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  Was James equally concerned about his body as it aged? He must be in his early or mid fifties, though his hair was still mostly black. Sighing, she finished styling her hair and put on some extra makeup—a bit of eyeliner and mascara, then her red lipstick. Then she gathered together a few items for the next day: a change of underwear, another tee, a toothbrush. The rest of what she needed was already in her large handbag with the expensive can of macadamia nuts that she was bringing James as a gift. She got to the tube station before the rain began in earnest, hoping that the worst of it would be finished by the time she emerged. It was. She found James’ building with surprisingly little trouble, and pressed the button next to his name.

  “That you?” he said. “Come on up. It’s the top floor, on the left as you get off the elevator.” And he buzzed her in. When she arrived, he was standing at the door smiling, in belted jeans, a short-sleeved cotton shirt in a green plaid, and bare feet. They exchanged a small kiss of greeting and he ushered her inside. By the door there was a rubber tray containing a couple of pairs of shoes, so she slipped hers off, mindful of the rain and dirt clinging to them, as James took her jacket and the can of nuts she rather hesitantly handed over.

  “I love these,” he said, immediately peeling off the plastic cover and popping the lid of the can. “But first things first. What can I get you to drink? A cocktail? Or some prosecco? I was just about to open a bottle.”

  “A glass of prosecco would be perfect,” she said, feeling a definite need for a drink. He looked so different out of his usual suit and tie. In a good way, but this was his territory. She felt almost like an intruder.

  “Have a look around while I get the drinks. Not a great deal to see, I’m afraid.”

  His flat was a loft with honey-colored wood floors. One large, high ceilinged room contained the kitchen, a dining table with six chairs (now laid with places for two), and a living area that consisted of some sofas and chairs defined by a huge Persian rug, a fireplace and a large screen television. Overhead was a mezzanine, accessible by stairs, that extended out about a third of the way across the loft; she assumed this was the sleeping area. Set into the ceiling was a row of skylights, now dim and gray with the rain, and across the exterior wall, level with the mezzanine, were three large windows. Below the windows was a large expanse of wall covered with framed paintings and photographs. The space under the mezzanine was lined with bookshelves and a stereo system. It was a perfect bachelor’s flat.

  “Where do you go to smoke a cigar?” she asked. She couldn’t smell a hint of smoke in the flat.

  “The roof. Technically it belongs to the bloke who owns the penthouse, but he’s a mate of mine. There’s quite a nice garden up there. It’s a shame about the rain.”

  She made a beeline for the bookshelves. “Do you mind if I look at your books? I study private libraries, and I always say you can tell a lot from seeing a person’s books. In fact, it’s such an intimate thing that sometimes when people come over, I pull certain books off the shelves.” Glancing at the spines, she saw Darwin’s Voyage of the Beagle and a set of Patrick O’Brian’s naval adventures of the Napoleonic era. O’Brian was Jane Austen for men, and his stories had Austen’s wit and gentle satire of human foibles. There was a small collection of poetry: Shakespeare (a Riverside edition of the complete works, plus separate versions of Antony and Cleopatra, Macbeth, and Richard III), Yeats (both poetry and drama), and Seamus Heaney. Impressed, she saw that he owned several works by James Joyce. And what appeared to be every book written by the iconoclastic, caustic and hilarious Christopher Hitchens.

  James walked over carrying two flutes of prosecco and handed one to her. They touched their glasses together and drank. She suddenly realized that she felt much more comfortable now that they each had a glass of wine in hand. “Why are you afraid to let people see your books?” he said. And then laughingly, “What are you reading? The Story of O? Delta of Venus? Dare I ask?”

  “I’ve read those and didn’t find them very exciting, as a matter of fact. But yes, I have some erotica that I wouldn’t put out on the living room shelves. Robert Mapplethorpe, erotic art in Pompeii, that sort of thing. I suppose it depends on who’s coming over. Nobody I know would raise an eyebrow at Delta of Venus. Now owning all of the late, great Christopher Hitchens’ books—that would suggest to most people that you’re an atheist.”

  “Indeed I am. I suppose a declaration like that is better received here than in the States. One gathers that admitting to being an atheist in the US is like admitting to being a pedophile. But I enjoy his political essays most.”

  “Mmm. I love his literary criticism and his wit. He said the four most overrated things in life are Champagne, lobster, anal sex, and picnics. I agree, except for the Champagne. It may be overpriced, but it is not overrated.”

  “Now, I would have said that I agree except for the picnics. I fancy an occasional déjeuner sur l’herbe.”

  She smiled, thinking of Manet’s painting by that name, which depicted a completely nude woman lunching outdoors with two fully dressed men. “Is that so? If I were a painter, I’d reverse Manet’s arrangement and show two women friends having a chat while a gorgeous man lounged nearby in the altogether.”

  “I suppose that lets me out of being the artist’s model,” he said, draining the rest of his glass.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “I think you’re gorgeous, but I’ll have to see all of you before I can decide for certain.”

  “That’s on the menu,” he replied, crossing back to the kitchen to retrieve the bottle of prosecco. This was the first time she’d had a chance to see his rear end, since he usually wore a suit. She approved. It was understated, but with a distinct muscular rounding that filled out the seat of his jeans. She made a mental note to try to see what he looked like in his trousers, next time they went out for dinner.

  11.

  Music for Miss Behave

  Sipping her wine, she moved on to the shelves of music. He had a sizable collection of CD’s (alphabetized), and on a large lower shelf, some vinyl; the stereo included a turntable that looked new. The bulk of the CD’s were classic blues and jazz with an emphasis on the blues: Robert Lockwood Jr. and Bessie Smith, but also Duane Allman and Robert Cray. He appeared to be an Eric Clapton completist; she noticed Cream and Derek and the Dominoes. Then a section of Irish music, but the only group she recognized was the Chieftains. The jazz was an eclectic collection, with a healthy selection of greats like John Coltrane and Charlie Parker. He returned with the bottle and refilled her glass.

  “I was just about to put something on when you arrived. What’s your pleasure?”

  She caught his eye for a couple of extra seconds and smiled before replying, “I like jazz and blues, but in the opposite proportion to your tastes— more jazz, less blues. My favorites are standards, and West Coast jazz. And I love Coltrane, but only the early stuff. His later oeuvre is completely over my head.”

  “You and just about everyone else,” he said. “Right then. I have Miles Davis and Dave Brubeck. How about a classic— Time Out?”

  “A great album,” she said as he opened the CD case. “Dave Brubeck has this gift for melody, but also a really staccato approach to the piano. Pair that with Paul Desmond’s saxophone— it’s breathy, sinuous, gentle. They have such perfect chemistry. But I love to listen to Desmond without Brubeck. A guilty pleasure. Instead of moderation and balance, it’s a sensuous indulgence.”

  “His music turns you on?”

  “Oh yes. It’s an old joke, but they really should have called it the sexophone. At least when he plays it. And with Stan Getz, I get the same feeling, though to a lesser degree.”

  “I’m jealous. Perhaps I ought to sign up for lessons.”

  “I have a feeling you don’t need lessons, James.”

  Chuckling, he led her back toward the kitchen. “I need to keep working on our meal. Why don’t you sample my starters?” The kitchen was open and had a small countertop facin
g out with a couple of barstools. He’d set out a dish of the macadamia nuts, some olives, and a plate of bruschetta. Half of the rounded little toasts had tomato and basil dressed with a touch of garlicky balsamic, and the other half had a smear of basil pesto with melted cheese on top.

  “Is this asiago? It’s heavenly,” she said. He nodded and then said, “Talking with you, Laura… well, you’re different from the other women I’ve dated since my divorce.”

  “Because of the sexual banter? Or because I know what an album is?” she asked.

  “Both, I suppose. I dated a couple of lasses who barely knew what a CD is, let alone an album. I miss the art that came with vinyl records.”

  He had to have been dating some very young women. She stifled the comment before it rose to her lips. “Yes; the Beatles were just breaking up around the time I became aware of their music, but I remember poring over my brother’s copy of Sergeant Pepper. I was completely fascinated by all the detail in it.”

  He munched on a slice of bruschetta thoughtfully. “I still have a few Beatles discs that I bought when they first came out.”

  Laura slid off the barstool, holding her flute of prosecco, and stepped around the counter into the kitchen, which was fitted out with high-end appliances: a Wolf range and a Sub-Zero refrigerator. Both were in stainless steel, and there was a stainless double sink. Except for his salad preparations, the granite countertops were clean; James had been clearing up as he went along. One of the signs of a good cook. She stood to one side and slightly behind him, watching him slice cucumbers into paper-thin rounds. Glancing down at his jeans-clad backside, she couldn’t help reaching out to sink her left hand into one of his pockets. Then she leaned in close to him, and ran the hand around to his belly, skimming the top of his belt buckle, while she pressed her face against his back and inhaled his scent.

  “Miss Livingston, I think they gave you the wrong name,” he said. “They should have called you Miss Behave. I’m using a very sharp knife at the moment. If I cut myself, I’ll ruin the salad. And even worse, I won’t be able to use my hands the way I plan to, later this evening. Now out of my kitchen with you.” She released him and walked back around to the bar.

  “Sorry. I just wanted to see what kind of equipment you had.” When he quirked an eyebrow at that, she laughed ruefully, saying “Believe it or not, that was unintentional.” She felt a familiar burn rise in her cheeks.

  He was preparing a green salad with some baby romaine, a few yellow-green leaves of frisée, and arugula. She could smell its pungent, almost skunky aroma, along with something rich and cheesy emanating from the oven. To the greens he added the cucumbers and tiny, grapelike tomatoes. He had a saucepan of boiling water on the range, and into this he cracked four small, light brown eggs with speckled shells.

  “Are those quails’ eggs?” she asked. “I’ve only had them once, at a restaurant. They were in a salad, but I think they were hard boiled, not poached.” She watched as he expertly scooped each egg out of the water, let it drain for a moment and set it gently atop the salad. Although the whites were cooked, the yolks were still runny. Then he shook a small jar of dressing to emulsify it, and poured the contents over the salad. Finally, he removed from the oven a bubbling casserole with browned cheese on top, and from a separate compartment, a dish of tiny, marble-sized brussels sprouts.

  He handed her a chilled bottle, a waiter’s corkscrew and two white wine glasses. “Open this, would you? I thought it would pair well with my attempt at vegetarian lasagna.” She looked at the label: a 2009 Jermann Pinot Grigio from Friuli-Venezia Giulia. She brought the items to the table, applied the corkscrew, levering out the cork with a practiced hand until it released with a slight pop, and poured two glasses. They sat down, he at the end of the table and she to his right. James’ dishes were a pristine white china, set off by green woven placemats. A couple of bread plates held heavy candles of an emerald color, which he now lit.

  “We ought to eat the salad first, while the eggs are still warm,” he said, as they tasted the wine. The yolks in the eggs combined with the mildly acidic dressing to make a luscious coating for the greens, and there were thin, crunchy breadsticks with sesame seeds to complement the salad. “The richness of the eggs is great with this wine,” she said. “It’s citrusy, but there’s also something full in there, like ripe peaches.”

  “Yes, I thought it would be just astringent enough to cut through all the cheese in this dish. Balance, as you say. It will be ready to slice now.” And he served her a generous square of the lasagna, which had alternating layers of noodles, a sharp tangy cheese sauce, fresh white ricotta, and greens. Taking a bite, she said, “This is incredible! You’ve got rapini in there. It’s beautiful and still bright green. How did you manage to keep the color and not overcook it?”

  “I blanched it for just an instant in salty boiling water, and then plunged it in an ice bath,” he said, looking pleased. “The lasagna didn’t need to cook very long— only just enough to heat all the way through. Then I ran it under the broiler, to toast the cheese on top.”

  “And the brussels sprouts don’t taste bitter.” The flavor was buttery and mildly cabbage-like, and they had little spots of brown where he had sautéed them over high heat.

  “Yes, the tiny ones are the best.”

  “Well, I hate to admit it, but you’re at least as good a cook as I am. Possibly better. But you’re at an advantage. You have very good equipment.”

  **

  For dessert, which he disconcertingly called “pudding,” James brought out a small plate on which were arranged French-style macaron cookies, with pistachio filling sandwiched between two chewy chocolate layers, and a few candied orange slices dipped in dark chocolate. He handed her a snifter of Hennessy XO. She cradled it in her hand, warming the amber liquid and feeling honored; this was an expensive treat.

  “I was going to try my hand at a flourless chocolate torte, but I ran out of time. And I’m no good at pastry.”

  “I’m surprised. You seem so organized and meticulous. Look at this place. It’s spotless.” By necessity, bakers had to measure everything carefully and work methodically without straying from the recipe, whereas cooking was a more intuitive matter.

  He shrugged and said, “I have a cleaning lady. It doesn’t always look this good.” She would be willing to bet his cleaning lady didn’t alphabetize the CD’s, or leave a rubber tray for shoes by the door, but she let it pass. Predictably, he had cleared the table, stacked the dishes in the sink, and put away the leftovers before serving the dessert.

  There was a pause; the dinner was over, and now it was time for the sex. Suddenly she felt awkward and hesitant in spite of her desire for him. “Let’s sit over there,” he said, and taking her hand, he led her toward an unusually wide, winged armchair with an ottoman and side table. He set down his snifter on the table and went to the stereo while she perched on the ottoman, still holding her Cognac. In a moment, the deep, mellow voice of Johnny Hartman filled the room, soon followed by Coltrane’s saxophone.

  They say that falling in love is wonderful

  It’s wonderful, so they say.

  He sat down in the armchair and shifted the ottoman closer, so that she was seated between his legs, facing away from him. He began to caress her back and shoulders, gently trailing his fingers up and down at first, and then touching her more firmly, so that she could feel the heat in his hands. “How long has it been, Laura? Since you slept with someone?”

  “I’m not sure. Over a year, I think.”

  “That long.” She couldn’t see his expression, but his voice sounded thoughtful.

  “I’ve come to the age where men don’t look at me as much.”

  “Not true. In Roxana, men looked at you. I looked at you, but you always had your nose in a book. Do you remember when we smoked the cigar, in the park? There was a regular parade of blokes staring at your tits, and you didn’t notice.”

  “And were any of these blokes people I’d wa
nt to sleep with?” As he continued to massage her back, she felt her body relaxing and a growing warmth in her lower belly.

  “Not if I had anything to say about it. I don’t like the idea of your walking about at night, when you aren’t aware of what’s going on around you. You’re not, are you?”

  “Not often. As a child, my mother thought I was autistic. She had me tested because I spent so much time staring off into space, and never made friends with anyone. I wasn’t shy, I just didn’t see the need. If someone wanted to be friends with me, though, I liked it well enough.”

  “And what did the tests say?” He took the empty glass from her hand and set it on the table. She put both hands on her knees, and as he continued to rub her back, his fingers began to skim the sides of her breasts.

  “That I was an extreme introvert. My father ridiculed the whole thing because he had a brother who was exactly like me. Never married. Not interested in kids. And quite happy to be just as he was.”

  “So you don’t have children?”

  “Oh no. I like fat little babies just before they learn how to walk and talk. At their age it’s all about the world of the senses. And of course, everything goes into the mouth.”

  “A bit like you.”

  “Very funny. And after that stage, I don’t want anything to do with children until they reach the age of reason.”