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  “I raised my daughters, after their mother died. They’re lovely, but sometimes I think they still haven’t reached the age of reason. They always brought home these dodgy characters with the trousers hanging off their arses. I think Claire’s finally found a decent lad, but Chanda’s still messing about with a parcel of ugly pimples whose only interest is in rogering her.”

  “Whereas you, upstanding citizen that you are, would never dream of rogering anyone.”

  “You have a point there. But I can claim to be upstanding.”

  12. Déjeuner sur l’Herbe

  He turned her around and pulled her onto his lap so that she straddled him; her skirt rode up around her thighs. The chair was so wide that she had plenty of room, and she wiggled her bottom slightly as she settled onto his lap, the crotch of her panties in direct contact with the fabric of his jeans. He made a groaning noise and then took her by the hips under her skirt, adjusting her position. Now her breasts were almost level with his mouth. He slid his hands up her teeshirt. “Take this off,” he said. She did, and he draped it carefully over the side of the chair.

  “I’ve been waiting for this moment ever since we met in Roxana. Since before we met, as a matter of fact. I’ve not seen one of these before,” he said, touching the clasp at the front of her bra. “How does it work?”

  “Slide your finger under it, and pull toward you,” she replied. First he eased down the bra straps from each of her shoulders, and then gently worked his index finger under the clasp. It sprang open, freeing her breasts. She pulled her arms out of the straps and he placed the bra on the chair next to her shirt before turning back to grasp her torso with both hands, and rub his face from side to side over her chest, breathing in deeply. She could feel a slight stubble rasping over her sensitive skin, and his hot breath sent little shivers of delight down her spine.

  “Is my beard too rough? I should have shaved again before you arrived, but I was preoccupied with the dinner,” he said. “I like it,” she replied, running her fingers through his hair.

  “Your nipples hardened the minute I touched them.” He began to kiss her right breast, opening his mouth wide to pull in her nipple and caress it with his warm tongue. She let out a little whimper and he smiled up at her before covering the right breast with his palm and moving his mouth to the other.

  “Kiss my mouth like that,” she said, squirming on his lap and feeling darts of pleasure from the movement.

  “Not just yet.” After a few more minutes, her whimpers were turning to moans, and she was starting to push herself against him harder than before. He took her by the waist and helped her off the chair.

  “What about protection?” she said. “I’ve brought some condoms in my handbag.”

  “We can use a condom if you like, but we don’t need it for birth control. I had a vasectomy before I married Magda. One of the things we always fought about,” he said. “She was interested in trying for a baby. Wanted me to get it reversed.”

  “I didn’t know such a thing was possible,” she replied, as he unbuttoned her skirt and pulled the zipper down, sliding it over her hips. She stepped out of it and laid it on the chair. She’d need to wear it again tomorrow. Now she was naked except for her panties and jewelry, and he was still fully clothed, though she’d managed to open a few buttons of his shirt while they were in the armchair. He had a light scattering of hair on his chest, not as black as she expected given the dark hair on his head.

  “Up the stairs with you,” he said. “I’d carry you up,” he added dryly, “but it might unduly tax the strength of a man my age.” The unaccustomed pose in which she’d been sitting, along with the substantial amount of alcohol in her bloodstream, caused her to walk a bit unsteadily. As she climbed the stairs, he followed her closely with both his hands on her behind, and her overnight bag on his arm. In the center of the mezzanine sat a large bed with a duvet, already turned down, and a nightstand to either side. On the right she saw a dressing area with a closet, a bench, a mirror and what looked like the door to the bathroom.

  As he set her bag down by the bed, she embraced him, trying to pull his shirt from his jeans. He caught her arms and shook his head. “No. Take your knickers off.” So he really was excited by déjeuner sur l’herbe, she thought, not displeased by the idea.

  She removed her panties and tucked them into her bag, then stood facing him expectantly, hands loosely at her sides. He ran his eyes over her body, slowly, and then drew her toward him and kissed her deeply, cupping her bottom in his hands and drawing her lower belly up and against his erection. This time he didn’t resist as she pulled his shirt out and opened the last buttons, running her hands up his stomach to his chest, and pressing her bare breasts against him. At last, she thought, skin touching skin. He nibbled her neck as she inhaled through her nose, with her face pressed to his chest.

  “You smell like leaves,” she said. “In the Fall, the maple leaves come off the trees and they have a spicy scent. That’s what you remind me of.”

  “What, not an artichoke? And not even something edible; I’m surprised at you. But you smell delicous. You don’t wear perfume, do you? Is it your soap?”

  “Probably. Perfume interferes with food and drink, but I love my buttermilk soap. That’s what you smell,” she said, pulling at his belt buckle.

  “That and your skin. You smell sweet, and you taste even better. Lie down on the bed.” She sat on the firm mattress, then lay back on the pillows propped against the headboard, watching him quickly shed his belt and jeans. Uncharacteristically, he left them on the floor. He removed his navy blue boxer briefs and climbed onto the bed beside her, very aroused. “Primo equipment,” she commented appreciatively. “You can pose for me any time.”

  He knelt beside her. “Glad you like it. Now open your legs and close your eyes.”

  She felt his hands passing over her lower belly, then up and down her thighs. A finger, or perhaps a thumb, slipped inside her and back out, rubbing the moisture over the sensitive folds of her crotch. “You’re so wet,” he said, repeating the motion. “Lift your knees.” Each pass of his hand wrung another little moan from her. Now he slid two long fingers into her and then slowly rotated his wrist. Laura felt as though the thinking part of her brain had ceased to work, and only her sensory nerves were functioning. She couldn’t even form a sentence, but she did raise her head and open her eyes to see him kneeling over her.

  “No peeking.” He waited until she shut her eyes again. “Laura, do you ever touch yourself?” She nodded, speechless, as the delicious tension continued to build up inside her. “Show me what you do.” She reached down and then he imitated the motion. “Like this? Across your wee nubbin?” He continued caressing her, his fingers still inside her, and rotated his wrist again, more quickly this time. She moaned, and felt a series of tremors break over her pelvis in a rhythmic progression, as her muscles clamped down involuntarily on his fingers. In another moment he had drawn them out and she felt his weight settle on top of her as he entered her.

  “Christ Jesus,” he said. She was wild now to feel him slam against her and bucked up to meet him, but he grabbed both her arms in his and pinioned them as he rested his full weight on her.

  “Not yet, you’ll make me shoot off. Hold still.” Then bracing himself on his forearms, he moved very slowly, changing the angle of his pelvis slightly from one thrust to the next. As he moved, she began to feel as though a waterfall of pleasure was pouring over her body, and she thought of a time long ago at the beach, when she had walked too far into the swell and been caught in a massive wave that tumbled her headlong, far beyond her power to resist.

  “God, Laura. Now, now,” he gasped and she began to move with him as he pushed into her harder, and still harder. She felt the semen pulse through the underside of his penis as he ejaculated, and finally their movements began to slow. They were both breathing heavily, and she felt raw, yet satisfied. He pulled away from her and fell to one side, throwing one arm possessively over
her waist.

  Neither of them had anything more to say until an hour or two later, when she rose to use the toilet. The rain had gone and moonlight was streaming in through the skylights, casting a silvery glow over the mezzanine. She got back in the bed and saw that he was awake, and looking at her.

  “Fuck me again, James.”

  “You’ve a wee dirty mouth for a librarian,” he said.

  “Didn’t you know? Librarians hate censorship.”

  **

  When she awoke the next morning, he was already downstairs. She took the opportunity to slide over to his side of the bed and inspect the small stack of books beside his alarm clock. French Provincial Cooking by Elizabeth David, the Julia Child of Britain, and a well-thumbed paperback copy of Brillat-Savarin’s gastronomic classic La physiologie du goût. As she’d suspected last night from looking over his bookshelves, he possessed intellect and taste to match his looks. She showered in the small but luxurious bathroom. The shower stall had large tiles of contrasting light and dark brown stone, and the floor and vanity top looked like dark green granite. There was no hair dryer. She walked downstairs in her clean panties to retrieve the rest of her clothes.

  James was moving about in the kitchen, and when he saw her, he came over to kiss her. “A good tumble suits you.” She had examined herself in the mirror this morning, and seen that her face was glowing, and her lips were plump and puffy from kissing his stubbly face, but her eyes were rather red.

  “Thanks. I enjoyed it very much, but today I’m slightly hung over and, to tell the truth, a bit sore,” she said, pulling on her fresh tee and buttoning her skirt.

  “Come over to the kitchen, then. I can help with the hangover, at least.” He set before her a large glass of water, and another glass of doctored tomato juice that tasted of tabasco. “Drink all of this. Tea’s coming soon. What shall I give you to eat? I have some scones with currants. Or eggs and tomatoes?”

  “Just toast with jam is fine if you have it.” She drank her water and juice, and after a few minutes began to feel revived.

  “What happened to the virtue of moderation?” he asked, looking maddeningly smug. “I seem to recall that you asked for seconds last night.”

  “Mmm. I got carried away, and now” —she shifted uncomfortably on the barstool— “I’m paying the inevitable price.” She decided to turn the tables on him. “For an atheist, you sure did a lot of praying.”

  “Did I? I suppose you can take the lad out of the church, but…”

  “I counted two Christs, one God and even a Mother Mary. I was waiting for Peter, Paul and the heavenly choir to join in.”

  “No need for that. You were already singing quite loudly enough.” He poured her a cup of sparkling, astringent tea that smelled slightly floral, and cut satisfyingly through the sweetness of the apricot jam on her toast. She sipped it and sighed happily, feeling fully human again.

  “That big chair of yours,” she began. “Yes?” he replied, grinning and draining his teacup with relish. He had split and toasted a scone and was loading it with lemon curd.

  “Did you buy it with that particular use in mind?”

  “That may have occurred to me,” he said, “but there was also the fact that it’s the only size chair that can comfortably accommodate me boss’s fat arse when he comes over for dinner.”

  “You cook for your boss? What do you make him?”

  “Oh, beefsteaks and chops, jacket potatoes, that sort of thing. I know exactly how he likes his beef cooked,” he boasted. “That and a good bottle of claret will always buy me a favor.”

  “James!” She was laughing, and shaking her head incredulously. “You’re practically a food whore!” He looked taken aback, and she went on, “Is that how you got the assignment to do the restaurant review for Casa Córdoba?”

  “You read that, did you? No, our restaurant critic is a mate of mine. Nolly’s a rather big chap, and sometimes his reflux or his gout get the better of him. He asked me to fill in after his doctor forbade him red meat and red wine for the next three months. I’m always quite keen to help. As an editor I don’t get to write much anymore.” He frowned.

  “Well, in that case, I’m glad you had the chance,” she said as he moved around to her side of the bar, clamping a hand on each of her shoulders. He fixed a glaring eye on her. “Food whore?”

  “It’s okay. I love you anyway,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone. His expression changed and she thought, Shit. Why did I blurt that out? To move past the moment she added lightly, “I’m jealous to think of your formidable talents wasted on people who can’t appreciate them. I hope you’ll save your best efforts for me.”

  He put his arms around her and kissed the top of her head. “You can be certain of that.” After a moment he let go. Feeling slightly panicked, she bent to retrieve her handbag and jacket, and put a hand up to feel her hair. It was almost dry now. “I should be going.”

  “So soon? Usually I go for a run, but I thought we’d take a walk and then you could sit and read the papers with me.”

  “I have a lot of work to do. This was lovely, James. Thank you.” She felt a need to be alone, and to think about all that had happened. He opened a drawer and pulled out one of his engraved cards and a pen. “Take this. It has my email and my numbers. Call me if you get lost… or if you need anything. And I’ll see you next Friday?”

  “Okay.” She gave him a business card from her handbag, writing her London numbers on the back. “Here’s mine. Until then.” She kissed him gently, stopped by the rubber tray for her shoes, and closed the door behind her. Walking back toward the tube, she wondered what had possessed her to say she loved him. She hadn’t meant to say it so soon, and perhaps not ever, given the practical difficulties of maintaining a relationship once her time in London was over. Yet it was true. It didn’t even feel like an emotion. More like a state of being, as though if she stopped loving James, she wouldn’t be Laura any longer, but someone else entirely.

  13.

  Doubt is Not a Pleasant Condition

  “You got it bad, kid, and that ain’t good,” said June that afternoon, when she heard Laura describe her feelings, and the way she had unintentionally let slip the L-word.

  “What did he look like when you said it?”

  “Surprised. His eyes got wider and his mouth kind of dropped open. I looked away then because I was trying to think of something else to say— anything else! And by the time I looked back, he had recovered and acted like nothing had happened. Then I got out of there right away. I didn’t want him thinking I was getting all clingy.”

  “He could hardly think that, since you only see each other once a week, and you don’t even talk on the phone.”

  “I like waiting to see him. If I had him every day it would be too overpowering, like a daily dose of double dark chocolate gelato.” She ignored June’s scowl at the mention of the non-vegan frozen dessert. “I know I’m headed for a major letdown, but I feel so happy right now that I don’t have any room in me to worry about it.”

  “The sex must have been incredible,” June said grudgingly. She always maintained that only women really understood how to pleasure other women.

  “It was.”

  “Better than with Clayton?”

  “No comparison.” Clayton was the economics professor with whom Laura had lived for three years after moving into his ramshackle old Victorian house. She’d had a strong physical attraction to Clayton, who possessed a slim runner’s body and a neat, dark beard to match his full head of brown, wavy hair. Laura had been reasonably satisfied with their sex life, which was more vigorous than pleasurable, but she hadn’t had much to compare it to. His domestic habits were a constant source of frustration, not to mention his love of fad diets (he was especially vulnerable to ascetic quackeries involving exotic juice fasts, and tended to become petulant if Laura didn’t join in). She was no fanatic about housekeeping, yet living with him was a struggle. He allowed dishes to stack up in the sink and
on the countertops for weeks at a time, and acted as though he didn’t understand what the vacuum was for, even though he owned three large dogs who shed copious amounts of hair. When she complained, he said that the mess didn’t bother him. He was unmoved by what she considered a slam-dunk argument, that as an economist, etymologically speaking, he ought to be interested in good household management. For the sake of staying in a “normal relationship,” she persevered for three years, feeling overwhelmed by the mess and smothered by his daily proximity, but when she finally moved out, she missed the dogs more than Clayton. What a blessed relief it had been to inhabit her own space again.

  While she was pondering Clayton and his filthy kitchen, Juniper was pouring herself some cereal, this time a bowl of Quisp, which she was forced to purchase online because of its scarcity. She was a cereal freak who delighted in Cocoa Puffs, Froot Loops, Apple Jacks and other highly processed fare that Laura hadn’t eaten since childhood, and found revolting. June’s only regret in becoming a vegan had been giving up Lucky Charms, which used gelatin as an ingredient in its tiny marshmallow bits. She still pined for it, and had a lavishly framed vintage Lucky Charms carton, with its leprechaun mascot, hanging above the desk in her faculty office.

  As June consumed her Quisp, Laura told her about the strange note from old Mr. Porteous and the letter he had asked her to post.

  “Sounds like elder abuse to me,” June said darkly. “They’re probably keeping him a prisoner. Either that or he’s lost his marbles and having paranoid fantasies. That sometimes happens, you know.”

  “But if he’s bedridden and they won’t let him send mail, how did he get stamps? The letter already had postage on it. And if he’s being held captive,”— she almost laughed at the melodramatic sound of this—“why didn’t he tell me so in his note?”

  “Are you going back?” June asked.

  “Yes, tomorrow. I still have more to do there. Maybe I’ll see Hamish and ask him about it, or the divine Ellen.”