by Linnet Moss
“And if the soufflé flops?”
“I think it already has,” she replied. “I was expecting him here tonight and he didn’t show up.”
“Oh. Well, I’m sorry if he hurt you. Take care of yourself, Laura.”
“I will, George. And thank you.” She quietly slipped out the swinging doors and out to the street, nodding at Babur as she passed him in the aisle.
4.
Dinner with a Wolf
The next Friday, he was waiting for her outside Roxana as she approached the entrance. Their eyes met.
“Laura… hello again.”
“James… it’s nice to see you.”
“I wonder if you’d like to come to dinner with me tonight. I know a French place that you would enjoy.”
“But I always go to Roxana on Fridays. I don’t want them to lose the business.”
“You can go there another night, and I will too. They’ll be fine! Come on.” And casually taking her hand, he led her in the direction of the tube. “It’s just a couple of stops,” he said. “Le Loup, have you heard of it?”
The Wolf, she thought. “It’s an odd name for a restaurant.”
He gave her a crooked smile. “When you smell and taste their food, you’ll eat like a wolf. I’m ravenous, in fact. I took the liberty of making a reservation, so we’ll get a table quickly.”
When they arrived at Le Loup, the maître d’ greeted James like an old friend, and nodding his head respectfully at Laura, led them to a good table in the front dining area. Red velvet banquettes lined the walls, and couples sat side by side at most of the tables, each of which had a small vase with fresh, peach-colored roses. Some tables for larger parties were arranged in the center of the room. Looking around, she saw a few younger, hip couples, but most of the clientèle appeared to be silver-haired men with younger, perfectly-groomed and bejeweled women. She felt seriously underdressed in her flats, black rayon skirt and shell-pink jewelneck sweater. At least she had worn her strand of pearls.
Le Loup had a traditional style of service, with phalanxes of busboys, waiters and captains (almost all the servers were male). The sommelier came forward saying, “Monsieur Whelan, a pleasure to see you again. What may I bring you this evening?”
“Thank you Philippe, we’ll have a white. Laura prefers vegetable dishes.”
“Ah, Mademoiselle is a vegetarian? Then the mâche salade, I think, followed by the cheese soufflé with champagne sauce. And for you, the salade of haricots verts, and the sole, perhaps? Asparagus with lemon butter as a side. I shall bring you a blanc de bourgogne that will be very charming with this meal.”
James threw a questioning glance at Laura, who was following this conversation avidly. She nodded, and as the dignified Philippe turned away, a server set before them slices of bread with a tiny crock of whipped butter and a plate of gougères, cheese puffs like the ones George made, but without the coriander and with a sharper tang of gruyère. As Laura took a bite of one and felt its salty, crisp fullness dissolve in her mouth, she looked at James. He was gazing at her, his brown-green eyes fixed on hers, a grin tentatively forming on his lips. She felt a jet of pure joy shoot through her body, a wave of keen sensation that was completely new to her. She relished it for a few moments before turning her attention to the less joyous fact that this was obviously a very expensive restaurant.
“James, please don’t let them bring a pricey bottle of wine. This place is probably already more than I can afford.”
He turned toward her on the banquette they were sharing and said, “Laura, I hope you’ll do me the honor of allowing me to pay this time. And that reminds me. Before we take the intimate step of asking for a single check, you ought to introduce yourself properly. You never told me your last name.”
“It’s Livingston. Laura Livingston,” she said, holding her hand out. Instead of shaking it, he grasped it in his right hand and then placed his left hand beneath hers, with the fingers extended so that they touched her wrist and the sensitive skin of her inner arm.
“Did you wonder where I was last Friday?” he asked, not letting go of her hand.
“Mmm. I did.”
“I had to go out of town. I tried to tell you that night, but you ran inside before I had the chance.”
He released her hand as he saw the server approach with their wine. He presented the label to James, then expertly opened the bottle and poured each of them a small amount. James tasted it and nodded. The server filled their glasses and they brought them together with a soft clink, turning to face each other. James’ eyes were mesmerizing, she thought, and very expressive. She sipped the wine, which was dry and full-bodied; it mixed well with the taste of the gruyère cheese that lingered in her mouth.
“When I ate at Roxana last Friday, George asked to see me,” she said. “It seems that you were right. He was afraid for my virtue.”
“And… does he have reason to be afraid?”
She considered him as she sipped more of the wine, her gaze wandering up to his hair, and down past his eyes to linger on his lips. “Oh yes. After the other night, all I could think of was how much I wanted to sleep with you.”
He grinned at her, showing his teeth. “Laura… you’re causing a dilemma for me as to whether we should leave right now or stay and eat the meal we just ordered.”
“Oh, of course we have to stay. I wouldn’t dream of missing this meal. Besides, I have a dilemma of my own. The Greeks had an expression for what I’m feeling: ‘limb loosening Eros.’ Looking at you turns my knees to water” —here she paused to enjoy his expression as she said this— “but that doesn’t mean it’s right for me to sleep with you. I need to know whether anyone would be hurt as a result.”
“You mean, do I have any other commitments? Not as of last week,” he said.
“What about your ex-wife?”
“Magda? I admit that’s complicated,” he said. “But I can assure you that if you… that is, if we… sleep together, you’ll have my full attention. I think that’s how you put it the other night.”
She noted with amusement that he seemed a bit flustered. Perhaps the women he usually saw were less direct about their intentions and expectations.
“The second thing on my mind,” she said, “is that I’m enjoying this feeling of anticipation, and I want to savor it a bit longer. It’s like baking bread. A great deal of the pleasure lies in mixing it, kneading the dough, and smelling the yeasty aroma as it bakes…before you ever taste it. And when you make something new, there’s only one first time to taste it. After that, you enjoy it, but it’s never quite the same.”
“I see. I shall take that as a challenge. And how long would you like to… savor the anticipation before you eat this meal?”
“As long as I can stand it and as long as you’ll be patient. To be quite honest, though, I doubt I’ll last very long.” And as she said this, her left hand crept under the tablecloth to his thigh and up toward his crotch. He caught it in a surprisingly tight grip and placed it firmly back in her lap.
“I can see I’m going to have to help strengthen your resolve,” he said with mock severity. “Ten years ago I mightn’t have had time for this. But now, and with you…” He didn’t finish the sentence, but leaned over and whispered in her ear, speaking in an exaggerated Irish accent: “You’re a naughty miss, so you are. Now sit up straight and be good or I’ll take you over my knee later!”
Laura was shaking with laughter, but she put her hand over her mouth and composed herself. Their salads arrived. After the apparent interruption of an intimate moment with the arrival of the wine, the waiters had been observing them closely, waiting for them to break it up before presenting the first course. She felt only a slight embarrassment, reflecting that they must see this kind of behavior all the time. The seating arrangements seemed designed to facilitate displays of affection.
Her salad was composed of fresh, tender greens tossed with a tart, creamy dressing, and topped with generous curls of pa
rmesan cheese as well as a few crisp golden croutons; his was thin green beans in a balsamic dressing, with pink pickled onions and chunks of blue cheese. They tasted each other’s food, spearing up particularly luscious mouthfuls to hand over on a fork, or raiding each other’s plates. He set his fork down while she was still working on her salad and soon she felt his right hand steal behind her and settle at her waistline, then slide under the fabric of her top and up her back. He spread his fingers and she could feel the outline of his hand, large and warm, on her lower back.
“Did you bring me here because you knew this was a good place to canoodle?” she asked.
“That may possibly have entered my mind,” he answered, “but I also knew you’d love the food and wine here. Do you often eat at restaurants other than Roxana?”
“Oh yes. I go out two or three times a week, and I try to find someplace new every week, though one of my meals is always at Roxana. I set aside a large amount of my savings for restaurants when I planned this trip, because food is so expensive here. London is a finer city for food than people in the States realize.”
“I agree. I know the restaurants here rather well, and they are far better than they were twenty years ago.” His hand was still splayed against her back, and she arched herself slightly against it, reveling in the feel of his touch on her skin.
“Your job allows you to have evenings free?”
“It does now, yes. I have deputy editors who cover the evening hours, though if there’s a big story brewing, I still work evenings and weekends.”
He withdrew his hand as the waiters brought their entrées. Her soufflé was light and fluffy inside, and crusty golden brown on top, with a creamy sauce that tasted of champagne. On the side were asparagus spears grilled so that they were caramelized and blistered on the outside, but still crisp and green, sprinkled with fleur de sel, and lying in a buttery sauce. James’ dish was sole garnished with toasted almonds and lemon. He also had asparagus, and a small mound of whipped potatoes, piped onto the plate with a ridged design on top that had probably been browned with a blowtorch. The waiter brought their wine from an invisible ice bucket somewhere nearby, and refilled their glasses.
“James, have you ever tried this soufflé?” she asked, forking up a bite, dipping it in the sauce and holding it out for him to taste.
“No, as a matter of fact, but…. mmm. It’s very good,” he said, shutting his eyes for a moment as he savored it.
“I have this theory, you see, that carnivores often miss out on the best dishes, because they never order an entrée unless it has meat. This is a perfect example.”
“You have a point, but I’d be very reluctant to give up meat and fish. Why not simply order something like this from time to time and enjoy both?”
“Ah, but will you actually do that? Being a vegetarian forced me to try a lot of things I would never have tasted otherwise. It’s a bit of a paradox, but by limiting my diet, I’ve experienced more flavors than most people. As a child I hated vegetables, but now I enjoy almost anything. Except brussels sprouts.”
“That’s because nobody has ever cooked them properly for you. You’ll see. I’ll make you dinner and you’ll love them.”
James advised against ordering dessert, because Le Loup adhered to the time-honored tradition of serving petits fours and mignardises after the meal, a variety of small, sweet cookies and candied nuts, which they enjoyed with Courvoisier.
“James,” she said as they were walking back toward her flat, “that may very possibly have been the best meal I ever ate. I don’t know how to thank you enough for this evening.”
“I enjoy watching you eat,” he replied. “Most of the women I’ve dined with eat like birds. As a matter of fact,” and here he hesitated for a moment, “I’m quite keen to discover whether your appetites in bed are as healthy as they are at the table.”
“I suppose that depends upon the menu,” she said, treating the question seriously. “I’ve not had as much experience of sex as of food. I never had an interest in marriage. I lived with someone for three years once, but our sexual life wasn’t particularly exciting.”
“Were you in love with him?”
“I think so.”
“You weren’t,” he stated firmly. “If you were, you’d have known. Laura, do you mean to tell me you’ve never been madly in love?”
“If you mean a full-blown case of eros, I suppose that is true. You know, Epicurus said that sexual love never did anyone good, and we’re lucky if it does us no harm. It can be dangerous, and from what I’ve seen, it can cause a great deal of pain. I’ve always been more interested in friendship.”
“Epicurus? I thought he taught that people should live for pleasure.”
“He did, but if you overindulge in pleasurable things, you cause pain to yourself and others. For example, he would never advocate drinking too much, because the hangover the next day cancels out whatever pleasure you had.”
“Hmm. Weren’t there any philosophers who thought sexual love was a good thing?”
“Well, there were the Cynics, who taught that we ought to do what comes naturally without shame. Diogenes used to masturbate in public, and he said he wished it was as easy to satisfy an empty stomach just by rubbing it. And then there’s Aristotle. I think he liked sex well enough, but my friend Juniper says he didn’t know the clitoris existed.”
He snorted with laughter and put his arm around her as they walked, pulling her close. “We’ll definitely have to continue this conversation another evening.” When they reached her building, he stopped and faced her, grasping her by the shoulders. “Until next Friday,” he said and bent down to kiss her. He took his time doing so. His mouth tasted of Cognac, and something else that was distinctively James. She stood with her body pressed against his; one hand went around his neck while she ran the fingers of the other through his hair, something she had wanted to do for weeks, even months. The texture was softer than she expected. The smell of him was deeply exciting. They broke the kiss and gradually eased apart. She looked back at him as she went through the outer door. He was watching her with an unreadable look on his face, his dark eyes glinting in the lamplight.
5.
The Porteous Library
On Monday, she had an appointment with a Mr. Porteous, who happened to own a great many books from the libraries of the famous. Mr. Porteous and his collection resided in a palatial house in Knightsbridge, one of the swankier London neighborhoods. She was shown into a reception room by a woman in a black suit, about her own age, who appeared to be a female butler. In the center of the room was a round table topped by an elaborate flower arrangement, and the floors were of marble pieced together in an intricate design. A few uncomfortable yet expensive-looking side chairs were distributed about the room; one wall had a bay window, and another held a massive abstract painting in a lacquered frame.
After a few minutes a tall man strode in, his hand extended. “Miss Livingston? I’m Hamish Porteous. My father is Alexander Porteous. I regret to say he is indisposed, but he asked me to show you the collection.” He took her hand in an unnecessarily vise-like grip. His blond hair swept like a wave over his forehead, complementing his piercing blue eyes and straight, sharp nose. He’s very good-looking, she thought.
Hamish took her a few steps down the hallway to the library, which was beautifully appointed in a contemporary style, with light oak shelving, and a long, heavy slab of distressed blond wood that looked like a relic of some ancient Anglo-Saxon feast hall, arranged over industrial-looking metal supports. A few sleek easy chairs with lamps and ottomans beckoned. The library window was covered with tightly shut blinds, which was appropriate for the storage of rare books.
“Will you be in London for long?”
“Until the first week of September.”
“My father spoke very highly of your letters of introduction. One of them is from a very old and dear friend of his. They both feel that your study of the collection could lead to publi
cations that will considerably enhance its value. Please feel free to visit between the hours of nine and one any weekday and Charlotte will attend to you. Our only request is that you not wander about unescorted, as this is a private residence.”
“Thank you. I’m very grateful for the opportunity, and I hope to have a chance to meet your father one day.” He nodded, but didn’t say whether he thought that such a meeting would happen. “I’ll leave you to it, then. There’s a catalog of the collection on the table. When you’re ready, ring” —he pointed to an old-fashioned bell pull— “and Charlotte will show you out.”
Alexander Porteous was a friend of her old mentor and professor, Dr. John Tiernan. Tiernan was in his eighties now (as was Porteous), but when he had learned of her project, he was anxious to ensure that she had access to Porteous’ library. “He’s been collecting the good stuff for several decades,” Tiernan had said. “You’ll be floored when you see it. Not a large collection, but every item is choice.”
She took a deep breath, savoring the scent of the leather-bound books. She set her bag down on the library table and extracted her laptop, her notebook and a mechanical pencil. One never used pens when working with rare books. She picked up the catalog, a volume that had been privately printed and beautifully bound in navy morocco with gold tooling. Soon she was immersed in the contents of Alexander Porteous’ library, which were very impressive indeed.
After about an hour, a slight noise at the door caused her to glance up. A beautiful woman in her thirties stood there. She was leaning against the door frame staring dreamily at Laura, the side of her face flush with the molding of the door. With her long, blonde hair parted on the side, she reminded Laura of a young Lauren Bacall, and her face had a similar striking impact with its straight nose and full, red lips. Her tall, slender figure was encased in what Laura assumed was a couture suit in navy pinstripes; the suit was carefully fitted to display her curves. On her feet were a pair of bright red, patent leather pumps with high platforms.
