Those Wicked Pleasures (37 page)

He brushed some snow from her hat. It was an excuse to touch her once more: they both knew that. A little gesture, but a loaded one. He smiled at her and said, ‘Then this
is
goodbye.’

She noticed that he kept a hand flat against the closing at the front of his coat. He had walked like that ever since the museum. ‘Come in, warm yourself by the fire before you go on. A whisky? Some tea?’

She saw hesitation in his eyes and took him by the hand. And then he told her, ‘I can’t. My wife is waiting. She’ll be concerned.’ But he didn’t move.

Lara was not surprised. She reached into her coat and slid the scarf from around her neck. She unbuttoned his coat. The revers fell open. He took the Gucci scarf from her hands and draped it around his neck. It was still warm from her body. ‘This is not necessary.’

‘To me it is.’

‘I will return it in the morning.’

‘No!’ she said, rather too loudly. ‘Keep it. A memento of a brief encounter.’

Chapter 25

Lara awoke the next morning to a city just coming back to life. She could hear a shovel scraping on the pavement. From her window she could see the gardener clearing the drive. A few cars moved in slow motion down Fifth Avenue. The spell of yesterday’s strange afternoon, the urge to conjure up those raunchy sexual scenes of that long-ago day, vanished from her thoughts. All that remained was the warm glow of admiration she had felt from an older man, a handsome stranger. How right he had been not to accept her invitation. Right for her that is. She was not unaware that it had been one of those moments that happen to a person who is psychologically ripe, regardless of whether the man is an appropriate love-object. A married man old enough to be her father, and more concerned for his wife than her, was clearly not the right man. Even if the moment had been.

During the next few days she thought about the man, a stranger whom she could not think of as such. She half expected him to return the scarf. But he did not. She tried to put him from her mind, telling herself this man was not the one to fulfil her deepest longings or oldest dreams. This was not the man who would allow her both to renew and transform herself. But where was that man? He certainly hadn’t appeared in the guise of any would-be lover she had attracted since Jamal.

Several days after her encounter, a box of flowers,
long-stemmed red roses, arrived at the house. On their fragrance she allowed herself to float a momentary fantasy that he might have sent them. She felt foolish when she read the card. They were from a nice enough man but not the right one. So she put the stranger who had walked her home firmly out of her mind.

Several days later, she changed her travel plans for getting to Gstaad by Concorde and then private plane. She was packed, she was ready with time to spare to make the flight. Instead she surprised Nancy by turning her plans upside down. She had her secretary book her on the night-flight to London, for two nights at the Connaught, then charter a small jet to fly her to Gstaad afterwards. What particularly puzzled Nancy was that Lara then sat down in the livingroom and played the piano for most of the afternoon, until she left for the airport.

The steward walking her from the first-class lounge to her seat was giving her the friendly line in chat he was trained for: the weather, the flight-time, the title of the movie. ‘You should have a nice, quiet flight, Miss Stanton. We have only three other people booked in first class this trip.’ Was it to be champagne? What time should dinner be served? All that consideration was cloying, too obviously a well-intentioned professional laying on the charm.

She saw the scarf draped over the arm of an empty seat as she passed by. But it didn’t register that it was hers, or at least had been, until she was being helped off with her jacket by the steward with the amiable patter. She looked back down the aisle. The scarf was still there, the seat empty. There was someone sitting in the window-seat next to it, but she couldn’t see who.

She buckled her seat-belt and looked out at the lights of Kennedy airport, still swathed in what was left of the
snow-storm. That scarf … Did she think that Gucci had only made one of them? But it happened to be identical to hers … A coincidence? This was ridiculous. Was she going to cross the Atlantic trying to guess whether he was on board or not? Not likely.

They were airborne so she unbuckled her seat-belt. The steward was back, raising the arm of the empty seat next to her and then hers. ‘More room.’ He accorded her an on-board smile. She ran a brush through her hair and drew her fingers through it several times, then fussed with the neck of the silk blouse. She heard someone rustle some papers, a cough. Then in a dialogue with herself she thought, Funny how conveniently you’ve forgotten the wife. If that is him, then where is she? It didn’t seem to matter. She had to know.

In horn-rimmed glasses, strangely, he looked younger. She could not but smile. She felt so pleased to see him again. He was completely engrossed in some papers he was reading, unaware of her. She slid the scarf from the chair and very quietly sat down. Still he was not distracted.

She was wearing a rich brown suede skirt. When she crossed her knees, its folds brushed against his trouser-leg. He looked up. There was no surprise in his eyes, just pure pleasure. Then he smiled at her and removed his glasses.

‘I lied. My wife was not waiting for me at the Carlisle.’

‘Why?’ She was puzzled, concerned that he had felt the need to lie to her.

‘Because to be attracted to someone is the most powerful feeling I know. And I never expected to experience that feeling again. I wanted it curtailed.’

‘Surely you must have known there would be no rejection from me? That I was having the very same feeling?’

‘Yes. But I hoped I was wrong.’

‘Why? Because you sensed, that, unlike you, I wanted to keep the feeling alive?’

‘Maybe.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Why should you? Physical attraction isn’t simple, it’s very complex, almost inexplicable. I’m a scientist, I have devoted my life to seeking out explanations of why things happen, and then finding ways for them not to happen again. And then you appeared, and I knew there could be no simple answers. That it would be folly to look for them. A quick exit was all that was possible. And now this. You. Here.’

‘The gods are with us.’ She smiled at him and placed her hand on the sleeve of his jacket.

They remained silent, looking at each other. Happy just to be able to do that. ‘Well, maybe one magnificent Egyptian god carved in stone thousands of years ago. I’m not so sure about any others.’

‘You don’t believe in the gods? I thought you did, very much so, when I saw you standing in the gallery. Not them, or the afterlife their whole civilisation was bound up in?’

‘I would like to. But my scientific mind doesn’t allow it.’

‘And when you stepped forward to touch the feet, I thought you were reaching …’ She hesitated, and then added, ‘Oh, this is fanciful.’

‘No, go on.’

‘That you were reaching out for …’ she wavered again, visibly searching for the right words ‘… something I’d seen happen there years ago.’ She shook her head and tried to conceal her embarrassment. ‘I know that makes no sense, most especially to a man of science.’

‘Maybe it’s not as senseless as you might think. It was a very strange afternoon.’

‘Yes, I had a compulsion to go there. I was looking for something, I know that now. Then I thought it was something else. But I don’t think your visit was an act of compulsion. You don’t seem to me to have a compulsive nature.’

‘You’re quite right, I don’t. I was there because the snow-storm gave me a few hours free from people and work, something that rarely happens to me. I didn’t want to waste them. So I braved the storm for the museum, and specifically the Egyptian Gallery. I had always wanted to return there. To see it without the hordes of tourists. There is nothing less Egyptian than a crocodile of schoolkids being hectored by their ignorant teachers. I wanted to sense the power of place, those works of art, get close to that civilisation, in the quiet. Be as alone as I could be in a public gallery. Perfect timing, I thought. Who’s going to brave the weather for a museum? Not many. And I was right. You were the only person I saw among the pharaonic artifacts that afternoon. And then only when you caught me indulging a morbid desire to touch something so rooted in death, and the belief that life after death is more valid than mere earthly existence. Something
I
cannot believe in. I wanted confirmation that the coldness of death was no different from the coldness of that stone god. That dead
is
dead. And then you startled me, stopped me.

‘You were life as I had forgotten it, young and beautiful, luscious in your furs and silvery-blonde hair, voluptuous with those green eyes and sensuous face. I came instantly alive just looking at you. I thought, People die without a chance to live. There hasn’t been anyone to remind me of that for a very long time. Romantic love, passion, escape … you were living proof, to me anyway, that life
is
more valid than death.’

The spell that he had woven around them was broken by the steward, and for once Lara was relieved to hear the young man’s solicitous patter. ‘Will you be taking your champagne here? And will you be dining together? If that’s the case, may I suggest you do so in the lady’s seats? There’s more leg-room there and the trays are hung from the wall.’ He leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘Far more comfortable. By far the best place to sit in first class.’

Lara could have kissed the too well-groomed steward with ‘Barney’ printed on his name tag. She did not give her new friend a chance to back out but looked at him and said, ‘Please.’

He smiled at her and stood up, towering over her. She felt such joy, a rush of pure pleasure. He thanked the young man for the suggestion, and asked for a malt whisky and soda. The steward went off smiling, pleased to have rearranged their lives for at least the duration of the flight across the Atlantic.

Lara rose from her chair and turned her back in order to step into the aisle. She felt such warmth in his presence; love, affection, a masculinity that was strong and solid, and yet gentleness too. She could only think of him as the best, the most special of men. She hesitated, not wanting to walk away from him or to lose those feelings.

As if to reassure her, he placed a hand on her hip. She closed her eyes for a moment from the sheer need to block out the world, to feel only his hand. He raised it to clasp her waist. She placed her hand over his just briefly and then removed it, and he removed his. She placed the palm of her hand over the spot simply to feel the warmth he left there.

Embarrassed that he might deduce how much she already felt for him, she pretended to be adjusting her antique Navaho silver belt. She toyed with the huge lumps
of turquoise in the buckle, relieved she still had her back to him. More composed now, she stepped into the aisle and walked to where she had been sitting and took the window seat. He sat down next to her.

She thought she might as well get it over with. ‘But there is a wife and a family?’

‘Yes, very much so.’

‘It won’t make any difference, you know.’

He ignored that, even though he wanted to tell her, ‘It should.’ ‘Is there a husband?’ he asked.

‘There has been. Twice.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Yes, so am I.’

‘I could be your father.’

‘But you’re not.’

‘You should find a young man, one you can build a life with, someone who can give you more than I can. I simply cannot ruin your life. I refuse to.’

‘Why are you making excuses?’

That appeared to stop him. He stroked his chin several times. He never took his eyes from hers while he told her, ‘You offer a mixture of hope, anxiety and excitement. All the agitation that is part and parcel of falling in love. I don’t think I can handle that at this time in my life, much as I might want to. Falling in love? It must be behind me now.’

‘What if I won’t let you throw us away?’

‘Then we will both have to be very brave, honest and courageous. I have no doubt that you are, but I’m not so sure about myself.’

‘Please, don’t deprive us of loving each other.’

‘Too much of any love affair of ours would depend on you. Not because I want it to be like that, but because life has taught me that relationships are the domain of the woman. And “the man who shops from woman to
woman, though his heart aches with idealism, with the desire for pure love, has entered the female realm”. I learned that from Saul Bellow. If a relationship between us is to work, it will be you who will make it a success.’

They drank and dined, then put the overhead lights out and talked through the night, about all sorts of things. Anything but themselves and their feelings for each other. They watched the dawn. The new day gave them the notion that they might be together, maybe not all the time, but in one way or another throughout their lives. They may have felt that, but it was too big a thing to make specific. And now was much too soon. Each of them considered the other remarkable, but strangely not the most important thing in their lives. Simply the most important life-enhancing force in their lives. As yet they still had not exchanged names.

An hour before they landed she went to freshen up. In the small, neon-bright compartment, she tried to come to terms with this new phase of her life, only to realise there was little to come to terms with. She was in love with a remarkable man, and they were making each other happy. There had been not even a kiss to seal the bargain.

She pushed open the door directly into Barney the steward. Gushing apologies, he moved aside to let her by. When she took her seat, her friend wasn’t there. ‘The doctor is still in the loo. Shaving, I suppose,’ said Barney, while he folded blankets and puffed up pillows before whisking them away.

Doctor. She hadn’t thought of him that way. A doctor of science had every right to use the title but still it surprised her. Then she wondered, Is he Doctor McLeod, Doctor Voplonsky, Doctor Jones? Doctor what? Now he would have to have a name. The outside world was closing in on them.

‘A good thing, I suppose,’ continued Barney. ‘The
press are already waiting at Heathrow. Photographers and all. Even a man from the Home Office, with his secretary and two assistants. They radioed through to the cockpit. Suggested we take him through another entrance to avoid the press. Seems he’s a very private guy. Hates all that folderol. A Pulitzer prize, the Nobel Prize, and tomorrow some kind of investiture at the palace. He sure has had quite a year. But I don’t see how he can avoid them. Not with this on the stalls.’ Barney pulled a
Time
magazine from the rack. Lara Stanton’s new love was fetchingly portrayed on the cover.

She could hardly believe it. It had been there, in the rack, directly in front of them all night. For the first time she knew who this modest man was: Doctor Evan Harper Valentine, the brilliant biochemist. Wasn’t he making amazing discoveries about DNA or genetic engineering? Of course she had seen his photographs in the newspapers, but she had been too wrapped up in the real man to work out why he looked familiar to her. It hardly mattered now. He was a world figure. Hadn’t she heard him in a radio interview? Seen him on TV for a moment, perhaps when he was being fêted at the White House?