London Broil (6 page)

"Perhaps," he
said, "but aren't there limits on knowledge? Can you truly know
everything about the foods you eat... or the people you sleep
with?" His tone was serious.

"Point taken,"
she replied uncomfortably, wondering how to change the subject
and seeing with relief that their entrées were arriving. Her
pasta was excellent, like a thick spaghetti, light and fluffy,
yet with a toothsome bite. It tasted of pungent black pepper and
lemon. As they ate, she wondered whether his message was that he
didn't know her very well, or that she didn't know him.

After they had
split the bill, James said, "Will you come with me to the park?
I have something to share that I think you'll enjoy." It was a
warm summer evening, and the sun would not set for another hour.
When they arrived, they strolled through St. James' Park until
they came to an empty bench overlooking a pond with a fountain.
The walk had warmed her, so she removed her blazer, revealing
bare shoulders. She didn't have a strapless bra to wear with her
camisole, and abhorred the common practice of allowing straps to
show, so she hadn't bothered with a bra. James' eyes slid over
her as he loosened his tie and removed his own jacket, drawing a
tube from the breast pocket as he did so. He patted his trouser
pockets and located a lighter, an ornate Zippo that appeared to
be made of chased silver. As he sat down on the bench, she
asked, "Are you going to smoke a cigar?"

"Yes," he
answered, "and you're going to share it."

"But I hate
smoke," she said. "I can't bear cigarettes. Aren't cigars even
worse? And smoke irritates my throat."

"Hush," he said,
holding the cigar in one hand and the lighter in the other.
"Just trust me. I picked this out for you. It's very mild, and I
think you'll be surprised. Now, I've already clipped the cap off
this one and it's ready to go." He put it to his mouth and
flipped open the lighter, holding the flame well under the tip
and rotating the cigar, then took a tentative puff. A plume of
smoke emerged from the end and swirled up into the still air.
She could smell the smoke now, as he continued to slowly ignite
the cigar. It was different from a cigarette, more aromatic. She
was surprised at how far it diverged from her memories of foul,
stale cigar smoke, left by Pappy's friends when they visited.

"Now," he turned
to her, setting down the lighter and holding out the cigar.
"Don't inhale. Just take it gently into your mouth, and taste
the smoke for a few seconds, then let it out." She did so,
self-consciously wondering whether he intended the erotic
significance that she read into his words. Sometimes a cigar was
just a cigar. "What does it taste like?" he asked.

"It's a bit like
burnt toast. No, not as bitter as that. More like dark
chocolate, or espresso. Herbal, or perhaps grassy. I'm surprised
that the smoke isn't even hot."

"Yes, that's
right. With a cigar this size, the smoke won't feel warm until
it burns down at least halfway. Now, take some more, but this
time, try to blow it out slowly through your nose as well as
your mouth. You'll be able to taste it better."

They sat in
silence for a while, sharing the cigar, as joggers and people
out for an evening stroll passed by. It wasn't bad at all, she
thought. In fact, it was very good. It dawned on her that she
was now officially a smoker.

"James!" she
cried accusingly. "I never smoked before. You've... you've
debauched me!"

"Oh no, I
haven't," he answered, smiling. "Not yet. But I will. Soon."

She couldn't
help asking, "Tonight?"

"I think not," he
said. "For our purposes, it's best if the bed is located
conveniently close to the dining table. I'll make you dinner at
my place. Next Saturday, unless you'd rather continue to...
savor the anticipation?"

"Next Saturday,
then." An image of the two of them dining together naked crossed
her mind, and she glanced up to see that he was watching her
expression closely. Feeling a flush creep up her cheeks, she
picked up the lighter and examined its silver case. On one side
was engraved "James and Sita 1989."

"This is
beautiful," she told him, noticing that the silver had the
polished glow of long and regular use.

"Yes. A wedding
gift from my first marriage."

"The picture in
your office, is that Sita and your girls?"

He nodded. "Sita
died a couple of years after that was taken. Struck by a car on
Oxford Street near Selfridges. She was a pediatrician, just
starting her career."

This put Laura at
a loss for words. "I can't imagine how painful that must have
been," she finally said. "Do you still miss her?"

He handed her the
cigar after gently tapping off the ash. "Yes, every so often
there's something I want to ask her about, and even after all
these years, I forget for a moment that she's gone. Magda
couldn't bear having that picture about the flat. She made me
move it to my office."

"I can see why
you like it. Three pairs of green eyes and three long braids,"
she said, smiling slightly and raising her chin to blow the
smoke upwards. She was beginning to feel oddly sedated, though
she noticed that her heart was beating faster. To change the
subject, she handed back the cigar and said, "Speaking of
beautiful women, today I met someone who is probably the most
beautiful woman I've ever seen, in person, that is."

"Really?" He
sounded surprised. "Who was it, and where?"

"I think her name
may be Ellen Porteous. I'm working with books in the Porteous
collection, and she came to the library door while I was there.
There's something rather feline about her that riveted my
attention. It reminded me of going to the theater and seeing a
really magnetic star walk on stage. I couldn't take my eyes off
her."

"Ellen Porteous.
Yes, I know her, Hamish's sister. Looks a bit like Nicole
Kidman, I always think, but not so thin. She gets in trouble
from time to time. Once, we were investigating an M.P. for
graft. She was in bed with him when he had a heart attack. He
was married, of course. A paramedic let the story slip to one of
our lads, and Hamish tried to come and buy us off. I told him it
was too late, the news was already spreading like wildfire. But
Ellen's a good lass, so I toned down the salacious bits in our
story. Took a proper lashing for it too; I was a deputy editor
then." He gazed out at the fountain in the pond, remembering,
then turned back to her with a teasing expression. "But it
sounds as though you quite fancied her."

She considered
this. "Yes, I believe I did."

He looked
slightly taken aback, and then keenly interested. "Laura, have
you ever slept with a woman?"

"No. My best
friend June is a lesbian, and at my university a lot of people
think we're an item, but we don't like each other in that way."
She threw him a rueful glance and added, "She said my tits were
too small." She could see the corners of his mouth wavering, as
though he was trying not to laugh. "Go on," he said.

"When I was in
college, there was a girl I fancied, as you call it. At the
time, I didn't even realize that's what I was feeling. All I
knew was that whenever I saw her in the dining hall, I couldn't
tear my eyes away. I never met her, nor tried to, but I've not
forgotten her in twenty-five years."

The sun was
nearly below the horizon, and there was a slight breeze that
cooled the moisture on her skin. She settled back on the bench
closer to him, and he put his arm around her, his fingers
closing over her left shoulder. The cigar was nearly half gone
now and she slowly shook her head, feeling stupefied. He reached
over and took it from her, putting it out and setting it
carefully on the bench. "Sorry, I should have cut you off
sooner. That's more than enough nicotine for someone who's never
smoked before. Do you feel ill?"

"No, just kind
of dreamy, though my heart is pounding. It's a strange
combination."

He gathered her
in closer and bent his head to nuzzle her ear. "Then tell me
about this girl you fancied. What did she look like?"

"Why, James?
Does it excite you to think of me desiring another woman?"

"Mmm," he said
into her ear. "It does, that."

"Well, don't get
any ideas. If I ever slept with a woman, it would be private. No
men allowed. But this girl, she was unusual. She had short black
hair and very fair skin, with freckles on her nose. She was
tall, with long slim legs, but she had an almost matronly figure
compared to the rest of us. That was back in the days before
American girls were all fat. This girl had fat, but it was all
on her hips and her chest. Her breasts were so big that they
wobbled. And one of my dormitory roommates, I never fancied her,
but I thought she had lovely breasts. Her nipples were a rose
pink color."

She paused, as
James began to shift about on the bench. He had an erection, she
noticed with interest. He cleared his throat and turned to pick
up the now-cold cigar and slip it back into its tube. "I'd
better get you back to your flat," he said, standing up and
holding his jacket in front of him. She put her blazer back on
and they turned to leave. "But for the record," he said,
wrapping an arm about her as they set out on the path, "Your
friend June doesn't know what she's about. Your tits are just
right."

7.
Pappy Channels Socrates

"I've fallen in
love, Pappy." Her father, Lionel Livingston, was a youthful
seventy-two years old, and they had always been close. She wrote
him letters and called a couple of times a month on Sundays,
since he refused to use Skype and still had not fully reconciled
himself to email.

There was a
silence on the other end of the line as he digested this, and
then, sounding pleased, he said, "That's the first time I've
ever heard you say that, Laura. I'm happy for you. What kind of
a man is he?"

She gave him an
edited version of how she and James had met and their outings to
date. Then she heard a click as her mother Joan picked up the
extension. She'd obviously guessed the tenor of the conversation
and didn't want to miss it.

"You met
someone!" she said. "Is he marriage material?"

Laura sighed.
This was a familiar conversation. "Neither of us is interested
in marriage, Mom," she said. "And even if we were, it could
never work because we have jobs on opposite sides of the
Atlantic."

"Laura, there is
something you may not have thought of. You could quit your job
and move to England to be with him. That's what women used to do
in my day when they fell in love."

"It's out of the
question, Mom. Love or no love, I'm not going to give up my
career for a man, and I wouldn't respect any man who asked me to
do that." The chances of her landing any academic job in
England, much less one comparable to her tenured professorship
in Pennsylvania, were vanishingly small. She had a good
reputation in her field, but not that good.

"Joanie, my
love, I want to talk to Laura. Do you mind?" he said.

"All right. I
have to fix your father's dinner anyway. But give some thought
to what I said, dear." She hung up. Hope sprang eternal in
Joan's mind when it came to marrying off her daughter. She was
probably already planning a winter wedding and calculating
whether Laura might still have a few viable eggs in her ovaries,
even at the age of forty-three.

"Pappy, I'm
scared. I have to leave here in a few months, and I don't know
what's going to happen. And I don't really know about James.
Someone I trust told me that he was 'a decent man' but that I
shouldn't get mixed up with him."

"And what do you
think of his character?"

"I think he works
in a field where you only succeed by being unscrupulous. I think
he's no saint. And I'm afraid that when it's over, I'll be hurt.
But I can't help loving him anyway. I barely know him, yet it
feels like something deeper than a physical attraction-- though
that's certainly present," she said, wondering if this was too
much information for her father.

"Laura, do you
remember when Cecily died, and how painful it was for you?"
Pappy asked.

"Of course."
Laura had been a very introverted child with few friends, but
the minute Cecily showed up in their neighborhood, the two girls
were inseparable, writing lengthy notes to each other, which
they folded into intricate designs before passing them in class.
Reading the same books (Judy Blume, and then Jane Austen).
Talking for hours on the phone. Cecily had been her best friend
for about three years, until they were both fourteen. Then her
friend contracted meningitis and died with terrifying
suddenness. Laura had been depressed for months afterward, to
the point that Joan insisted she get treatment.

"Did you ever
wish you had never met her? So that you wouldn't have to feel
all that pain when you lost her?"