by Brian Moore
The lift came, but she said nothing. He opened the door. “Should I ride up in the elevator with you?” he asked.
And what could she say? She nodded and they went into the small lift, facing each other, going up. When the lift stopped on the fourth floor, the corridor was empty. She began to go toward her room, he walking a step or two behind her. As she unlocked the room door, she thought of the mess she had left that morning. “I don’t want you to see how untidy I am,” she said apologetically. He smiled and remained in the corridor while she went inside. But the maid had been, the bed was made, things had been put away, the shutters were open to the view. She took out her half dozen paperbacks, Penguins and Panthers, and turned around to see that the door had swung open. He stood, waiting, in the corridor.
“Terrific view,” he said.
“Yes, it is, you can see the whole port.” And suddenly it seemed silly to make a thing of keeping him out of the room, so she said, “Come in and have a look. The place is tidy, thank goodness.”
So he came in and stepped out onto the little balcony to look down at the Gare Maritime and the chapel. “That chapel,” she said, “was a fishermen’s chapel. Then it was done over by Jean Cocteau.”
He looked at it, then turned to her. “Terrific view,” he said again. He went back into the room and picked a book off the bed. “This looks good. Kingsley Amis. Is it a sort of thriller?”
“I haven’t read it yet,” she told him. So it was all right. She was glad she had asked him in.
“All right, then, I’ll see you at five,” he said, and walked past her, going toward the open door to the corridor. In that moment their bodies touched briefly and she put her hand on his arm, detaining him. “I had a lovely day, Tom. Really.”
As she said it, she was not quite sure what happened, but, clumsily, as though he had bumped into her, he put his cheek against hers and then, still holding the Penguin, put his arm around her waist, drawing her toward him. She felt herself tremble. She let him hold her, his cheek touching hers. As though this were a dream she was dreaming, she drew back, looked at him, then kissed him on the lips, her mouth partly open, a slow, soft kiss which filled her with a sensation as though she were about to faint.
They drew apart. She turned and pushed the room door shut. She sat down on the edge of the bed and he sat beside her, kissing her awkwardly, his hand moving down on her thigh, his fingers touching the bare skin inside her sundress. She turned her head away.
“Close the shutters,” she told him.
He rose to obey. She stood, went quickly into the bathroom, unbuttoning the yellow sundress, quickly unhooking her bra, pulling her pants down over her hips. She faced the mirror, saw the white vertical line of her Caesarian scar, and, for a moment, put her hand protectively over it. Then, hiding nothing, turned and walked back naked into the bedroom.
When he saw her come in like that, he seemed startled, but, at once, as though he must instantly put himself in the same condition, unbuttoned his shirt, pulled it off, unbuckled his belt, and dropped his trousers. He wore white jockey shorts and as he lowered them and kicked his leg free of them, she saw his penis. He had a huge erection. As he came toward her, his penis dangled in front of him, bobbing up and down with each step. He put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her in the hollow of her neck, and, as he did, she took hold of that huge penis and felt its stiffness. Then, slowly, she knelt on the floor and put the length of it against her cheek. She kissed its tip. He watched her kiss his penis and then, gently, took her head in his hands and, bending down, kissed her brow. He knelt, facing her on the floor, kissed the hollow of her neck, laid her down on the rug, and lay down beside her. They kissed on the lips, a slow, gentle, open-mouthed kiss, and again she felt faint. As he had that morning he began to massage her, his hands kneading her back, moving around to caress her belly, his fingers searching between her legs. They kissed again and, in unspoken agreement, stood up, and she pulled down the bedspread, revealing white sheets. He lay beside her on the bed, facing her, his hands stroking her breasts, the tip of his throbbing penis beating like a pulse against her belly, just below her navel. Again, she took hold of it and squeezed it. He turned her around, urgently, making her kneel on the bed. He was behind her now, and when she looked around she saw it, red-tipped and throbbing, waving in the air at her back. Then he took hold of her hips and she felt him put his penis in the furrow between the cheeks of her bottom. She had never done this before and for a moment was afraid that he was trying to put it into her anus. But then, slowly, massively, she felt it enter her vagina. She leaned forward, pressing against the pillow, her face half buried, feeling him bear down on her and in her. And then, driving, urgent, young, he began to push it in and out, his hands reaching up her body to take and caress her nipples. Her eyes shut, her mind’s eye filled with that memory of his huge penis and his flat boy’s belly, that penis now driving inside her, her hand reached down to touch herself, exciting herself further. She had never done it this way, never with the man behind her like this, and now with her breasts tingling and his penis in her, she began to make small sounds of pleasure. “Now,” his voice said, behind her, and as she began to come, she felt him come too, his hands suddenly gripping her hips, holding her, holding himself, thrusting in her.
She cried out.
Afterward, hot, yet shivering from her sunburn, feeling the wetness inside her, she lay, holding him, hearing his heart beat in his chest, a stranger with whom she had almost fainted with pleasure as never with Kevin, a man whose penis she now began to kiss and knead, feeling it come up, growing stiff in her hands, sure that here, in this heat, behind closed shutters on this bed, they were going to do it again, and that excited her; she knelt now, leaning over him, kissing his eyes, his neck, kissing his penis, kissing him with no shame, greedy; herself become someone she did not know could feel this way. His hands gripped her, lifting her up. She straddled him, looking down at him, lowering herself until she felt him, again, enter her.
•
He left her at six to go back to his room. At seven they met again at the sidewalk tables outside the Welcome. He held her hand under the table, but they did not discuss what had happened. “Do you want to go into Nice?” he asked.
“No, let’s just stay here. Let’s eat here. We can put it on my bill.”
“That could be awkward for you. I’ll pay.”
A young man in a black suit (she had seen him earlier, upstairs in the main lobby) came through the bar and out to the terrace, looking for someone. To her surprise, he came up to her.
“Mrs. Redden?”
“Yes.”
“Telephone for you. Iar-land. You can take it one floor up, in the cabine.”
“That will be my husband,” she said to Tom. “Wait here. I won’t be long.”
As she followed the hotel clerk to the lift, she felt panic: it was kin to that feeling of blank fear that came on her in her schooldays on the morning of an examination, when she would enter the hall, see the invigilators come down the aisles, handing out question books, and all answers would flee from her mind. The clerk went to the switchboard, picked up his earphones, then motioned her to go into the kiosk. The phone shrilled twice. She picked up the receiver.
“Hello?” I must try to sound normal.
“Shee? Hello?” It meant he was in good form, calling her Shee. Or that he wanted something.
“Yes, Kevin, how are you?”
“How are you? How’s the weather?”
“Super, I’ve just had a lovely day on the beach.”
“Good. Listen, Shee, I know this is awful, but Martin Dempsey, who was to stand in for me next week, is down with the flu. Would you believe it?”
“Oh, God.”
“Now, listen. I’m trying to arrange with McSherry to work things out. He’ll know by Friday. Could you believe so many things would go wrong in one week?”
She thought: he has no notion of coming.
“Shee, did you hear me? Are
you cross?”
“Of course not. Look, would you rather I came home?”
There was a pause at the other end. She could imagine him putting his head on one side and narrowing his eyes in the way he did when he thought about a question. Finally, he said. “Do you want to come home?”
“Not particularly. As I said, I had a good time today.”
“Then why not stay? No sense spoiling both our holidays, is there? And maybe I’ll manage to get away by Saturday.”
“All right then. How’s Danny doing?”
“Oh, busy. Rugby, mostly.”
“Well, make sure he eats proper meals, will you?”
“Yes, I will.”
“I suppose I’d better ring off now.”
“All right. Good night, Shee. I’ll let you know on Friday.”
“All right. Good night, Kevin.”
When she came out of the kiosk, the desk clerk smiled and waved to her. She waved back. “Merci bien.”
“De rien, Madame.”
She rang for the lift to take her downstairs again. He’s not coming, he’s not coming, we’ll have all week together. She came out through the bar, almost running, hurrying to the table.
“He’s not coming. He won’t be here before Saturday, if he comes at all.”
“You’re kidding!”
“No, it’s true. Aren’t we lucky?”
And then, like children who have played a joke, they both began to laugh, laughter like a weeping spell, a release which must run its course. They laughed, caught their breath, then laughed again until, she sat silent, downed in an afterwave of guilt.
“I’m terrible.”
“You’re not.” he said.
“I never did anything like this before in my whole life. I know you won’t believe that.”
“I believe it.”
“I mean, never.”
He nodded. “I know. It’s the same with me. When I followed you down here I was scared stiff you wouldn’t even speak to me. I love you.”
Suddenly she could not look at him. She lowered her head. “You’re far too young for me.”
“Nonsense. That doesn’t matter.”
“Doesn’t it? How old are you?”
“Twenty-six.”
“I’m thirty-seven.” Tears came into her eyes.
“Oh, darling, don’t think about it. We’re perfect for each other.”
She reached into her handbag, wadded a Kleenex into her weeping eyes, and stood up. “Please. Let’s go up to my room.”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
The lift was waiting at the back of the bar. They were alone in it, going up. In the fourth-floor corridor she fumbled with her key, dropping it on the carpet. He picked it up and, moving ahead of her, unlocked the room door, going in to the unmade bed, the open shutters. Mrs. Redden, catching sight of herself in the mirror, her eyes smudged from tears, began to cry again. He put his arms around her and sat her down on the edge of the bed and she turned to him as though in panic, kissed him open-mouthed and urgent, slipping her fingers inside his shirt. There, under the glare of her dressing-table lamp, he began to undress her, she helping him until she was naked. He put his hand out and ran the tips of his fingers over her nipples, which stood up, hard. She began to undo his trousers, then pulled them down over his hips, kneeling to pull down his shorts, taking his stiff penis in her hands, watching it as he reared up over her. He lifted her up, entering her, moving in her, she beginning to move with him, so excited she felt she would come at once, she could hardly stand it, it was so great, oh, God, she cried to herself, let this go on, let it go on.
Later, she lay on her back, the light out, looking through the bedroom window at the night sky, hearing the hum of talk from people dining at the sidewalk tables below on the quay. We should go down and eat. My hair is a mess.
“I’m hungry,” she said.
He sat up. “Me too. Let’s eat.”
“I’m a mess.”
“You’re great, you’re fine.”
He went into the bathroom. The bathroom light switched on and fell like a flag across the bed in the darkened bedroom. She lifted her left hand and looked at the wedding ring Kevin had picked out for her at Samuels’, a gold band and a platinum band, fused and intertwined. She examined it as though it were someone else’s ring, then eased it a little off her finger. There was a white circle where it had been. She slipped it back in place.
“Come on, lazy,” he called out. “Let’s go down. I want to drink a lot of wine.”
She sat up and saw herself in the dressing-table mirror. “I should do my face.”
“No, no, you’re fine as you are.”
But she did her face.
Chapter 5
• When Miss Purdue came down late for dinner, Mr. Balcer was sitting over a coffee, watching the new couple whom Ahmed, the waiter, had just seated at a nearby table. Mr. Balcer rose to draw out Miss Purdue’s chair. “Did you have a nice day?”
“Lovely,” Miss Purdue said. “And you?”
“I went into Nice this afternoon,” Mr. Balcer said. “I got two good ones.”
“Who?” Miss Purdue sounded annoyed.
“Willy Brandt, coming out of the Négresco and driving off with a police motorcycle escort. And, about an hour ago, Caroline Kennedy.”
“Where?”
“In the Place Masséna. I didn’t recognize her at first. I had to ask the paparazzi who were following her.”
Miss Purdue was dashed. She and Mr. Balcer had begun this game about a week ago. Each day they spied out celebrities and reported their finds to each other over dinner. Today had been a bad day for Miss Purdue. “I went to a flick around five,” she said. “So I wasn’t really in competition.” She accepted a menu from Ahmed and then glanced around the restaurant.
“New couple?”
“Interesting,” Mr. Balcer said. “They’re residents. Or at least she is.”
“How do you know?”
“See the room key sitting by her purse?”
“Something odd about them,” Miss Purdue said, and both she and Mr. Balcer stared, unabashed, wisely certain that the couple’s interest was held by the trick cyclist, as he sawed back and forth on his unicycle, inches from the quay’s edge.
“Wedding ring,” Miss Purdue said. “Husband and wife?”
“He’s not her husband,” Mr. Balcer decided. “How old would you say she is?”
“Forty?”
“Oh, come on. Trust a woman. I’d say mid-thirties.”
But Miss Purdue was listening in. “She’s Irish.”
“Are you sure?”
“If you lived in London, you’d be sure. Not only are we inundated with them, we hear nothing else but their awful accent on telly every time their bombs go off.”
“He’s American,” Mr. Balcer said. “Or he could be Canadian.” Mr. Balcer was Canadian.
“One would have expected it to be the other way around,” Miss Purdue said. “She should be the American. I mean, if it’s a dirty weekend—which it certainly appears to be.”
Miss Purdue picked up the menu and signaled Ahmed. Mr. Baker continued to watch the couple, although the sight of them made him vaguely angry. Nothing like that had ever happened to him in all his sixty years. No one had ever stared at him with such a loving look. He watched them holding hands under the table, heard their laughter and their happy voices, watched them toast each other, touching wineglasses. Mr. Balcer picked up his coffee cup. The dregs were cold.
•
When they had finished eating, Mrs. Redden suggested another stroll along the quay. He took her arm but she disengaged it and, instead, put her arm around his waist as they moved past the bobbing lights of the pleasure craft moored at the water’s edge. “I was thinking,” he said. “If your husband comes on Saturday, we have only two more days.”
“He may not come.”
“But if he does come?”
“Let’s not think about that.”
“We have to think about it.” He tossed his head back angrily. “Christ, I hate this undercover stuff. I never was mixed up with anyone who was married.”
“You don’t have to be. I didn’t invite you.”
“I’m sorry.” At once he put his arm around her. “I am sorry, Sheila. Listen, can I stay with you tonight? I could creep in and leave before anyone’s up in the morning.”
She did not answer.
“Or you could come to my room in Les Terrasses.”
“What if Kevin rings me up in the middle of the night?”
“Would he?”
“He might. I don’t know.”
“Look, don’t worry about it,” he said. “I’ll come to your room, but nobody will see me. I promise.”
“All right.”
But, later, going up to her room ahead of him, ostentatiously alone, she felt as she had when she was a child and some other kid had got her into something. People in love have no sense, she told herself. She went into the bedroom, put on the light, and tidied the bed, remembering how, that first time, she had come out naked from the bathroom. He must have thought she’d done it dozens of times with dozens of men. And then she remembered the diaphragm. She had tucked it away that first afternoon, under her cardigan in the bottom drawer of the bedroom dresser. I didn’t use it, not then, not later. Oh, God, what if I’m pregnant by him? She opened the drawer, felt under the cardigan, and took it out in its plastic case. The Caesarian, the two miscarriages, the awful guilty feeling of first using it on Kevin’s advice. Once it had seemed so sinful; now, so safe. Oh, God, how could I have forgotten it?
She heard him knock. “Just a moment,” she called. Quickly she ran into the bathroom, pulled down her panty hose, and put it in. Then, flushed and nervous, she went out to the bedroom, unlocked the door, and admitted him.
“Didn’t meet anyone,” he whispered and hugged her. She relocked the door. Suddenly, as in a silent film, he began to strip off his clothes at a great rate. She smiled at him, then began to imitate him, but the wine she had drunk made her unsteady, and when she kicked her panty hose free of her ankle, she overbalanced and fell. She got up, saw him naked, and then he switched the overhead light off. In the dark, the shutters drawn to close out the Mediterranean moonlight, she moved down in the bed, found his penis, and put it in her mouth, sucking on it until she felt him contract his thigh muscles, his hands on her head, pushing her away. “No, I don’t want it too soon, wait.” She felt his mouth on her nipples, felt his hands moving over her stomach. His mouth went down: Kevin had never done that to her; she had read about it but now was ashamed that Tom was doing it to her, until she felt his tongue inside her and, oh, God, she had to delay him as he had delayed her.
