Bruce’s eyes were glassy as he fumbled to unzip his pants. He pulled them to his knees, his T-shirt still on as he spread her legs and tried to thrust into her. It didn’t work.
He leaned down and licked her sweaty neck. He tried again. She was too dry, it chafed.
Justine struggled to move. She would help him.
But Bruce was pushing over and over at her, without success. She was tied up so tightly. She needed her hands free. She tried to spread her legs farther.
“Fuck!” Bruce came all over her stomach. He collapsed on top of her, panting. Then he stood up, disappeared, and came back seconds later, wiping the semen off himself, then sponging some of it off her stomach.
He threw the soiled paper on the floor and started out the door.
“Hey!”
He reappeared in the doorway.
“Untie me!”
He hesitated, looking at her splayed body. She pulled her legs closed.
“I was thinking we’d have another go.” Bruce blew her a kiss before closing the door behind him.
The air from the window was congealing the liquid on her stomach. She prayed it wasn’t on Eve’s dress. Her wrists ached from the belt. Justine heard a soft cooing and turned to see a pigeon squatting on the sill. Its beady eye met hers. Had the bird watched everything? The pigeon cocked its head to the side, as if sympathetic, but then took off in a flutter.
She closed her eyes and passed out.
* * *
—
“Justine?”
She opened her eyes a crack. A blurry, dark-haired figure was approaching the bed.
“Jesus Christ! What happened?” Clay came into focus, looking furious.
He grabbed a paisley shawl off a chair and threw it over her sprawled nakedness.
“Don’t look,” she said, but it was too late. He had seen.
Clay unbuckled her and she rubbed her sore shoulders. Sitting up, Justine pulled the shawl around her. The cum was cold and sticky on her stomach. “Where’s Eve?”
“She left; she couldn’t find you.”
“What time is it?”
“Past two. Shit, are you okay? Was this Bruce?”
Justine nodded, then shook her head. Suddenly she was about to cry.
“Hang on!” He ran out the door.
Tears ran down her face. How was she going to get back to Eve’s?
The door opened, but instead of Clay, Tierney’s friend Jackie stared at her.
“Get out,” Justine said, failing to hide her tears.
Jackie crossed her arms over her boiled-wool jacket. “Glad to see you’re paying the rent.” Her face was bright red from alcohol.
“Eat me.”
“You’re not my type. Anyway, all the other bathrooms are full,” she said, lumbering across the room.
The sound of the toilet lid being lifted was followed by vigorous peeing.
Jackie came out, stuffing her turtleneck into her skirt.
“Did you even flush?” Justine asked.
Jackie snorted and slammed the bedroom door.
* * *
—
Clay reappeared with a can of Coke. It was the best thing she’d ever tasted. He sat next to her on the slippery satin.
“Thanks.” She wiped her eyes and looked into his.
Green, full of pity.
“Don’t look at me, I look like shit.”
“You’re incredibly beautiful.”
She eyed him suspiciously, but saw he meant it.
He leaned over and picked up her shoe. “I’ll wait outside for you to get dressed. I can take you home.”
“You don’t have to,” she said.
“I want to.”
* * *
—
As they rode up Park, Justine stared bleakly at the hookers on every corner. It was bizarre that such a fancy street was lined with prostitutes at night, and she couldn’t help staring at their sequined dresses, their thigh-high boots. How many men did they blow a night? How much did they charge?
The silence in the cab was laden with things unsaid. She needed to talk, anything to dispel the awkwardness. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.” Clay ran his fingers through his hair.
“Why’d Barbara say you wouldn’t approve?”
His smile was rueful. “She thinks I’m square. I’m the only semi-responsible one in my family.” The cab hit a bump and caught air. “Slow down! Here, put your seat belt on.” He leaned over and buckled it for her. “My family’s nuts. Sister’s in a cult in Hawaii, and you’ve met my mom.”
“Is your dad dead?”
“No, why?”
“Sorry, when you and India were talking about his Zippo . . .”
“He might as well be.” Clay gazed out the window. “He left us.”
“How old were you?”
“Unfortunately, it was only a few months ago.”
The cab pulled up in front of 1122.
“I’ll watch you get inside,” Clay said.
“Thanks.” She moved away, wishing they had more time. She wanted to know about his family. Sister in a cult? How was that possible? The only cults she had heard of were like that one with the purple Kool-Aid. Still, at least she wasn’t the only one with a kooky family. Maybe she and Clay had more in common than she had thought.
“Anytime,” he replied, staying on his side of the cab. Of course he wouldn’t get near her, she thought bitterly; she was covered in sperm and puke.
She climbed out. The door was locked and so she rang the bell.
A gaunt man opened it.
“May I help you?”
“Hey, Jakey!” Clay leaned out the window. “She’s staying at the Strauses’!”
“Ten-four, Bradley.”
Clay gave Justine a small smile, then she watched his cab disappear into the night.
Justine hung the stained dress over Eve’s shower curtain rod. Naked, she crawled under the soft covers and fell into a dreamless sleep.
ELEVEN
India Clarkson lay on the cushions exhaling pot smoke. Was it her imagination or did she need more to flip the switch these days? Maybe Jimmy had sold her an inferior batch.
The phone rang. India let it. Nobody she wanted to talk to called before ten.
Had her father found her number? She’d made sure it was unlisted, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to hide from him forever.
Two men argued on the street below; a dog barked. It was called Hell’s Kitchen for a reason, inhabited by drug dealers, prostitutes, and people on the edge. But here India had been able to hide from anyone who had known her before. She had become another person. And in ways she had not anticipated. After moving in, India had gone out to buy votive candles from the store and several strangers had nodded at her on the street. It was mysterious, but then in the bodega on the corner of Tenth Avenue the clerk addressed her in Spanish. India answered him in his own tongue; she was fluent in Spanish, French, and Italian, the gift of Mademoiselle and several governesses. India realized that with her dark hair and olive skin, they all took her for a local Latina.
India thought about what Eve had said about her English teacher taking her to supper, and how her warning signals had flashed. All men wanted the same thing.
The phone rang again. India regarded the plastic thing, imagining who might be on the other end.
“Hello?”
“Is this Miss Clarkson? Thomas Lentmore, curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Can you speak a moment?”
India imagined the Greek vase her grandmother had donated smashed in shards on the museum floor.
“Yes?”
“I’m a curator at the Costume Institute, and we’re putting together the Yves Saint Laurent show.”
Was this a joke
?
“I’m sure you know all about it.”
“No,” India replied, “I’m afraid I don’t.” She twirled the phone cord around her wrist until it left a white spiral indentation on her skin.
The curator cleared his throat. “I know it may sound unusual. It’s the first time a museum has done a major retrospective of a living couturier,” he said. “It’s a bit late in the game, but we know Kiki was a muse of his. A board member suggested you might still have some pieces.”
India glanced back into the living room, at the garment rack. “I’m not sure I do.” Cupping the receiver with her cheek, she rubbed the curly marks on her wrist.
“Would it help if I described the pieces she had in mind? Or perhaps I could pay you a visit? The show is terribly soon, I could come this afternoon.”
India went rigid. “I don’t have much anymore. You’re wasting your time. I’m sorry. Goodbye.”
India walked back into the living room. The garment rack held many floor-length gowns, tailored cocktail dresses, colorful silk blouses. Touching a purple tulle and black velvet piece, India checked the label, even though she knew what it said. There were many Saint Laurents, but India recalled this particular dress being created for Kiki by Yves himself. She remembered sitting on the carpet of his studio in Paris, looking out the window into the courtyard garden, listening to the metal rasp of scissors, gathering up small pieces of black lace as they fell to the floor. Her mother had been the perfect size 2.
India hadn’t understood the designer at the time, the frightened look on his face, his darting glance, his pinched posture. He had made her uncomfortable with his restless unease in his own body, a discomfort that she now understood so well.
India looked in the mirror. Everyone said she resembled her mother, the same small bones, high cheekbones, dark eyes, black hair, olive complexion. It was hard to believe that half of her genes were her father’s.
That Greek vase of her grandmother’s had been on a pedestal at home, spotlit, a centerpiece with agile black figures prancing across a terra-cotta surface. Now in the Metropolitan, its beauty was dimmed by its proximity to so many others, just a bunch of pottery lined up in a dusty storage facility.
India imagined these dresses hung on lifeless plastic mannequins lined up in similar fashion.
This fabric had touched Kiki’s skin, had absorbed her perspiration and perfume, and India would be damned before letting some covetous curator touch any of it.
* * *
• • • • • • •
Eve yanked the boiling sweater dress away from her chest and fanned herself with her hand. “Where is my brother? Just watch my mother take it all out on me.”
“What time was the game supposed to be over?” Justine asked.
“No idea. Give me a fag,” Eve demanded.
“I thought you couldn’t smoke in here,” Justine said, chucking a gold box of Benson & Hedges at her.
“If Mom comes, I’ll just blame you.” Eve exhaled in the general direction of the window.
Thank God none of them knew about last night, Justine thought. She had expected Eve to beg her for details about the party, but the whole day, Eve hadn’t asked her a thing. Suddenly Justine wondered if Eve sensed that something was wrong. Justine felt an all-too-familiar stab of shame. On one hand, Eve’s discretion was a relief, but on the other hand, it implied that Eve suspected the worst.
But the worst wasn’t even Bruce. It was that Clay had seen her naked and covered in semen. Despite being wasted, Justine remembered every detail. And even after that, he had taken her all the way home.
“Where the hell is Sandy?” Eve said. She whirled on a heel toward Justine. “When are you leaving? What movie are you seeing?”
“Something foreign,” Justine replied.
If Eve thought she was still going to Clay’s, then she obviously had no idea what had happened last night. Justine should have known that Eve was way too innocent to imagine such things. And she was glad Eve didn’t know, but still, how much she longed to lay her head down on Eve’s lap, for Eve to stroke her hair and tell her it hadn’t been her fault.
“Barbara will probably go for a silent film with no subtitles.” Eve threw the sweater dress in the direction of her closet. “She’ll mime along.”
Deirdre stormed in. “Have you stuffed your brother in a trunk?”
Just then they heard Sandy in the front hall. “Mom? I’m starving!”
* * *
• • • • • • •
In the cab to the restaurant Eve stared out the window. Was Justine actually going to Clay’s? She had been awfully vague about her plans. Maybe it was because Barbara and Clay had been vague themselves.
Eve had pretended to be asleep last night when Justine came home. She had seen the stained suede dress hanging in the bathroom in the morning. She didn’t dare ask what had happened. It must have been with Bruce, and it must have been bad. Justine had been uncharacteristically quiet all day, losing track of conversations midsentence. Eve didn’t want to pester her for details.
* * *
—
The Quilted Giraffe was nestled in a discreet town house on Second Avenue.
“Straus, table for four.”
The maître d’ consulted his list. Deirdre was staring at two people by the bar.
“Look, Frederick. It’s Margot and Keith!” Deirdre waved to them and headed in their direction.
“Darling!” Keith Wilson kissed Eve’s mother on both cheeks. He was always so stylish, with his salt-and-pepper hair and double-breasted blazers. “Margot, you remember the Strauses?”
Margot Moore, SoHo gallerist, fierce-faced with blazing red lipstick. “I’ve known Deirdre and Frederick since before I knew you.”
“These are our children, Eve and Sandy,” Frederick said, nudging Sandy forward.
“Eve aspires to work in the art world,” Deirdre said. “You’re her role model, Margot.”
Eve wished she could submerge herself in someone’s cocktail, but Margot was busy scanning the room to see if she knew anyone else.
Frederick signaled the bartender.
“Margot’s doing a new Massimo Sforza show,” Keith said. Margot turned back to them, taking a sip of her kir royale.
Deirdre clasped her hands. “Oh please! Let me have one!”
Her mother had been dying for a Sforza painting for as long as Eve could remember. It was unclear why they were so difficult to acquire.
“Is he still having his moment?” Frederick asked, handing Deirdre a martini.
“Frederick,” Margot said, looking at Eve’s father with pity, “Massimo is a legend. We’re fortunate to witness history in the making. And, Deirdre, I’m sorry,” she said, “I know how eager you are for a Sforza but I’m afraid all the good pieces are already spoken for. I know your taste. I wouldn’t sell you one of the inferior works.”
Deirdre sloshed some martini on her dress and began dabbing a spot on her chest with a bar napkin. The paper started to disintegrate, leaving white dandruff on the magenta fabric.
“When’s the show?” Frederick asked.
“Right after Labor Day,” Margot said.
Almost a year away, and all the best pieces were spoken for? Margot must be lying.
“Eve was at a party at the Bradleys’ last night,” Deirdre said.
Eve looked at her mother in surprise.
“Bradley?” Margot asked. “As in Barbara Bradley?”
Eve nodded.
“Barbara’s new work is on display in her loft,” her mother continued, “for an intimate few. Eve and Clayton have always been so close.”
“Barbara is one of the few true artists left in SoHo, and I mean in a real 1968 way,” Margot said.
“They’re practically cousins.” Deirdre flashed Margot her most convincing smile.
Frederick grunted something unintelligible.
“Loosen up, Freddy,” Deirdre said.
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Keith said. “Freddy hasn’t been comfortable around me since I came out. No, really! I’m used to it. A lot of my old friends are so distant now.”
The maître d’ appeared. “Mr. Straus,” he said, “your table is ready.”
* * *
—
The maître d’ led them through the hushed restaurant to a table in the center of which was a bird of paradise in a black vase.
“Your father likes to face out,” Deirdre said, pointing Frederick to the chair by the wall. Eve sat and picked up her peach jacquard napkin, which had been carefully folded into a giraffe on the plate. The apricot-and-gold plates were set on a soft brocade tablecloth, flanked by silverware with black porcelain handles.
“Welcome,” the waiter said, staring at Sandy. “My name’s Darius. May I offer you a cocktail?”
“I need a moment with the wine list,” Frederick said. “Is Barry available?”
Barry was the owner and chef.
“No, he’s in France,” the waiter said.
“He said he’d be here.” Her father’s voice was edgy.
“He’ll be back Sunday,” Darius reassured him.
Eve’s parents exchanged a sour look.
“Can I have a Shirley Temple?” Sandy asked.
“I suppose,” Frederick said. “Eve?”
Eve just shook her head. Her parents never let her have wine, and she was too old for silly kid drinks.
“One Shirley Temple,” Deirdre said, and the waiter moved away.
Frederick gazed glumly at the wine list. After a moment he snapped it shut and looked up at Eve. “Honey, I’ve been meaning to tell you that you look great. Griswold agrees with you.”
“It must be all that fresh air,” Deirdre said.
Age of Consent Page 8
