London Broil (8 page)

On Saturday,
Laura felt nervous. She checked the tube station map several
times and estimated that it would take her about a half hour to
get from her flat in the Kings Cross area to Bethnal Green. She
found his street online and printed out a map, but decided to
allow extra time. She often got lost in London when visiting
unfamiliar areas.

As the afternoon
wore on, she debated what to wear and considered stepping out to
buy something new, but she hated shopping under pressure,
especially in the noisy bustle and traffic of London. She ought
to have considered her clothes sooner, she thought, mentally
kicking herself. Going to her meager closet, she decided on a
casual outfit: a chocolate brown cotton skirt with box pleats
and orange and yellow embroidery around the hem. There was an
orange scoop neck tee to match, and sandals. She had a light
jacket in case it rained, which seemed likely. She laid out her
best lingerie, which consisted of panties in a leopard print
with lace edging and a matching underwire bra.

In the bath, she
considered her body and wondered whether James would find it
unattractive compared to the more nubile bodies of the younger
women he dated. She was neither tall nor short, and her weight
was about the same as in her college days, for in spite of the
restaurant meals, she did not always indulge her appetite. She
never skipped a meal, but she ate small portions, and the
dinners she cooked for herself consisted mostly of vegetables
and small amounts of cheese, with a glass of wine. She hadn't
given birth, so her belly was unmarked, though gently rounded.
Her waist was still small, but her body fat had begun to
redistribute itself, resulting in a less girlish figure. Her
breasts were large enough to fill a man's hand, and firm. But
they didn't sit as high on her chest as before, and she had
begun to notice creases and loose patches in her skin where
before it had been smooth and tight--on her neck, and on her
inner arms at the elbows.

Was James equally
concerned about his body as it aged? He must be in his early or
mid fifties, though his hair was still mostly black. Sighing,
she finished styling her hair and put on some extra makeup--a
bit of eyeliner and mascara, then her red lipstick. Then she
gathered together a few items for the next day: a change of
underwear, another tee, a toothbrush. The rest of what she
needed was already in her large handbag with the expensive can
of macadamia nuts that she was bringing James as a gift. She got
to the tube station before the rain began in earnest, hoping
that the worst of it would be finished by the time she emerged.
It was. She found James' building with surprisingly little
trouble, and pressed the button next to his name.

"That you?" he
said. "Come on up. It's the top floor, on the left as you get
off the elevator." And he buzzed her in. When she arrived, he
was standing at the door smiling, in belted jeans, a
short-sleeved cotton shirt in a green plaid, and bare feet. They
exchanged a small kiss of greeting and he ushered her inside. By
the door there was a rubber tray containing a couple of pairs of
shoes, so she slipped hers off, mindful of the rain and dirt
clinging to them, as James took her jacket and the can of nuts
she rather hesitantly handed over.

"I love these,"
he said, immediately peeling off the plastic cover and popping
the lid of the can. "But first things first. What can I get you
to drink? A cocktail? Or some prosecco? I was just about to open
a bottle."

"A glass of
prosecco would be perfect," she said, feeling a definite need
for a drink. He looked so different out of his usual suit and
tie. In a good way, but this was his territory. She felt almost
like an intruder.

"Have a look
around while I get the drinks. Not a great deal to see, I'm
afraid."

His flat was a
loft with honey-colored wood floors. One large, high ceilinged
room contained the kitchen, a dining table with six chairs (now
laid with places for two), and a living area that consisted of
some sofas and chairs defined by a huge Persian rug, a fireplace
and a large screen television. Overhead was a mezzanine,
accessible by stairs, that extended out about a third of the way
across the loft; she assumed this was the sleeping area. Set
into the ceiling was a row of skylights, now dim and gray with
the rain, and across the exterior wall, level with the
mezzanine, were three large windows. Below the windows was a
large expanse of wall covered with framed paintings and
photographs. The space under the mezzanine was lined with
bookshelves and a stereo system. It was a perfect bachelor's
flat.

"Where do you go
to smoke a cigar?" she asked. She couldn't smell a hint of smoke
in the flat.

"The roof.
Technically it belongs to the bloke who owns the penthouse, but
he's a mate of mine. There's quite a nice garden up there. It's
a shame about the rain."

She made a
beeline for the bookshelves. "Do you mind if I look at your
books? I study private libraries, and I always say you can tell
a lot from seeing a person's books. In fact, it's such an
intimate thing that sometimes when people come over, I pull
certain books off the shelves." Glancing at the spines, she saw
Darwin's
Voyage of the
Beagle
and a set of Patrick O'Brian's naval adventures of
the Napoleonic era. O'Brian was Jane Austen for men, and his
stories had Austen's wit and gentle satire of human foibles.
There was a small collection of poetry: Shakespeare (a Riverside
edition of the complete works, plus separate versions of
Antony and Cleopatra
,
Macbeth
, and
Richard III
), Yeats
(both poetry and drama), and Seamus Heaney. Impressed, she saw
that he owned several works by James Joyce. And what appeared to
be every book written by the iconoclastic, caustic and hilarious
Christopher Hitchens.

James walked over
carrying two flutes of prosecco and handed one to her. They
touched their glasses together and drank. She suddenly realized
that she felt much more comfortable now that they each had a
glass of wine in hand. "Why are you afraid to let people see
your books?" he said. And then laughingly, "What are you
reading?
The Story of O
?
Delta of Venus
? Dare
I ask?"

"I've read those
and didn't find them very exciting, as a matter of fact. But
yes, I have some erotica that I wouldn't put out on the living
room shelves. Robert Mapplethorpe, erotic art in Pompeii, that
sort of thing. I suppose it depends on who's coming over. Nobody
I know would raise an eyebrow at
Delta of Venus
. Now
owning all of the late, great Christopher Hitchens' books--that
would suggest to most people that you're an atheist."

"Indeed I am. I
suppose a declaration like that is better received here than in
the States. One gathers that admitting to being an atheist in
the US is like admitting to being a pedophile. But I enjoy his
political essays most."

"Mmm. I love his
literary criticism and his wit. He said the four most overrated
things in life are Champagne, lobster, anal sex, and picnics. I
agree, except for the Champagne. It may be overpriced, but it is
not overrated."

"Now, I would
have said that I agree except for the picnics. I fancy an
occasional
déjeuner sur
l'herbe
."

She smiled,
thinking of Manet's painting by that name, which depicted a
completely nude woman lunching outdoors with two fully dressed
men. "Is that so? If I were a painter, I'd reverse Manet's
arrangement and show two women friends having a chat while a
gorgeous man lounged nearby in the altogether."

"I suppose that
lets me out of being the artist's model," he said, draining the
rest of his glass.

"Oh, I don't
know," she said. "I think you're gorgeous, but I'll have to see
all of you before I can decide for certain."

"That's on the
menu," he replied, crossing back to the kitchen to retrieve the
bottle of prosecco. This was the first time she'd had a chance
to see his rear end, since he usually wore a suit. She approved.
It was understated, but with a distinct muscular rounding that
filled out the seat of his jeans. She made a mental note to try
to see what he looked like in his trousers, next time they went
out for dinner.

11.
Music for Miss Behave

Sipping her wine,
she moved on to the shelves of music. He had a sizable
collection of CD's (alphabetized), and on a large lower shelf,
some vinyl; the stereo included a turntable that looked new. The
bulk of the CD's were classic blues and jazz with an emphasis on
the blues: Robert Lockwood Jr. and Bessie Smith, but also Duane
Allman and Robert Cray. He appeared to be an Eric Clapton
completist; she noticed Cream and Derek and the Dominoes. Then a
section of Irish music, but the only group she recognized was
the Chieftains. The jazz was an eclectic collection, with a
healthy selection of greats like John Coltrane and Charlie
Parker. He returned with the bottle and refilled her glass.

"I was just
about to put something on when you arrived. What's your
pleasure?"

She caught his
eye for a couple of extra seconds and smiled before replying, "I
like jazz and blues, but in the opposite proportion to your
tastes-- more jazz, less blues. My favorites are standards, and
West Coast jazz. And I love Coltrane, but only the early stuff.
His later
oeuvre
is
completely over my head."

"You and just
about everyone else," he said. "Right then. I have Miles Davis
and Dave Brubeck. How about a classic--
Time Out
?"

"A great album,"
she said as he opened the CD case. "Dave Brubeck has this gift
for melody, but also a really staccato approach to the piano.
Pair that with Paul Desmond's saxophone-- it's breathy, sinuous,
gentle. They have such perfect chemistry. But I love to listen
to Desmond without Brubeck. A guilty pleasure. Instead of
moderation and balance, it's a sensuous indulgence."

"His music turns
you on?"

"Oh yes. It's an
old joke, but they really should have called it the sexophone.
At least when he plays it. And with Stan Getz, I get the same
feeling, though to a lesser degree."

"I'm jealous.
Perhaps I ought to sign up for lessons."

"I have a
feeling you don't need lessons, James."

Chuckling, he led
her back toward the kitchen. "I need to keep working on our
meal. Why don't you sample my starters?" The kitchen was open
and had a small countertop facing out with a couple of
barstools. He'd set out a dish of the macadamia nuts, some
olives, and a plate of bruschetta. Half of the rounded little
toasts had tomato and basil dressed with a touch of garlicky
balsamic, and the other half had a smear of basil pesto with
melted cheese on top.

"Is this asiago?
It's heavenly," she said. He nodded and then said, "Talking with
you, Laura... well, you're different from the other women I've
dated since my divorce."

"Because of the
sexual banter? Or because I know what an album is?" she asked.

"Both, I suppose.
I dated a couple of lasses who barely knew what a CD is, let
alone an album. I miss the art that came with vinyl records."

He had to have
been dating some very young women. She stifled the comment
before it rose to her lips. "Yes; the Beatles were just breaking
up around the time I became aware of their music, but I remember
poring over my brother's copy of
Sergeant Pepper
. I was
completely fascinated by all the detail in it."

He munched on a
slice of bruschetta thoughtfully. "I still have a few Beatles
discs that I bought when they first came out."

Laura slid off
the barstool, holding her flute of prosecco, and stepped around
the counter into the kitchen, which was fitted out with high-end
appliances: a Wolf range and a Sub-Zero refrigerator. Both were
in stainless steel, and there was a stainless double sink.
Except for his salad preparations, the granite countertops were
clean; James had been clearing up as he went along. One of the
signs of a good cook. She stood to one side and slightly behind
him, watching him slice cucumbers into paper-thin rounds.
Glancing down at his jeans-clad backside, she couldn't help
reaching out to sink her left hand into one of his pockets. Then
she leaned in close to him, and ran the hand around to his
belly, skimming the top of his belt buckle, while she pressed
her face against his back and inhaled his scent.

"Miss Livingston,
I think they gave you the wrong name," he said. "They should
have called you Miss Behave. I'm using a very sharp knife at the
moment. If I cut myself, I'll ruin the salad. And even worse, I
won't be able to use my hands the way I plan to, later this
evening. Now out of my kitchen with you." She released him and
walked back around to the bar.

"Sorry. I just
wanted to see what kind of equipment you had." When he quirked
an eyebrow at that, she laughed ruefully, saying "Believe it or
not, that was unintentional." She felt a familiar burn rise in
her cheeks.

He was preparing
a green salad with some baby romaine, a few yellow-green leaves
of frisée, and arugula. She could smell its pungent, almost
skunky aroma, along with something rich and cheesy emanating
from the oven. To the greens he added the cucumbers and tiny,
grapelike tomatoes. He had a saucepan of boiling water on the
range, and into this he cracked four small, light brown eggs
with speckled shells.