Eighty Days Red

by Vina Jackson

  Dominik watched the couple slide languorously across the restricted dance floor, wondering how much of this routine had been rehearsed, and where.

  Her partner led Luba to the relentless echoes of the music, as she surrendered to gravity and his authoritative embrace, legs and body in perfect extension before her shape was broken time and time again on the altar of his demands. Heat rose inexorably from the room in response to the closeness of the dancers’ bodies and the obscene way Luba was stretched, exposed, moved from side to side by the tanned, muscled, god-like creature whose facial expression never changed, severe, dominant.

  Her legs briefly parted at an extreme angle, revealing her, and then he pulled her against him, his cock now as hard as the rest of his body and pressed between their torsos in a tight embrace. It was shocking, but beautiful, Dominik had to admit.

  A dance of pure desire, of danger, as Luba appeared to simply relax into her partner and allow him to move her here, there and everywhere according to his will, as if she had abdicated her own. It was impossible to keep one’s eyes away from the glistening sheen now covering the bodies of both Luba and the man, the pornographic vision of the man’s arousal in such close contact with the Russian dancer’s exquisite body. Dominik watched the way his cock brushed against her midriff, the long bridge of her legs impeccably straight, her feet extended like a trained ballerina’s, her head thrown back, rigid, impervious.

  The music was raised a notch, the male dancer threw Luba to the floor where she unfurled, spreadeagled in a perfect geometric position, and then he leaned over towards her, took hold of her hand and pulled her back to him, every alignment of their naked bodies a ritual, a ceremony of lust.

  Vertical again, she raised her leg until she achieved the perfect angle, and to gasps from the audience the man impaled her in one swift movement, his hard cock plunging straight inside the lips of her offered cunt.

  He disappeared inside her to the hilt, leaving the couple now locked together and shuddering to the music. Their dancing movements continued, his embedded cock now leading her as well as his arms as they continued their tango. Not once did he move out of her, Dominik noticed, or did the figures of the dance lose their elegant flow.

  In the chairs ahead of him he saw the hands of a woman grip her neighbour’s thigh.

  Somehow it didn’t feel as if they were fucking, it was still a dance, a primal dance, a thing of terrible beauty taken to another level, where the inherent grace of their bodies transcended the obscenity of the moment.

  Dominik caught his breath. His eyes were drawn to the shimmering surface tension of Luba’s buttocks as she swirled around on the male dancer, his penis now an extension of her spine as if, were he to suddenly withdraw, she would collapse like a rag doll with no means of physical support.

  The music began to fade and in parallel the dance slowed to a halt until Luba and the handsome male dancer just stood there, still connected, like statues of flesh, their perfect immobility barely betrayed by the way his chest moved up and down as he regained his composure and the pink flush of arousal spreading between her neck and the valley of her breasts.

  You could have heard a pin drop.

  On a signal from the older woman who had earlier been orchestrating the event, the sailors on either side now switched off the strong lights.

  Dominik took a long, deep gulp of mineral water; he knew that some of tonight’s images would remain carved into the screen at the back of his brain for ever. His mind was prompted by the fiery spectacle of Luba and the dancers’ interlocked genitals to evoke the ardent warmth he always experienced whenever he was inside Summer, the way her body responded to him, the perfection in the way that their desires coincided, their inner darknesses meeting at some invisible crossroads of the soul. He was man enough to realise what a tissue of imperfections they both were, unlike Luba whose serene felicity had something of the uncanny. But they complemented each other. Felt whole together.

  The limousine drove them back to their respective hotels in Barcelona. The full Mediterranean moon shone high above the sea as the car raced up the empty coastal highway. ‘That was beautiful,’ Dominik told Luba.

  ‘It was well paid,’ she replied.

  ‘I can imagine. Was he your normal … dance partner?’

  ‘There are several. It depends on the engagements. It’s a somewhat … specialist field of expertise,’ she said.

  ‘He looked South American but maybe I got that impression because it was a tango. What’s his name?’

  ‘I don’t know. It never bothers me.’ She turned away, her eyes fixed on the darkness outside.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘What’s the point? I make myself available, the male dancer directs, I follow. That’s all.’ She turned back to him. ‘But tell me, Dominik?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You must promise to never put me in one of your books. Yes?’

  Dominik hesitated. All through the drive he’d been thinking how to translate the exquisite if transgressive spectacle into words. It was such a temptation.

  Luba noted his visible reluctance.

  ‘Promise me,’ she repeated.

  ‘OK.’ Dominik acceded to her demand.

  An uneasy silence took over as the limo reached the city suburbs and leapfrogged through traffic lights.

  ‘It’s how I met Viggo,’ Luba said, out of the blue. ‘I was involved in another live sex show. With a different partner. A Ukrainian too, like me. It was in Amsterdam.’

  ‘And you became … friends?’

  ‘Yes, Viggo asked me to be with him afterwards. Said he collected beautiful things and I would be the crown in his empire. It’s a silly way to seduce a woman, but he was rich, charismatic, funny and I needed a change from the dancing life.’

  ‘So you followed him to London?’

  ‘Yes, he even hired a private jet for the journey back. He likes to spoil me, and of course himself. But he is a good man deep down. And an interesting lover.’

  ‘Is that how you rate men – by level of interest?’

  ‘Why not?’ She smiled, playfulness now overtaking the tiredness caused by her recent performance.

  ‘But you decided to go back to your dancing?’

  ‘I was getting bored,’ she said. ‘Anyway, who needs a reason? I can do what I want. With Viggo it’s not a marriage, just a friendship of equals. He’s not a jealous man.’ ‘I see,’ Dominik noted. ‘Tell me more about his collections, then?’

  Viggo Franck’s pride and joy was the collection of musical instruments he had gathered. He owned two electric guitars that Jimi Hendrix had used, an acoustic Spanish guitar allegedly played by John Lennon, a battered Satchmo trumpet, an actual Paganini violin and an assortment of other rare instruments associated with famous musicians, whether from the classical or the rock field. Not content with such a treasure trove, he also hoarded various Picasso sketches, an original early Warhol, a Hirst, and sundry high-value limited-edition prints. In addition, he also had a full set of F. Scott Fitzgerald, William Faulkner and Hemingway first editions, all with dust jackets, some actually signed.

  The collection was liberally spread throughout several temperature-regulated rooms in his Belsize Park mansion.

  ‘Sounds fascinating,’ Dominik remarked. ‘Doesn’t he keep some of the more valuable pieces somewhere else?’

  It seemed there was a locked room in the basement which Luba had never visited and that Viggo was also a touch secretive about when it came to its contents. Stated that he only kept his rare vinyl records there, which made little sense. Anyway, neither Luba nor Viggo’s everchanging entourage were interested in that particular portion of his collection.

  ‘Maybe it’s because the items he keeps there are more fragile?’ Luba speculated.

  ‘It could be,’ Dominik agreed, not wishing to pursue the subject further for now. They were driving up Diagonal and soon reached the hotel which the oligarchs had booked Luba into. He offered to walk back to his own hotel,
which was barely ten minutes away on foot, but Luba insisted on asking the mute chauffeur to drop him off after her. They agreed to chat again in London one day.

  Dominik returned to the UK two days later. The first thing he noticed on arriving at his house in Hampstead was Lauralynn’s large Samsonite suitcase parked by the door, alongside a large plastic duty-free bag.

  Dominik called out for her but there was no response.

  He walked up the stairs to the room she was using and gently rapped on the door in case she was still sleeping this late in the morning.

  The room was empty and the bed had visibly not been slept in. There was a mess of clothes scattered across the room and shoes in disarray across the carpeted floor, as if she had been in a rush – not so much to unpack but to gather things up again.

  He suddenly remembered that he had forgotten to leave her a note telling her he was going to Barcelona for a short time. Maybe, finding the house empty, she had decided to spend a few days elsewhere, with another friend.

  Dominik felt emotionally exhausted. He decided to leave his overnight bag in the hall, sitting fraternally next to Lauralynn’s luggage, and made a beeline for his bedroom, firmly intent on sleeping all his worries away. He’d had to check in at Barcelona airport at six that morning.

  Dropping his clothes along the floor in his wake, Dominik wearily collapsed onto the bed, too lazy to pull the covers on to his body, and was soon sound asleep.

  He awoke late in the afternoon to the caress of warm breath against the bare skin of his uncovered arse.

  ‘Hello, stranger …’

  He half opened his eyes, wiping the sleep away, turned his head and saw Lauralynn overlooking him, her face a portrait of amusement. Realising he was naked and aroused, he attempted to pull a sheet over himself, which only made her laugh.

  ‘Oh, Dominik, I’ve seen it all before,’ she said. ‘Why this sudden coyness?’ ‘I suppose so,’ he mumbled.

  She wore a black promotional T-shirt for a band he’d never heard of, white jeans and laced leather boots that reached to mid-calf. From his perspective lying on the bed, she seemed even taller than he had ever known her.

  ‘Welcome back,’ Dominik said, pulling her down so they were sitting companionably side by side on the bed.

  ‘The same to you. You didn’t say you were going to be away.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I thought you were in Berlin. So, I went over there, hoping to surprise you.’

  ‘Berlin?’

  ‘Yes. I assumed you’d found out Summer was playing there with Chris and his band. It was the final bookmark on your computer history. But you weren’t there. I’d sure make a bad Sherlock, eh?’

  ‘I was in Barcelona. A promo gig for my publishers there.’

  ‘Barcelona!’ Lauralynn burst out laughing. ‘And there I go following you to the wrong end of Europe.’

  ‘How was Berlin?’ Dominik asked.

  ‘How was Barcelona?’

  ‘It was interesting,’ he mused.

  ‘Is that all you’re going to say about it?’

  ‘Yes.’ A thin smile was spreading across Dominik’s lips as he recalled Luba and the show, the bookstalls along the Ramblas, the roses in full bloom.

  ‘I met up with Summer,’ Lauralynn said.

  ‘And?’ He tried to sound uninterested.

  ‘It was fun …’

  ‘Fun?’

  ‘Listen, I like her. A lot.’ She noticed a cloud pass before his eyes. ‘Not in that way,’ she quickly added. ‘Just as a friend, a mate.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘And you’re an idiot, Dominik. A total idiot. Why the hell did you allow her to believe you and me had become an item? You know full well that’s not what we have.’

  Dominik paled.

  ‘I heard she was now shacked up with Viggo Franck. I could sense she still had some feelings for me. Didn’t want her to feel bad about it. I never said we were actually together in that sense,’ he said. ‘Just mentioned that you were living here.’

  ‘And what did you realistically think she would make of that; the conclusions she would draw? Ah, you’re both complete morons.’

  ‘Both?’

  ‘Yes, you two are your own worst enemies. Obstinate, proud, allow me to list the sins …’

  ‘You told her how it was, between you and me?’

  ‘Of course I did. Made it very clear to her, something you should have done from the outset when you met up in Brighton. You’re like children, the way you play with your emotions, I swear.’

  ‘And Viggo?’

  ‘Come on, don’t you see it? He’s just a stopgap. Does he look like an exclusive sort of guy? Anyway, he’s got that Russian chick, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Luba.’

  ‘Is that what she’s called? She’s just another player, I guess. Not the jealous type.’

  ‘I’ve come across her.’

  ‘Good for you.’

  ‘She’s nice,’ he said. ‘I think you’d like her, honestly.’

  ‘So make an introduction.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘The least you can do to make amends.’

  ‘What was Summer’s reaction to the news about you and me?’

  ‘Anger, surprise, relief. I don’t know. It certainly wasn’t what she expected.’

  ‘So what happens now?’

  ‘Call her, you fool. Enough playing games. You were made for each other. But now it’s up to you to make it work, find a way.’

  Dominik shivered. The bedroom window was half open and outside dusk was falling, the trees on the Heath fluttering in the rising evening breeze.

  ‘And put something on,’ she said, looking down at him. ‘Or that lovely cock of yours will shrivel down to much less attractive proportions.’

  11 Nudes on Walls

  Viggo and Luba were curled up together like two ferns, Viggo’s arms draped over Luba’s back and her long legs overlaying his.

  I’d woken up a few feet away from them, hanging off the edge of the bed, and had quietly slipped out from under the covers and padded over to the bathroom, careful not to wake them. Viggo slept like the dead, but Luba had reflexes like a cat’s, and I expected to see her long lashes flutter open at any moment.

  I didn’t want to explain to her why I was up early, or where I was going.

  The days of all three of us spooning had disappeared. I now felt suffocated sharing the sheets with a crowd. But ending our relationship might mean the end of Chris’s career, and the last that I would see of my Bailly, so for now I was stuck with them, for better or worse.

  The tour had been a success, both for me and for Groucho Nights. Chris, Ella and Ted were now busy writing and recording their first studio album. Marija, Baldo and Alex had returned to New York to rejoin the Gramercy Symphonia and the more staid classical world, but might return at a later stage for overdubs. Viggo had agreed to foot the bill when the time came.

  And I was getting ready for a date with Dominik.

  At least, I hoped it was a date. We had hatched a plan between us, to recover the Bailly which we were both convinced was stored somewhere inside Viggo’s mansion, and we were meeting to finalise the details.

  I had followed Dominik’s instructions to the letter, copying a set of house keys and planning an evening to get Viggo and Luba out of the house. I’d also drawn him a map of all the rooms, including notes showing where the basement was, and the locked room where I thought my violin would most likely be concealed.

  The only thing I hadn’t been able to work out was the combination to the alarm on the vault door. I’d never seen Viggo open it, or even go down to the basement. He rarely glanced at his art collection, just seemed happy to have things in his possession.

  I’d checked everything over and over, scoured the corners of each room for security cameras I might have overlooked, looking at my plans to make sure I hadn’t missed anything, but I was still restless, and had spent the whole week nervously pacin
g the floors in the mansion, torn between the fear that Dominik would get caught and it would all be my fault in the excitement at seeing him again.

  We’d talked on the phone a few times since our night in Paris, mainly about the Bailly and his research efforts, never about us. I still wasn’t sure whether Lauralynn was right, and he was in love with me. I wasn’t even sure if I was in love with him. I felt more like he was the right to my left, the yin to my yang. We were two halves of the one whole, and neither of us operated well without the other. If that was love, then I supposed that we were in love, but I doubted that we’d ever have anything close to the fairy-tale romances promised by popular fiction and Hollywood. I’d get bored, eventually, I reckoned, if my life took a sugary sweet turn as promised in the pages of the pastel-coloured books with their titles embossed in italics that I always avoided like the plague, maybe for fear I might come under their spell.

  I liked Dominik for all the reasons that I probably shouldn’t. Being with him was like walking a knife’s edge. He was everything that I wanted my life to be; unpredictable and just the right side of dangerous. But I still had no idea how he felt about me.

  He’d suggested that we meet in the cafe at St Katherine Docks, where we’d had our very first proper encounter just under three years ago now. I wasn’t sure whether he’d suggested it out of sentimentality or convenience.

  I nearly wore a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt, a combination that I donned so rarely but which he’d always seemed to appreciate, perhaps because he knew that it was a look that I sported without pretence, in situations where I felt truly relaxed and comfortable. But at the last moment I opted for a short skirt, in the hope that he might pull it up and have his wicked way with me in a nearby bathroom, alleyway or the back seat of his car. Even a hand on my thigh would be difficult to encourage with trousers on.

  It was raining as I made my way around the dock to the cafe. It had been warm when I had left the house, so I hadn’t bothered with an umbrella, and I was wearing open-toed shoes. My blouse was wet and sticking to my skin and water streamed down my legs.

  It took me a few moments to open the door to the cafe as my hands shook so much I couldn’t grip the handle. I was filled with a heady mixture of excitement and exhilaration at the thought of seeing him again.