Eighty Days Blue (9 page)

I was in a daze by the time that Tabitha returned from instructing the group and began to untie me. The rope brushed against my skin with a soft swish as she loosened the knots. It felt almost as good coming off as it did going on. Freed from the restraints, I stretched out my arms and wiggled my fingers, bringing the blood flow back.

I stared at my forearms, noticing the pattern that the rope had left on my skin, slightly sunken hatched markings, white in response to the pressure of the tie, where the circulation had been cut off, and red around the edges. It was an oddly domestic print, reminiscent of a traditional tablecloth in an Italian restaurant.

Cherry promised me that the marks would be gone in a few hours, which was fortunate as I had another rehearsal that evening. We parted with a promise to get in touch soon and arrange further exploration of the New York fetish scene.

I played well that day, pleased that I had made some new friends.

The marks on my arms vanished so quickly that I wished for their return, some kind of reminder of my pleasant afternoon, but instead I was left with nothing but the memory of the experience to mull over. I had been clothed throughout the tying, a workshop requirement, to ensure that the trainee riggers were not so distracted by naked bodies that they couldn't concentrate on the lesson. Next time, I thought, I'd like to try it naked, so that I could feel the rope all over and not just on my arms.

‘Good work tonight,' Simón called out, as I packed the
Bailly
away in its case. He was stuck in conversation with Alex, the trombone player.

We'd been back to the Italian coffee shop a second time and were beginning to fall into an easy sort of friendship. Knowing him better had improved my playing. I began to follow movements so subtle that I doubted he was even aware he was making them, interpreting the music exactly as he did, and I basked in the warmth of his praise as he told me that I was continuing to grow.

‘See you Thursday,' I replied on my way out.

I didn't feel completely easy about the situation. The time to drop Dominik's name casually into conversation so that Simón would know that I wasn't entirely available had been and gone. He hadn't made any kind of move on me, but I couldn't shake the guilty feeling that I was leading him on.

Too late for that now, as I had just rung the bell at his apartment in a sought-after block on the Upper West Side, a stone's throw from the Lincoln Center, and was standing on his doorstep holding a steaming pumpkin pie. Marija had baked it for me, despite my protestations, as soon as she found out that I had a ‘date' with the conductor.

Simón opened the door and relieved me of the pie. He was wearing a gold waistcoat tonight, with matching gold cufflinks and his pointed snakeskin ankle boots, reminiscent of a gangster from a 1930s film. Fitting, I thought, as he sometimes wielded his baton like a machine gun. I kicked myself for not dressing up more. I'd fretted over what to wear and opted for casual, dressing down in soft black leggings, a long J. Crew cardigan and a pair of low-heeled sandals, so that he wouldn't think it was a date. I slipped
into
the bathroom at the first opportunity to add a pair of pearl earrings and matching necklace, which I'd stowed in my handbag in case the evening turned out to be more formal than I expected.

The other guests were a motley bunch, as most of America was at home with their own families, so Simón had assembled all those he knew who didn't have anywhere else to go: Al, an architect on secondment from a firm in the Middle East, working on a luxurious new hotel complex on Madison Avenue; Steve, a performance poet visiting from England who had performed just before us at the Union Square concert; Alice and Diane, a couple who ran an art and performance space in Nolita; and Susan, a sharp-eyed woman with a ready laugh who Simón sat me next to over dinner. She was an agent, I discovered, who had a range of solo musicians on her books.

Simón spent most of the night chatting to Steve, the poet, leaving me free to make small talk with Susan.

She slipped her card into my hand at the end of the night. ‘Keep in touch,' she said. ‘Simón speaks very highly of you, and he has excellent taste.'

I was the last to leave. Simón walked me to the door, maintaining a friendly but professional distance between us.

‘Thank you again for the invitation,' I said politely.

‘You're very welcome,' he replied, inclining his head in a low bow. ‘I'm glad you had a chance to talk to Susan.'

His eyes were sharp, unblinking.

‘She seems very nice.'

‘She is. She's also very good.'

I returned home to find Baldo and Marija awake and sprawled out over one another on the couch in the living
room
. They were entirely happy to celebrate a Thanks-giving for two.

‘Sooooo,' said Marija, ‘tell us everything.'

‘Your pie went down well.'

‘I hope it wasn't the only thing that went down well,' she sniggered.

‘It's not like that with him. We work together.'

‘Yeah, right. Famous last words.'

I glared at her as I pushed the door open to my bedroom.

She was probably right, though, I thought, sighing as I sank into bed.

My corset lay forsaken, hanging limp over my wardrobe rail, its silver catches gleaming in the glare from my bedside light like a row of tiny moons.

4

Bourbon Street

Dominik took it as an omen when a review of a book of essays he had contributed to appeared in an issue of
Book Forum
magazine alongside an ad for a dozen or so major fellowships at the New York Public Library being offered for research purposes to scholars or writers, endowed by a family trust he had not previously come across. He appeared to tick all the criteria listed on the application form he found online as far as past publications and academic credentials were concerned.

He'd been considering a particular book idea for some time now, before he'd been distracted by the arrival of Summer in his life, which would have involved substantial research at the London or British Library. The thought immediately occurred to him that an office of his own in the New York Public Library would be a perfect place to have, and a perfect excuse to spend nine months in Manhattan closer to Summer. The lecturing obligations that came with the fellowship were both minimal and manageable, and the stipend generous. Not that the money was any sort of consideration for him, even knowing New York rental costs.

He applied and was shortlisted by return of post.

The interviews would take place the week before Christmas.

Everything was falling into place.

Summer had informed him about a recent one-night stand she'd had back in New York. He hadn't been jealous. More so reading between the lines of her amused confession focusing on the guy's furniture and apartment colour scheme and how she had giggled when she had revealed that the place had not a single book to be seen. It had obviously not been anything serious, just an itch scratched. He couldn't expect her to remain an unsullied nun in a place like the Big Apple. In fact, he was grateful that she felt secure enough to keep him in the loop about her minor sexual adventures.

She had also informed him that she was planning to attend a rope-bondage class the following week and sounded rather excited by the prospect. He was looking forward to her account of the event and encouraged her involvement.

At the same time, Dominik knew he could not afford to have her loose in America too long.

They had renewed their bond, but it was still tenuous and subject to the whims of distance and coincidence. Dominik wanted to see her again, spend time with her. He was aware she felt the same way and that the relatively innocent one-nighter with a stranger whose name she could apparently no longer even recall was just displacement, a stop gap until they could be together again. All part of the give and take that would be necessary if they were to make their own relationship work.

He rang her and, for once, managed to get through without tediously having to leave a messages or arrange a particular time down the line for an actual conversation to take place.

‘It's me.'

‘Hello, you.' He could hear the genuine pleasure in her voice. ‘I had a feeling you were about to call.'

‘Really?'

‘Yes. I felt it in my bones.'

‘Only in your bones?'

‘Maybe somewhere else too,' she added flirtatiously.

‘Listen, I've arranged to come to New York in three weeks.'

‘That's wonderful.'

‘To hold conversations with an institution there about the possibility of taking up a fellowship in New York, which means I could move to the city for a whole nine months. What do you think?'

There was a moment's hesitation, as she no doubt realised this could possibly prove a major step forward in their adventure.

‘Hmm . . . it sounds great.'

‘I'll tell you more when I'm there, but it could be exciting.'

‘Yes.' He could feel Summer drawing back into a shell at the other end of the line.

Dominik had been about to suggest that if the gig came off, they could actually find a place to live together while he was in town working and researching his future book, but he held back on hearing the hesitation in her voice. Yes, it would be a big step. For both of them. An experiment. For which neither of them might yet be ready.

‘And . . .'

‘And?'

‘Just an idea. There's no reason for me to rush back to London following the interviews. I would have no more
lectures
until well into the new year. I could stay over and we could go somewhere in America for the holiday period. You always mention how much you enjoy travel and there are so many places in the States you've always wanted to try out, no?'

‘We have a Christmas Eve concert pencilled in,' Summer said.

‘That's fine,' Dominik said. ‘We could fly out the following day. Maybe somewhere warmer?'

She failed to respond as he had anticipated. ‘Orchestras always get lumbered with crap concerts around the festive season,' she added. ‘I hate that repertoire, the second-rate music the public somehow expects. To cap it all, it'll be with a guest conductor who's being flown in all the way from Vienna. Strauss waltzes, pomp and circumstance and all that. Simón is glad he doesn't have to be involved.'

‘Who's Simón?' Dominik asked.

‘Our conductor. Our permanent one.'

‘Oh. I didn't realise he was now with the Symphonia. I read an article about him. From South America, no?'

‘Yes. He's doing a great job. Lives the music so intensely.'

‘Like you?'

‘I guess so. Probably why I like working with him.'

‘Good.'

There was a pause on the line. Dominik could feel Summer's impatience building. She hated lengthy telephone conversations.

‘So how long have you got free after Christmas Eve?' he asked.

He could hear her moving across the narrow bedroom to consult her desk diary.

‘Next set of rehearsals don't begin until 4 January,' she replied.

‘Perfect,' Dominik said. ‘Keep those days free.'

He heard her sigh.

‘I'll make the arrangements,' he indicated, knowing the way she liked him to be firm. He had to be his old self again, and he had every intention of being so.

They'd spent three whole days in his hotel room in New York, interrupted by a couple of four-hour final orchestra rehearsals prior to the Christmas concert that would close their season. Summer had half feared that, just like at the London Proms, the musicians might be asked to wear funny festive hats, don Santa beards or other humiliating extras to commemorate the occasion, but management here seemed less bothered and the only suggestion pinned to the noteboard was for a possible sprig of holly on lapels or dress straps, and even then it was not compulsory. It was bad enough that the concert's musical line-up was essentially muzak, pap for mostly suburban concertgoers who only came out when the bright lights of winter shone, no one really serious. Commuters from Long Island and New Jersey to the big city for a pleasing night out after their frantic shopping at Macy's or FAO Schwarz.

Their lovemaking took place below framed prints of a younger Ingrid Bergman and Marlene Dietrich, which hung on the wall above the bed. Dominik had not managed at short notice to secure a deluxe room with a king-size bed and the double bed in the room was a touch narrow, so they had to sleep spooned together; certainly not designed for anyone overweight, Summer reckoned.

She could have invited him to stay at hers, even though
she
had even less space, but the thought made her nervous, as if the intimacy it might involve was greater than fucking for hours on end until they felt raw.

She floated through the rehearsals, her mind a total blank, indifferent to the music and playing by rote, eager to get the chore done and return to the comforting warmth of Dominik's bed.

The room was on a different floor of the hotel in Washington Square from the last time he had been in town, but the room's configuration was the same. The pink room, as she remembered it, even if it was more a light shade of purple when the blinds were not drawn, she noticed now. Strange how memory could imperceptibly shift at random through the spectrum of the rainbow and a curious filter of emotions. The room had become a now familiar, gentle cocoon in which she willingly surrendered to Dominik's arms and soothing words.

His body was a map she had journeyed through before, with parts unexplored and heartbeats in exquisite disarray. Her senses were alert to the sound of his breath across her skin, the touch of his fingers. It seemed to her – a strident thought that raced through her brain more often than not when they were fucking – that there might actually be two separate Summers involved in this game. The one she knew, who wondered why all this wasn't enough, why she harboured this compulsion, this need for more while yet another alter-ego, devilish and provocative, treacherously whispered in her ear that surely there was more to life than this.