Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Also by Peter Michael Rosenberg
Acclaim for Peter Michael Rosenberg
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
About the Author
KISSING THROUGH A PANE OF GLASS
by
Peter Michael Rosenberg
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
KISSING THROUGH A PANE OF GLASS
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.
Copyright © 2011 Peter Michael Rosenberg. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Cover designed by Graphicz X Designs http://graphiczxdesigns.zenfolio.com
Published by: Mojito Press http://www.mojitopress.com
Visit the author website: http://www.petermichaelrosenberg.com
Version: 2011.27.12
Also by Peter Michael Rosenberg
Novels:
Kissing Through a Pane of Glass
Touched by a God or Something
Because it Makes my Heart Beat Faster
Daniel’s Dream
Implicated
Short Stories:
The Fig Tree - a fable
Writing as Tyler Montreux
Novels:
The Uncertainty Principle
Acclaim for Peter Michael Rosenberg
"An accomplished storyteller" – THE TIMES
Kissing Through a Pane of Glass
Winner of the Betty Trask Award
"A deep and insightful portrayal of tortured love... powerful and disturbing" - LITERARY REVIEW
"A disturbing cautionary tale about the danger of demanding your heart's desire... a compelling guide to romantic pain and responsibility" – SHE
"Very readable... Rosenberg writes about sex with a beguiling honesty" – TIME OUT
"The story is a moving one, skilfully told" – FINANCIAL TIMES
"A touching story" – SPECTATOR
"An impressive debut" – NEW WOMAN
"A wonderfully written and at times quite chilling story of obsessive love... I am convinced we have a major new novelist breaking through here" – TAMWORTH HERALD
Touched by a God or Something
"Enjoyable and tautly paced... Mr Rosenberg has proved that his third novel will have an eager audience" - SUNDAY TELEGRAPH
"This is a great novel, full of intrigue, invention and superb characterisation – Peter Michael Rosenberg is a superb modern novelist who writes with skill, style and great imagination. Roll on the third novel!" – TAMWORTH HERALD
"After finding this book in a library the description grabbed me enough to give it a try. I'm glad I did. It's a solid story neatly written and with exactly the kind of ending I like in a book - anything but happily ever after. It confidently touches on the subject of gender roles and leaves you thinking long after reading it. I went on to read most of Peter Michael Rosenbergs books and found them enjoyable too. None stayed with me as much as this one. It's a shame that Rosenberg's books aren't as popular as they deserve to be." – Amazon 5 star review
Because It Makes My Heart Beat Faster
"A dark tale which touches on the latent violence lurking beneath the most civilized of exteriors... compelling" - THE TIMES
Daniel's Dream
"I read 'Daniel's Dream' while on holiday some years ago and it's a terrific read. Rosenberg's writing really shines in the vivid dream sequences where the main character, suffering from the effects of a serious accident, finds another existence in a remote Greek village. You can almost smell the Greek food and feel the warmth of the sun as you're reading it. I've read a couple of other Peter Michael Rosenberg books ('Touched By A God Or Something' & 'Because It Makes My Heart Beat Faster') and he seems to have the ability to create stories and characters that stay with you long after you've read the last page. For a well written and ultimately moving story `Daniel's Dream' comes highly recommended. – Amazon 5 star review
For Therese Campbell
Chapter 1
I find it easy to love. I come from a loving, demonstrative family. My father cuddled me as a child - we still greet each other with a hug and a kiss - and my mother showered me with care and affection. Words of love and comfort were scrawled across the blank pages of my early life, and like blotting paper I soaked up every inky drop, until my soul was stained permanently blue-black with the excesses of my parents’ affection. I became saturated with all that touching and kissing and warmth. Is it any wonder that in my adult life I have searched for women who will wring me dry, women to whom I can give some of that excess love?
My motives have not been purely altruistic; of course not. Love is a heavy burden. If I can bring happiness into someone’s life by loving them, then so much the better. But they have to want it, they have to be able to accept it, or else I remain weighed down. And I don’t want to feel weighed down. I want to feel light, I want to feel good.
Liana believes none of this, of course. She thinks that I have no idea what love is, and she sees this as a problem. It isn’t a problem, because it simply isn’t true. But try telling Liana that.
We were sitting in the living room watching television last night - one of those film review programmes - when Liana started to fidget. I don’t know but I guess I must be getting tired or careless or perhaps prematurely sen
ile, because I know that when she gets that way, Something is going to Happen.
There’s all manner of things I can do if I catch this early enough; walking out of the room is a good one. Alternatively, I can prepare myself for the inevitable onslaught, and either parry and thrust in self- defence, or just ignore it and let myself be stabbed to pieces. I can even launch a pre-emptive strike and immobilise her before she gets into her stride. Whatever, if I’m tuned in, I can deal with it.
Last night, however, I was feeling too relaxed, and I just didn’t see it coming.
‘Your problem,’ said Liana in a manner which suggested that someone in the room had actually asked her opinion, ‘is that you are pathologically incapable of distinguishing between love and sex.’
Liana loves saying “pathological”, even though she doesn’t know what it means. She thinks it adds credence to an otherwise meaningless statement, as if long words conferred official sanction, transforming ill-informed opinion into irrefutable fact.
Now I’ve been hearing this accusation a fair bit lately, so I’m well aware that there’s more to come, a little exposition, perhaps even a suggestion as to what action might be taken to “cure” my “problem”. So I said nothing at the time and allowed Liana to carry on with her potentially poisonous little discourse.
‘The root of all your anxieties,’ she continued, sitting straight-backed in a chair that was designed for lounging in, manufactured for people who like to slouch, ‘is your refusal to accept the simple fact that you are over-sexed. You meet a pretty girl, she gives you the come-on, and hey-presto, you’re “in love”. It’s not only absurd, it’s pathetic. A chronic case of self-delusion.’
There she goes again. Of course, neither of us know if there is such a thing as “a chronic case of self-delusion”, but this is the sort of pretentious psychobabble that Liana thinks will impress me.
It doesn’t, of course. It just aggravates me.
Where Liana gets these ideas from is anyone’s guess. She seemed calm enough while she was telling me all this, so it was safe to assume that there would be no tantrums, no tears. I noted that there was even the hint of a smile on her lips as she was saying all these daft things. It wasn’t typical behaviour, but at least I knew it was safe.
‘You’re a sick man, Michael. You need professional help.’
I don’t mind Liana being pretentious, offensive, even plain wrong. I’ve had to put up with all those things, and worse, for a long time now. But when she becomes condescending I tend to hit back.
‘Liana, do me a favour. Fuck off.’ Water off a duck’s back. She was in one of her indestructible modes.
‘Your aggression doesn’t bother me, Michael. It’s just further proof of your hatred of women. You think you love women, don’t you Michael. You think you’re just overflowing with love for them. But that’s a lie. You hate women. All you want to do is use them, fuck them, fool them into thinking they’re in love with you, and then, when you’ve caught them, when they’ve become dependent, when they’ve burnt their bridges, you leave them. You’re a disgrace Michael. You should be locked up. You should be castrated.’
Ladies and gentlemen, meet Liana, my best friend.
***
‘Define love,’ said Liana this morning, as we sat together in the Café Flores. I cannot begin to tell you how many times Liana has asked me this same question lately. She’s always been obsessed with love and all that, but this is beyond a joke. The annoying thing is, she knows how I feel. She’s known for years. Liana is trying to bait me, and the only thing I don’t know is why.
I ignored her question and continued stirring sugar into the thick black coffee that Julio, the owner of the café, brews to perfection. Café Flores is like a second home to me when I’m in London; I feel safe here, I can relax. It’s cosy, with its red-and- white chequered table cloths, the polished wooden floors, the white net curtains, the voice of Pavarotti - just audible above the hissing and spluttering of the gleaming silver espresso machine - singing popular arias. And that wonderful coffee.
This morning my hand was shaking; the legacy of the previous night’s altercation with a bottle of Scotch. Johnny Walker and I went the full fifteen rounds. It was a close thing, and the judges were, I feel, undecided until the last few minutes. Alas, J.W. floored me in the final round; an undisputed K.O. I should have known better; it was hardly the first time. The hangover and the trembling limbs were part of the price I had to pay for being so indulgent, for having such a lousy memory. I am living proof that behaviourism is a fallacy.
‘Go on, define love,” said my hectoring companion, beaming at me, bright-eyed. Something’s come over Liana lately; she’s become afflicted with an acute case of the “holier-than-thous”. I have my suspicions. I think she may have become possessed. The Spirit of Smugness lurks uncomfortably in the air around her. It is an ugly demon.
I wanted to say all this to her and more, but I couldn’t face an argument so I said nothing. And as a result, as well as not wanting the conversation to falter, Liana, ever-prescient, decided to answer for me. She’s thoughtful like that.
‘I’ll tell you what your definition of love is. Love is when some starry-eyed bimbo with big tits and long legs says she’ll let you come in her mouth . . .’
I sprayed coffee all over the table. ‘Jesus, Liana. Do you have to be so gross?’
‘Tell me it’s not true.’
‘It’s not true.’
‘Liar.’
See what I’m up against?
‘Be honest, Michael. All you ever think about is sex.’
‘Liana, it strikes me that if anyone has become obsessed with sex lately, it’s you.’
Liana raised her eyebrows, too deliberately to be convincing. She gave a little sniff. She paused.
‘Attack,’ intoned my beloved, ‘is the best form of defence.’ She was right. I wanted to punch her right on her pert little stuck-up nose.
I didn’t, of course. And in case you’re wondering why I’m prepared to put up with all this abuse, the answer is, I’m afraid, both simple and dreadfully predictable.
I love her.
Chapter 2
I was just twenty-one when I met Liana. I had graduated from one of the “radical” new universities with a good degree in a thoroughly useless subject and, having worked during the vacations, had saved enough money for my first trip to Asia. Travelling to India was still considered something of a real adventure in those days, and I had spent most of my final year reading anything and everything about the sub-Continent in preparation for the trip.
I was not only young and inexperienced, but also possessed of a rare naiveté for one who had spent three years at Sussex. I must have numbered among just a handful of students who had not experimented with soft drugs, had not defied his tutors, had not got into trouble with the police/local authorities, and had not slept around.
That is, I had not slept around much. I had already completed my first year of study before I lost my virginity. In fact, it wasn’t so much a loss as an exchange. Joanne, eighteen, petite, pretty and even more ingenuous than I, gave herself willingly (after three months) to me and I, claiming no more experience than she, gladly accepted. It was not, of course, as easy as I had anticipated.
Not to put too fine a point on it, I was not a particularly handsome young man. As a child, it might be said, I was downright ugly. More bluntly, improvements that one might have hoped for in adolescence had not materialised, and in my late teens I had a face that, whilst not exactly repulsive, was no competition for either Messrs Redford or Newman, at that time joint equal heart-throbs on the big screen. Diplomatically, people would say I had a characterful face, and would add - lest this seem ungracious - that I had a lovely smile.
When I met Joanne I was in the process of growing a beard for the first time in an attempt to disguise my weaker-than-average chin, and draw attention away from my larger-than-average nose. Prior to this time, I had had just one girlfriend, a shy, rather nerv
ous girl called Diane, who screamed every time I attempted to feel her breasts or thighs. Consequently, my familiarity with the female anatomy was severely limited, restricted to the information gleaned from a few biology text books and a rather tatty copy of Health and Efficiency.
During that first year at Sussex I made several attempts to “have it off”, but I fear my looks did not drive women crazy with desire, unlike my best friend Richard, who only had to look at women in a certain way and they’d be dropping their knickers before names even had been exchanged. I, however, had to resort to other tactics: the smooth chat-up (hopeless), the cool, uninterested observer (disastrous), even bribery (fatal). All my efforts were to no avail.
I was eighteen years old, away from home for the first time, nobody looking over my shoulder, surrounded by young, nubile, beautiful women, most of them eager to “experiment”, and all I could do was wander around campus with a desperate expression and a permanent erection.
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