London Broil (10 page)

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
go
û
t
. 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."

"Mmm. I want a
picture of the divine Ellen. She sounds magically delicious."

**

On Monday
morning, Laura was sitting in the Porteous library puzzling over
the Latin marginalia in an old edition of the Venerable Bede,
when she heard the front door bell ring. After a moment,
Charlotte's voice could be heard in conversation with one or two
male voices. She caught the words "Mr. Porteous," and
"indisposed." Getting up, she stepped softly to the doorway and
stuck her head out. Charlotte's back was to her, and she was
facing two men in suits. The one speaking was relatively young,
and large-boned, with reddish blond hair and glasses. His
expression was grimly determined.