Indiscretion Page 10

  There is noise from the other room. The sound of glass shattering. “Oh fuck that hurts.”

  “Are you all right?”

  The room beyond is dark.

  “Claire?”

  “I’m in here,” she says. “I cut my foot.”

  He walks through the small, dark bedroom to the bathroom. The light is on. On the wall is a poster for a French film festival. She is sitting on the toilet. There is blood on the sole of her foot. Shards of glass on the floor.

  “Sorry,” she says. “I dropped it. I am such a spaz.”

  He examines the cut on her foot. “I could bandage it. It doesn’t look too bad.”

  He goes to the medicine cabinet and rummages around for an antiseptic. “Do you have anything like hydrogen peroxide?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Let me do this first.” He takes out his handkerchief, wets it with soap and water, and cleans the wound. Then he applies a Band-Aid. The sole of her foot is pink, the nails painted red. She has beautiful feet, delicate ankles. He has to crouch awkwardly in the tiny bathroom. He has the patience of a parent. “No need to amputate,” he says with a smile. “Do you think you can walk?”

  “I can try.”

  He puts his arms around her and lifts her up, surprised by how light she is. He has to turn sideways to walk through the door.

  “On the bed,” she says.

  He places her on the bed, and suddenly her arms are around him, pulling him down. Her lips pressed to his. Her hands on his body, his arms. This time he doesn’t resist, he can’t. Then she is on top, straddling him. She pulls her dress over her head, flinging it carelessly in the corner. The dark points of her breasts stand out against her pale body in the blue glow of the room. Her arms enveloping him, her smell, the softness of her skin, her warmth. Her tongue searches his mouth, warm and alive. Her hand on his hand, guiding him first to her hard breast, then next between her legs, rubbing his fingers over the thin silk, feeling the wetness, before bringing it back up. Then he is on top, her legs around him, drawing him in. Hands now undoing his belt, searching the tops of his flanks, her fingernails beneath his boxer shorts. Still entwined she unbuttons his shirt, lowers his trousers, running her hands through the hairs on his chest. She reaches down and holds him in her hand, feeling the hardness, the blood pumping, heart racing. Embracing him, she whispers in his ear, “I love you. I am yours.”

  She kneels before him on the bed. Her tongue now darting in his ear, caressing a nipple, his navel, slowly lowering herself until she takes him in her mouth, first slowly, then longer, deeper, until he cannot stand it anymore.

  “I can’t do this,” he says. “I can’t. I’m sorry. I have to go.”

  But he is powerless. His muscles, his strength fails him. The curtain has been torn, the border crossed; now there is only the other side. He is falling into it. It is something he has secretly yearned for. She pulls him back to the bed, caressing him, wrapping her legs around him, her body burning him, feet in the air, rhythmically back and forth, gasping for breath, pushing and pulling, slick with sweat, her mouth searching for his, his mouth on her breast, her clavicle, her neck, fingers scoring his back, panting, moaning, her screaming, his roaring, until they collapse together.

  “Stay inside me,” she whispers. Her arms wrapped tightly around him.

  Lying there, breathing. His head on her pillow, staring into each other’s eyes, hands clasped, their breath mingling, their bodies melded. He cannot remember when he has felt such peace.

  “I think I love you too,” he says. Or does he? Maybe he only thinks it and is confused by the thought. Maybe the words mean different things to him than they do to other people.

  She sighs and kisses him, already asleep, exhausted by jet lag, whisky, and sex.

  3

  In the morning he is awoken by her as she returns to bed, limping slightly from the cut on her foot. Early sunlight filters dully through the curtains. “I thought you might like this,” she says, kissing him on the mouth. Her breath is musty. She places two mugs of tea on the bedside table. He sits up, leaning back against the pillows. She is naked. Her skin white, supple, firm. A mole on the back of her thigh. The hair between her legs dense and black. She moves like someone who could spend her whole life naked. He would like to see that.

  “Good morning,” he says. “Come here.”

  On her hands and knees, she advances to him, like an animal, her eyes locked on his. She kisses him hungrily. He moves her onto her back, his face between her legs. She is already wet. She moans, grabbing the back of his head as his tongue flickers in and out. “Oh god, yes. Don’t stop.” The intimacy of making love in daylight. There is nowhere to hide. Everyone else is going to work. He enters her. They stare silently into each other’s eyes, hers brown, his gray, an unspoken communion. And then her lids lower, and she tilts her head back, her mouth open, pelvis bucking, long, short, long, short like a lover’s Morse code until the pace increases as her eyes open again, and they go faster and faster and faster, eyes locked on each other, she shouting, “Yes Yes Yes.”

  “I have wanted to wake up next to you ever since we first met on the beach,” she says after. They lie splayed on the bed, exhausted like athletes. “But I never thought it would happen.”

  “Well, now it has. Is it everything you hoped it would be?”

  “Better,” she says, kissing him.

  “What time is it?”

  “Almost eight. I don’t want to, but I have to get going. What are you doing today?”

  “More meetings. A lunch. Drinks. A dinner.”

  “I want to see you. Can you get out of the dinner?”

  “I was planning on it. I would much rather see you.”

  She smiles radiantly. “What time can we meet? I can try to get out of the office early.”

  “Is seven-thirty okay?”

  “Perfect.”

  In the shower, he soaps her hair and her breasts, the cleft of her buttocks against him, making him hard. Slowly, wordlessly, she widens her stance, lowering herself, her back to him, arms bracing against the tiles. His legs bent to compensate for the difference in height. He watches himself penetrate her. This time it is quick. The water sluicing off their bodies, splattering on the floor. She has a beautiful back.

  “I don’t ever want to stop fucking you,” she says.

  “You might have to,” he says with a smile. “I don’t know if I can keep up this pace. I’m not seventeen anymore.”

  “Then we’ll just have to feed you lots of oysters.”

  Out on the street, they part with a kiss. She gives him her number. “I’ll call you later,” he says. He watches her walk away through the cold, gray morning, memories of her warmth still on him.

  After a cab ride uptown, he enters his hotel. It is his favorite in the city. Quiet, secluded, a block from the park. Black and white marble floors. The bar makes the best bullshot in Manhattan. “Good morning, Mister Winslow,” says the doorman. Maddy’s father lived here for the last two years of his life, ravaged by alcohol.

  In his room, there is a blinking red light on the phone. It is a message from Maddy. “Hi, it’s me. Guess you had an early meeting. Call us later. Johnny sends his love. We miss you!”

  There is also a message from Reuben, one from Norm, another from me. We are meant to have drinks tonight. He calls down to room service and asks them to send up a pot of coffee and scrambled eggs and bacon. Then he removes his clothes and goes into the bathroom, where he stands under a scalding shower for several minutes before shaving. Breakfast arrives. He signs for it and leaves the tip in cash.

  He will call Maddy later.

  At three he telephones Claire. “I’ve been waiting to hear from you all day,” she says. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

  “Sorry, this is the first chance I’ve had. Are we still on for tonight?”

  “If you still want to.”

  “Of course I do. I’m having a drink with Walter at his club a
t six. I can meet you after.”

  She laughs. “Oh god. You are?”

  “Yes. I can’t get out of it. And besides, I like Walter.”

  “I like Walter too, but it just seems so coincidental. Do you think he’ll suspect anything?”

  “Why should he? He doesn’t know I saw you.”

  “So where shall we meet?”

  “I don’t care—as long as they have plenty of oysters.”

  She laughs. “I know a place on Spring Street. It serves wonderful oysters,” she says, giving him the name and address of the restaurant. After he hangs up, he is surprised by how excited he feels.

  Harry and I meet at six. As usual he forgets to wear a necktie, but my club keeps spares on hand precisely for people like him.

  He looks well, if a bit tired, which is to be expected given the time difference for him. We sit in the bar. Several other members are playing backgammon.

  “How did the meetings go?”

  “Fine.” He shrugs. “The whole industry is so nervous these days, and they want to check on the progress of my book. After all, they did make rather a large investment in me. I can’t imagine Hemingway doing it like this, though. He’d probably have told them to go fornicate themselves.”

  We talk about Rome, about plans for Christmas, about Maddy, Johnny’s health. The new book.

  “How’s it coming?”

  He takes a drink. “Slowly.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I thought moving to Rome would be an inspiration, but it’s been almost too stimulating. I sit down but I can’t concentrate. Instead I find myself walking for hours.”

  “Does that help?”

  “Not really. The book just hasn’t kicked in yet. Maddy loves being there, though. She’s got her cooking classes and her Italian lessons. And Johnny’s having a ball. One of his best friends is the Australian ambassador’s son. He’s teaching Johnny how to play cricket.”

  He is his normal charming self. There is a funny story about getting lost when they drove out to the Villa d’Este. But there is something different too. A lack of ease. Later it occurs to me that this was one of the only times I had ever seen him without Maddy. At ten of seven, he excuses himself, saying, “Sorry, Walt. I need to go.” We shake hands, and he dashes out. I don’t mind. There had never been talk of anything more than a drink. I order myself one more and wait to see who else will be coming in. If I am lucky another member will also be stag, and we can dine together. Later, on my way out of the club, I am told that Harry forgot to return the necktie.

  4

  She is there when he walks in the restaurant. Outside it is already dark. She rises, beautiful, expectant, from the table, whispering in his ear, “The oysters can wait, but I can’t. Come with me.”

  He follows her down a flight of stairs. The bathrooms are large. There is a lock on the door. She embraces him as though making up for lost time, one hand pulling him to her, the other reaching for his zipper.

  “I’m not wearing any underwear,” she whispers as she hikes up her dress. She is already wet. He lifts her, pinioning her against the wall, her hands grasping his shoulders, his hands under her thrusting, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps, eyes closed, covering her mouth to keep from crying out.

  They return to their seats, cheeks flushed, sharing secrets within a secret. The waiter comes to take their drink orders.

  She leans forward and asks conspiratorially, “Do you think he knows?”

  Harry leans back in his chair and slowly, melodramatically begins to survey the room, one eyebrow raised higher than the other. She giggles.

  “Yes, definitely,” he answers. “Everyone does. You can see it in their faces. They’re trying to be discreet, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “That’s why no one is looking at us, and the waiter is treating us like any other customers, but you can tell.”

  She nods, suppressing a laugh. “You’re right. I can tell.”

  “We may as well have neon signs over our table reading ‘Just Bonked in the Bathroom.’ ”

  “Very embarrassing. How will we live it down?”

  “By showing them we’re better than that. Rising above it.”

  “Or maybe we could just do it again?” She leers at him.

  The waiter returns with their drinks. They are both having martinis.

  “Christ, you’re insatiable. Can I at least have a drink first?”

  “You’ve earned it.” Her hand is under the table on his thigh.

  They consult the menu. “What are you having?” she asks.

  “I know I’m having the oysters to start.”

  “You’d better be.”

  “How many do you think I should order?”

  “Is there some kind of mathematical formula to it? I mean, do so many oysters get burned up per so many orgasms? Is it a dozen oysters for every orgasm? If you had five dozen oysters, does that mean you could have five orgasms?”

  “You know, I have no idea. I don’t know if I could eat five dozen oysters though.”

  “It does seem like a lot. Do you have to eat them all at once or can you space it out over the course of a night? You know, eat a dozen, fuck. Eat a dozen more, fuck again.”

  “That’s an excellent question.”

  “Well, it certainly seems more practical than gorging on fifty or so oysters in one sitting. What if you just had one enormous orgasm and that was it? Fifty oysters, boom, gone at once.”

  “What if it was the greatest orgasm in the history of the world? Fifty oysters could really pack a punch. Wouldn’t you rather have one unbelievable, mind-changing, earthshaking orgasm than a bunch of little ones?”

  “Let me think about that. You know, I think I’d prefer a series of little ones. Because even after I just had the most incredible orgasm of my life, it would only be a few minutes before I’d want to do it again, but I’d be too shattered. Or at least you’d be.”

  “Good point. Women don’t need oysters.”

  “Maybe we should consult a doctor to find out the proper proportion?”

  “Or an oysterman?”

  “Better yet, an oysterman’s wife.”

  It is raining lightly when they leave the restaurant. The autumn is more advanced here than in Rome. Most of the leaves have already fallen. She wraps her arm tightly around him. He lessens his stride to accommodate her shorter legs. It is a new city to them both. The lights are shining only for them.

  They stop for a drink in a bar near her apartment, but after they place their order she says, “I don’t really want it. I thought I did because you did. But what I really want is you. Do you mind if we just go?”

  “Let’s get out of here then,” he says, placing some bills on the bar beside the untouched drinks.

  Upstairs in her dimly lit bedroom, he stands behind her.

  “I want you to undress me,” she says.

  Slowly he unzips the back of her dress and slides it off one shoulder at a time until it falls to the floor. She is wearing a pale pink brassiere, which he unhooks gently. Then slowly, like a supplicant, he moves around her and kneels before her, nuzzling her belly. He turns her to sit on the bed and removes her shoes. Naked, she stands up, facing him now.

  “Touch me everywhere,” she whispers.

  He does, caressing her breasts, her back, her arms, between her legs.

  “Kiss me,” she says.

  “Now you undress me,” he says.

  She removes his borrowed tie, sliding it off around his neck, and, taking it in both hands, she skims it up and down her body. Then she wraps it behind him and uses it to pull him closer to her. Standing on her toes, she kisses him softly on the mouth before tossing aside the tie with a giggle. She unbuttons his shirt, working her hand down through his chest hair, kissing and licking him until she stops at his navel. She walks around, removing first one arm of the shirt, then the other until she is standing behind him, her hands reaching around his front to unbuckle his b
elt.

  “Don’t move,” she whispers. “Let me do it.”

  She pulls down his trousers, kissing and licking the backs of his legs, and then slips her hand beneath his boxer shorts to feel him already straining at the cloth. She slowly rubs her hand back and forth and then lowers his shorts.

  “Oh god,” he says.

  Still behind him, she removes one shoe, then the other, allowing her to pull off his trousers. She turns him to face her and then takes him in her mouth, slowly, slowly, along the shaft and back again, teasing, looking up at him.

  As if on cue, he steps back and turns her around so that she is facing the bed. She inches forward and leans her weight on her forearms and calves. He enters her from behind, and when he is all the way in, she shudders and cries out. He watches himself go in and out of her, fascinated by this most primal of motions. He looks down the plain of her back, his hands on her haunches. She moans, clenching herself like a fist. He wants to be in every part of her at once, to feel what she feels, to know what she knows. This is as close as we can come to truly being with another person, and yet even this is not enough. He slides her down so that she is on her side, her right leg in the air, his right hand behind her head, his left hand on her breast. They are side by side. Equals now. Without meaning to he slips out of her, and, with a warm laugh, she puts him back.

  “I love you inside of me,” she says.

  She rolls over on her stomach, and he drives deeply into her, arching his back, going deeper, deeper, deeper, deeper. Her eyes open wide as she clutches at the bed covering, repeating My god, My god, My god, My god until her voice dissolves into uh uh uh uh uh uh, as he goes faster and faster, and she gasps for air, her face driven against the bed until they both cry out as though in pain not pleasure.

  Afterward, she uses the bathroom. When she comes back, she asks, “Do you really have to leave tomorrow?”

  “Yes. The ticket’s already been bought.”

  “I don’t want you to leave,” she says, reaching for his hand. “Now that I’ve found you, I don’t want you to go. Is there any way you could stay just a few more days?”