London Broil Read online

  The bustle of moving had attracted the attention of Babur, who arrived with an unhappy look on his face. “I’m sorry about the trouble, Babur,” she said, adding firmly, “we’re going to finish the meal together.” And to him she said, “Did you already order your food?”

  “Yes, beef qorma and sesame naan.”

  “All right. Babur, would you please bring me some sabzi?” As the server left, she returned her attention to her new dinner partner, and thought, I can’t believe he is sitting with me. How strange, and how delicious.

  “American, are you?” he said. “Why do you come here so often, and what shall I call you?”

  He was surprisingly direct for an Englishman, almost rude, she thought, but answered calmly, “My name is Laura, and I come here because I like the food. I’ve been eating here every Friday.”

  “Yes, I know,” he replied. “You usually come alone. That lanky bloke with the glasses, is he your boyfriend?”

  She paused, and then said smiling, “I don’t see that it’s any business of yours, but no, he is not my boyfriend.”

  “Live around here, I suppose?”

  Instead of answering the question, she said, “May I ask your name, and why you come here so often?” With so many different women, it was on the tip of her tongue to add, but she didn’t.

  He put out his hand and said, “James Whelan. I work near here. At the London Herald.” Grasping his hand, she gave it a firm squeeze and a shake, trying to ignore how warm it felt. So he was a journalist after all. That made sense; probably some of the people he brought here were those he worked with. The red-haired woman in the pantsuit, definitely, and the man. But she was not so certain about the others.

  “A journalist. That explains why you ask a lot of direct questions,” she said. “I can’t make anything of your accent. Are you a London native?” She finished her glass of wine and he quickly poured her some of the GSM.

  “Oh no, Ireland, though I don’t have much Irish left in my speech. Belfast. I’ve not lived there for many years.” He frowned slightly as he said this, causing two little lines to deepen between his brows. She wondered whether he’d been affected by the Troubles. If he was in his fifties, he would have been a young man during some of the worst days in the seventies. It might be a sensitive subject.

  Babur arrived with their food, deposited it, and left, still radiating disapproval. Whelan looked after him, grinning, and then turned to her.

  “I believe our mutual friend Babur is concerned for your virtue.”

  “He needn’t be,” she replied lightly, sounding more confident than she felt, and trying to hold his gaze. She realized that his eyes were hazel, mostly brown but with a slight tint of green.

  “I’m wounded,” he responded in the same tone, adding, “Am I as unattractive as all that? I must be getting old.” Rascal, she thought. You know very well how good looking you are.

  “No, it’s just that… you seem to be well supplied with female friends already. Adding another one could dangerously tax the strength of a man your age.”

  He chuckled and raised his glass. “I see. You’re really twisting the knife now.”

  “Well, then, let’s say instead that when I’m sleeping with a man, I like to have his full attention.”

  “You’ve certainly got mine now,” he said, sitting up straighter and then leaning toward her with an exaggerated leer.

  She felt her cheeks burning. How could I have said something so crude? she thought, and then: my face must be bright red.

  After a few moments, he slowly said, “Did you know that when you blush, the color travels all the way down your neck?” His gaze slid down to her chest and back up to her face. She was wearing a silky brown top with a deep V-neck, and a simple strand of faceted, colorless crystal beads. It was true; once she had looked in the mirror after a particularly trying faculty meeting, only to see that there were blotches of pink on her neck and chest. Now she only shook her head, speechless.

  “Have some water,” he said then.

  She took a drink of the water, then set it down. “Sorry. I’m not used to flirtatious conversations with men. I spend most of my time with books, but I can see I’ve been missing out on a great deal.”

  “What do you do?” he asked.

  “I teach English at a university in Pennsylvania.”

  “Pennsylvania? I’ve been to Philadelphia, once. And New York City, of course.” As they ate, they talked about travel and Americans visiting Britain, and the British and Irish visiting America, and his acquaintances at the New York Times and the Daily News, and she felt the flames on her face and chest begin to recede. He asked about the reason for her visit.

  “I’m here on a research leave. I study the libraries of British writers. Right now, I’m trying to gather information on eighteenth-century authors.”

  “Ah, that explains it. I thought you looked a bit like a librarian. A couple of times, you wore a white blouse with a cardigan. Put me in mind of the librarian in my grammar school.”

  So he had noticed her. She set this aside to ponder later, and replied coolly, “Yes, I brought only my dowdiest clothing on this trip. Dressing like a librarian tends to prevent unwanted advances from strange men. Usually, that is.”

  He smiled. “Ah, but your strategy is all wrong,” he said, and leaned forward conspiratorially. “A naughty librarian is like catmint for men in London.”

  She laughed at the absurdity of the exchange, but also with the pleasure of it. Here she was, conducting a flirtation with a virtual stranger. This had to be very tame stuff by some people’s standards, but to her it was exciting. He was exciting, she corrected herself. She couldn’t imagine having this conversation with any other man she knew.

  “And the librarian in your grammar school. Was she naughty?”

  “Very.”

  Eventually Babur brought two checks, without asking whether they wanted dessert. “If you live near here, may I walk you to your flat?” he said casually as they dealt with the payment (she leaving an extra large tip for Babur).

  “I’d like that,” she said, thinking about the wine she had consumed. It was late, and she would be glad to have the company on the walk home. On the other hand, she thought, I have few inhibitions left. What if he asks to come in?

  As they left, he smoothly placed his hand at the small of her back, as though to guide her toward the door. On the street, he took her hand and tucked it under his arm, and they set off in the direction of her flat.

  “My wicked, wicked ways are not as degenerate as you think,” he said. “One of the lasses you saw me with is my daughter Claire,” —here he seemed to be trying to recall whom he might have brought to the restaurant— “one works under me in the crime section of the Herald, and one is my ex-wife. She’s now a DCS with the Metropolitan Police.”

  She nodded, but said nothing as she absorbed this information. His daughter was perhaps the dark-haired young woman who held her wine glass by the bowl. The blonde with the chignon was certainly his ex-wife. What favor could he have been asking tonight? There had been scandals recently involving unsavory ties between journalists and the police in Britain. And his ex-wife was a DCS— what rank in the police was that?

  They talked a bit about Claire, who was twenty, an aspiring journalist and one of a pair of twin girls. He seemed proud of her, though unsure whether he wanted her to take up crime reporting. “It can be dangerous,” he said. “And journalists are less than popular here. In the States, you have a much higher opinion of them than we do.” She silently agreed. In America, people still thought of Woodward and Bernstein, or Erin Brockovitch, when journalists were mentioned. But in Britain, one thought of phone hacking and poor dead Diana.

  They reached her door and paused, facing each other. She looked up at him, noting the fine, pelt-like texture of his dark hair, and feeling tempted to touch it. It was very short on the sides, and fuller at the top. He combed it straight back, but the breeze had ruffled it; in front a few stran
ds had come loose and flopped down over his forehead. His lips were not full, but shapely, and during the dinner she had noticed that his teeth were good. Innocent of American-style orthodontia, but pleasing enough. He was looking down at her with a slight smile.

  “Laura.”

  Slowly he bent down and kissed her gently on the cheek. He paused, and then moved his mouth to hers. They kissed tentatively, only their lips touching. The kiss ended and she put both hands on his chest, an intimate touch, yet one that kept him at a distance. She could feel his heartbeat.

  “Good night, James,” she said, and walked up the steps and through the door.

  3.

  Aristotle and Artichokes

  Laura closed the door of her flat behind her and leaned against it, dropping her bag on the floor. She took a few deep breaths and put a hand to her chest as though to calm her own pounding heartbeat. It was fortunate that she had come inside when she did, because she wanted very much to sleep with James, and the fact was that she barely knew him. Walking home with him had not felt like walking home with a stranger. But he is a stranger to you, she told herself. Remember that. One with quite a few entanglements. At least he wasn’t married, or so it seemed. Her gaze had lingered on his hands during the meal; they were largish and masculine, but with a certain sensitivity about them. His fingers were long, and ringless, as far as she could recall. She wondered where he was now and whether he might still be standing outside, perhaps smoking a cigarette. Her flat did not face the street, so she couldn’t look out the window to see.

  She needed time to consider, and right now her head was too full of him, and of the wine, to do so properly. She went about her preparations for bed, methodically brushing her teeth, removing the small amount of makeup she had worn that evening, and changing into her favorite stretchy pajamas.

  Laura had acted on impulse a couple of times before when it came to men, and both times she regretted it. It was not that she felt ashamed for wanting sex, though she was aware that a double standard still existed and that others, including the men themselves, might judge her. No, the problem had been that the men were wrong for her as partners, even if the sex was pleasurable enough. There had been Jon, the Chaucer specialist she met at the MLA one year. Afterward, she realized that he must be quite practiced at seduction.

  A short but muscular man with a thatch of wavy blond hair, he was not particularly handsome but had a certain self-confidence that made him attractive. They met in a Brazilian bar full of inebriated college professors drinking caipirinhas, and he spent time drawing her out about her research. The caipirinhas were so delicious that she found it easy to overindulge, and a couple of drinks later, he asked whether she had brought any offprints of her articles. She was too naïve and drunk to recognize this as an obvious ploy to accompany her back to her hotel room. Once there, the inevitable happened, and though she had to admit it was exciting, sexually speaking, he was not someone she would have wanted to spend more time with, or even sleep with again. When she saw him at conferences now, it was as though nothing had happened between them, and she preferred it that way. Then there was Eric, an attorney she met at a benefit dinner. He was a tall, darkly handsome type who wore expensive suits and fine shirts with cufflinks, all of which turned her on. She slept with him twice before she discovered that although unmarried, he was in a relationship. And even if that had not been the case, Eric was a mistake because he was physically incompatible with her. It had something to do with the way he carried himself, the way he touched her, his speech, his scent.

  Climbing into bed, she thought of James’s dark hazel eyes with their crows’ feet, his black hair, his slightly crooked nose, his voice. All of her senses responded to him. He was like a particularly well-seasoned dish that is brought to the table sizzling. Crispy artichokes alla giudia, she thought as she dropped off to sleep. Hot from the fryer, and with a spritz of lemon.

  **

  “Let me get this straight. This man you just met— he’s like an artichoke?” Her friend June’s face on the Skype connection crinkled up in laughter. June was short for Juniper, which Laura thought was a wonderful name, but she could never convince June to use it. They had met when they first came to the university as pre-tenure professors, and had remained close friends ever since. June was a classicist who studied gender and sexuality, and she was a lesbian, a tiny fireball with platinum blonde hair in a pixie cut and (in spite of the light color of her hair) a slightly Goth sense of style left over from her previous raven-haired, spiky Lisbeth Salander look. Because they were so close, and because Laura had never married, many of their colleagues assumed they were lovers. They even took vacations together sometimes, but June had said to her very early on in the friendship, “Kid, I love ya, but you’re not my type. Your tits aren’t big enough, for starters.” (This was accompanied by a curious, high-pitched cackle that was pure June.)

  “Well, I can’t help it if I thought of artichokes as I was falling asleep. And that’s what he reminded me of. Sizzling hot, a bit prickly. Savory, salty. Unpretentious. And come to think of it,” she said, laughing now, “I think he has a spot on top of his head where they cut his hair too short, and it sticks up in a very artichoke-like way.”

  “I know, everything is like food to you. He’s dishy, as the English say. So what are you waiting for? You haven’t slept with anyone in ages. You must be jumping out of your skin. Google him, and if he checks out as who he says he is, then go for it. An editor at a major newspaper ought to be safe enough.”

  “Yes, but I’ll only be here for a few months, and it looks like he already has girlfriends. Several. And an ex-wife who goes out to dinner with him.”

  “Yeah? Tell me about her.” Laura described the blonde with the chignon and June said, “Yep, that sounds like my dish. Maybe I can come out there and charm her out of her skirt while you distract Mr. Artichoke.”

  “I wonder what Aristotle would say about all this.” Laura’s father, a philosopher, had introduced her to Aristotle, and she liked to consult Aristotle’s Nichomachean Ethics when she was at a loss how to proceed. But this was also her way of needling June, who abhorred Aristotle because of his less than enlightened views on women.

  “He’d want to know whether this is eros or philia,” snapped June. A person could desire someone without necessarily feeling goodwill or even meeting the object of desire, and that was eros. But if one felt goodwill, that was philia, the other kind of love that people felt for friends and family.

  “Can’t you have both together?” she asked.

  “I think so, but you really shouldn’t put any faith in Aristotle. The man didn’t even know the clitoris existed.”

  “Well, I have a pretty good idea that James knows. That could explain why he has so many women hanging around him. And it sounds as though he got his education very young.” She related the conversation about the naughty librarian, causing June to sputter with laughter.

  “OK, you’ve said he isn’t married, and it’s all too obvious that you need to get laid, fast, so I think you’d better go for it. When will you see him again?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll go to Roxana’s as usual and see if he’s there, I guess.”

  “Don’t forget to google him.”

  But the next Friday, he did not appear. She had her usual dinner and even ordered dessert and coffee, in order to give him extra time, but there was no sign of him. How painful, she said to herself. It was a mistake to have allowed herself to become so preoccupied with thoughts of him. She remembered the powerful effect of eros as the Greeks described it. It was like a sickness that came without warning, and once it had you in its grip, it could be very destructive. The worst part was that people could do nothing to prevent the onset of eros. It was like catching the flu; once you had it, you were forced to ride it out. But it was temporary. She would recover quickly.

  Babur stopped at her table as she paid the check and said that George wanted to talk to her. When she stepped into the kitchen, h
e was putting some cheese puffs into the oven; the smell was even better than when they came to the table still warm.

  “Laura! I want to talk to you about James Whelan. It isn’t my business, I know, but we all like you, and I just have to say,” (here he picked up a rather wicked-looking knife and began chopping scallions with astonishing speed), “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “George, you’re very good to me. I appreciate your concern, but can you tell me why I would be hurt by knowing James?”

  “He’s not interested in marriage. His first wife died when his daughters were about ten years old, and then he married a woman on the police force. They were always fighting. He’s been eating at Roxana for years, and I remember that we had to ask them to leave a couple of times. Finally they got divorced, and ever since then he’s had a nonstop procession of women coming through here.”

  George looked up from his knife work and his face wore such a look of concern that she wondered for a moment whether he had feelings for her himself, until she remembered that he had a shapely, attractive little wife and several children at home. She had seen them a couple of times, stopping by the restaurant to say hello to their father.

  “I see. When was his divorce?”

  “About three years ago. He is a decent man, but he isn’t right for a good girl like you.”

  Ah. So George thought she was a librarian too, a dowdy and virginal one.

  “George, I’m sorry to say that I may disappoint you. I’m not interested in marriage either, and… well, the only way I can explain it is that when you’re making a soufflé, and you already have the egg whites beaten, you can’t stop at that point. You just have to go ahead and hope for the best.”

  “So… it’s too late. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Well, we haven’t slept together,” she said, wondering why she was favoring George with a confidence like this. “But I have to admit I’m smitten.”