepped over to the nest of blankets and she sat down, keeping her feet off the blanket.

  “Give me your foot,” said James, setting down his Champagne flute on a tray and sinking to his knees. She extended her right foot and he grasped it by the heel, slowly releasing the tiny tongue from the buckle of the T-strap, then easing it from her foot and setting it aside. His hands were massaging her foot, his fingertips trailing up the sole. His shirt was an expensive one, with cufflinks in a rectangular shape, set with a stone like smoky quartz. He still had his shades on, so she couldn’t see his eyes. He reminded her of one of the President’s bodyguards at some swank diplomatic soirée. From the stereo she could hear the sultry sounds of Illinois Jacquet playing “Harlem Nocturne.” Very sexy, agent Whelan, she thought. But I’ll get those glasses off you sooner or later. And the rest of your clothes.

  Pausing to refill her champagne flute and then reaching for the other foot, he surprised her by saying, “You have beautiful legs.” Nobody had ever complimented her on her legs except one crusty old professor in college, when she’d gone to his office hours in a form-fitting knee-length skirt with heels. Since then, she’d usually worn sensible shoes, which had the positive effect of avoiding ugly corns and hammertoes, but did nothing for her legs. Now James was running both hands further and further up the sides of her calves. He drew closer to her, facing her and stretching out his legs in the opposite direction. He continued the motion, sliding his hands back and forth, higher and higher, under her slip and up her skirt. She sipped her Champagne calmly, leaning back on one arm and waiting for him to discover that she was panty-less. When his fingertips reached her bare hips, she thought she could see his eyes widen through the Raybans. “Are you wearing a thong?” he whispered.

  She shook her head. “Not my style. The first thing you always do is tell me to take my knickers off, so I thought they were superfluous.”

  He laughed and slid his hands back down and out from under her skirt. “How many buttons on that frock?” he said, gesturing at the buttons that ran down the front of her shirtwaist dress. She counted them. “Six.”

  “Good. I have six things to eat here. Every time you try one, you’ll have to pop one of your buttons.”

  “But you’ll keep your clothes on?”

  “Yes.” Opening the picnic basket, he laid out some Greek-style mezze: fat grapeleaves stuffed with rice; small spinach pies in phyllo dough; pitted, dark brown Kalamata olives; cubes of marinated, herb-laden feta cheese; and creamy hummus studded with pine nuts and glistening with a grassy-scented olive oil. Last of all, he unveiled and held out to her a basket of what were clearly home-baked pita breads. In fact, they were still slightly warm.

  “One button,” he said, and she put her glass down on the tray. He handed her a slender white bread plate and a napkin. She reached up and opened one button, then watched as James rudely loaded his own plate with every variety of the mezze and refilled his glass, not bothering to replenish the crème de cassis. “Wouldn’t you like something to eat with your bread?” he asked in a sly tone. He was enjoying this immensely, she realized. Doubtless he would have enjoyed staging their picnic somewhere on the grass of Hampstead Heath or one of London’s other parks, and perhaps one could even find a private spot there, but she couldn’t imagine herself stripping down —or enjoying the other pleasures that would come with this meal— in a public park. She opened two more buttons. “I’ll have the hummus and the feta, please. Could you put some of each on my plate?” And as he did, she slipped the straps of her bra down off each shoulder, pulled her arms through, and then drew the entire bra off through her right sleeve.

  “How did you do that?” he asked, sounding genuinely perplexed. She only smiled and started to eat. “The bread is good, James. Did you make these?” He nodded. “I knew you had baking skills.” Each pita, stippled with browned spots, had started its life as a puffed balloon in the oven and then collapsed, leaving a space for savory fillings. “Every time I make pitas, they fail to rise.”

  “That I can scarcely believe,” he said playfully. “But tell me, how do you handle the dough?”

  “I follow Molly Katzen’s advice. She says there’s a point during the kneading at which you have to be very strict with dough.”

  “Oh no. A gentle hand is always best. And take your knickers off first. That should produce the desired effect.” He leaned over and held a grape leaf to her lips. “Could I tempt you with a bite of this?”

  “I feel like Eve in the garden, except I’m shedding clothes instead of putting them on,” she said, taking a bite of the briny, tangy leaf filled with succulent rice grains. “They sewed themselves aprons of fig leaves. I wonder what pickled fig leaves would taste like?”

  “I never liked that story,” he said. “Eating from the tree of knowledge ought to be a good thing.”

  “But I liked it, because sharing food was a metaphor for sex,” she replied, as he fed her an olive, and then another. She caught his hand in hers and licked the oil from his fingers, then grasped his tie and pulled him toward her for a kiss. There was something sexy about a man’s necktie, especially a fine silk one, and especially on James. He broke away from her mouth and began to kiss her ear, whispering, “I believe that’s two more buttons you owe me. And as for the last one, the sooner you taste my pie, the sooner I’ll be able to sample yours.”

  “By all means,” she said, picking up a flaky, buttery square of phyllo stuffed with spinach and feta. She ate it slowly and with appreciation. Producing really flaky phyllo was another one of her problem areas, perhaps because she wasn’t generous enough with the butter. Then she stood up and as he watched, unbuttoned the rest of her dress and laid it asid
e on the ottoman, standing over him in her see-through slip, with the fire behind her.

  He took off his sunglasses and his eyes traveled up her body. She watched, feeling her blood heat, as his gaze lingered on certain parts of her. “I wish we could freeze the moment in time and stay like this forever,” he said. He rose, and taking her hands in his, drew her to him. “What would you like?”

  “I’d like you to take off every stitch of clothing, slowly, while I watch and sip my Champagne. And then I want you to touch me like you did the first time we made love, and then I want you to fuck me silly.”

  “Right then. You can keep this on if you like.”

  “No, I want to feel your skin on mine.”

  26.

  Laura’s Guilty Pleasure

  Afterward, she lay on the plush blankets, looking up at the skylights. He’d been as good as his word, stripping off his tie and laying it like a trophy over her breasts while he removed the rest of his clothes. He had given her what he called “a good seeing to” that left her throbbing and breathless, and then drawn her legs up against his chest so that her feet stuck out past each of his shoulders. She would be sore the next day. Now James rose and picked up their clothes to put them on hangers. He came back downstairs in the dark silk boxer shorts and white tank-top style undershirt that he’d worn beneath his suit. “Would you like another cocktail? What do you normally drink?”

  “In the Fall I like Manhattans. I don’t suppose you have bourbon on hand.”

  “No, but I can make them with Irish whiskey.” He pulled out some Jameson’s 1780 from a kitchen cupboard and started to mix the drinks. “I have real Italian marasca cherries. You’ll love these.”