London Broil (3 page)

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, he 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."

"And if the
soufflé flops?"

"I think it
already has," she replied. "I was expecting him here tonight and
he didn't show up."

"Oh. Well, I'm
sorry if he hurt you. Take care of yourself, Laura."

"I will, George.
And thank you." She quietly slipped out the swinging doors and
out to the street, nodding at Babur as she passed him in the
aisle.

4.
Dinner with a Wolf

The next Friday,
he was waiting for her outside Roxana as she approached the
entrance. Their eyes met.

"Laura... hello
again."

"James... it's
nice to see you."

"I wonder if
you'd like to come to dinner with me tonight. I know a French
place that you would enjoy."

"But I always go
to Roxana on Fridays. I don't want them to lose the business."

"You can go there
another night, and I will too. They'll be fine! Come on." And
casually taking her hand, he led her in the direction of the
tube. "It's just a couple of stops," he said. "Le Loup, have you
heard of it?"

The Wolf, she
thought. "It's an odd name for a restaurant."

He gave her a
crooked smile. "When you smell and taste their food, you'll eat
like a wolf. I'm ravenous, in fact. I took the liberty of making
a reservation, so we'll get a table quickly."

When they arrived
at Le Loup, the maître d' greeted James like an old friend, and
nodding his head respectfully at Laura, led them to a good table
in the front dining area. Red velvet banquettes lined the walls,
and couples sat side by side at most of the tables, each of
which had a small vase with fresh, peach-colored roses. Some
tables for larger parties were arranged in the center of the
room. Looking around, she saw a few younger, hip couples, but
most of the clientèle appeared to be silver-haired men with
younger, perfectly-groomed and bejeweled women. She felt
seriously underdressed in her flats, black rayon skirt and
shell-pink jewelneck sweater. At least she had worn her strand
of pearls.

Le Loup had a
traditional style of service, with phalanxes of busboys, waiters
and captains (almost all the servers were male). The sommelier
came forward saying, "Monsieur Whelan, a pleasure to see you
again. What may I bring you this evening?"

"Thank you
Philippe, we'll have a white. Laura prefers vegetable dishes."

"Ah, Mademoiselle
is a vegetarian? Then the m
â
che
salade, I think, followed by the cheese soufflé with champagne
sauce. And for you, the salade of haricots verts, and the sole,
perhaps? Asparagus with lemon butter as a side. I shall bring
you a
blanc de bourgogne
that will be very charming with this meal."

James threw a
questioning glance at Laura, who was following this conversation
avidly. She nodded, and as the dignified Philippe turned away, a
server set before them slices of bread with a tiny crock of
whipped butter and a plate of gougères, cheese puffs like the
ones George made, but without the coriander and with a sharper
tang of gruyère. As Laura took a bite of one and felt its salty,
crisp fullness dissolve in her mouth, she looked at James. He
was gazing at her, his brown-green eyes fixed on hers, a grin
tentatively forming on his lips. She felt a jet of pure joy
shoot through her body, a wave of keen sensation that was
completely new to her. She relished it for a few moments before
turning her attention to the less joyous fact that this was
obviously a very expensive restaurant.