London Broil

by Linnet Moss

  “Hello,” said Laura, and smiled in spite of herself. She’d been in the middle of tracking the complicated publishing history of an edition of Petronius and now had completely lost her train of thought. But this woman was such a vision of loveliness that she didn’t mind. They gazed at each other for a few moments, and then the woman said, “Do you like this room?”

  “Yes,” said Laura, simply.

  “I do too,” said the woman. “It has a special smell that I like. Hamish says there is nothing in here for me, but sometimes I come and lie back in a chair and read one of the books. I pick one randomly off the shelves. Quite a lot of them are in Greek and Latin.” Laura nodded; these were the ones she herself was occupied with. “I can’t read those. But there are others… Once, I read about Julius Caesar and…. when they killed him, it was so sad that I cried.”

  Probably the Dryden translation of Plutarch’s Lives, Laura reflected. “Yes, I know. The idea that Brutus, the man he loved like his own son, would plot to kill him. He must have been terribly disappointed.”

  “Yes!” the blonde said with animation, but then a voice behind her exclaimed, “Ellen, what are you doing here? Come along, you know we’re late for the reception!” It was Hamish’s voice, and he sounded exasperated, even angry. He appeared behind Ellen and without giving Laura a glance, hooked his arm around the woman’s waist and drew her away. Laura went back to her work, but the image of Ellen stayed in her mind for the rest of the afternoon.

  6.

  Ceylon and Cigars

  James left a card in her mailbox on Wednesday. He had used a fountain pen; the card was a plain rectangle engraved with his initials. Meet me Friday at 6:30 at the Herald offices. I have a late meeting. We can leave straight from there. She didn’t know their dinner destination, but she dressed in what she hoped would work for any type of establishment: a charcoal pantsuit with a satiny forest green camisole under the blazer, and a string of peridot beads with matching earrings. Her shoes were comfortable black pumps with only a low heel, but she had a limited wardrobe when it came to footwear, and was not about to spend her precious food allowance on expensive London shoes.

  When she arrived at the massive edifice that housed the Herald, and said that she was there to meet James Whelan, the receptionist picked up a phone and spoke softly into it. After a few minutes, a short, red-haired woman emerged from a pair of glass doors to meet her. “Hello, I’m Jenna Hicks,” she said. “I’ll take you back to see Mr. Whelan.”

  “Thanks,” said Laura, shaking hands with Jenna and smiling in recognition. It was the plump redhead from Roxana who had dined with James. “What do you do here, Jenna?”

  “I’m a senior crime correspondent. I write stories for the Herald about murder enquiries, bank robberies, that sort of thing. Do you read the Herald, Miss Livingston?” “Yes, indeed,” said Laura, who had started reading it after meeting James. She had seen Jenna’s byline on more than one story. “You’re young to be a senior correspondent, aren’t you? You must be very talented.” Jenna looked searchingly at her as though weighing whether the comment was barbed, but she was apparently satisfied with what she saw in Laura’s face, because she smiled warmly. “I never wanted to be anything but a reporter, ever since I was a girl,” she said.

  They reached a large, high-ceilinged room filled with desks and bustling with people. This was the crime section. Jenna led her to an office at the perimeter of the room; it was large but not luxuriously so, and its glass windows were equipped with blinds, open now to permit a view of the interior. James sat there in his shirt sleeves at a small conference table with two other men. She noticed that they held lowball glasses and a bottle stood on the table. When he saw her, he nodded and spoke to the men, wrapping up the meeting. He opened the door, and as they filed out, he took her hand. “Laura! Thank you, Hicks. Would you get Annie to clear this up for me?”

  Laura looked around the office. It was surprisingly neat, quite different from the disordered desk in her flat with its stacks of papers and books. Although her work was meticulous, she never found the time to file everything on her desk properly. The filing system in her head was well-organized, but nobody visiting her flat would have known it. James’ desk had a computer with two large monitors, some legal pads with pens lined up beside them, and a couple of trays of papers. On a shelf beside the desk, she noticed a picture of a woman with two little girls aged about seven. The woman looked Indian or perhaps Pakistani. She had golden brown skin, shining black hair in a very thick braid that flowed around her neck and down her chest, and striking, clear green eyes. The girls looked like smaller versions of their mother, though with lighter complexions.

  “We’re off, then,” James said to Jenna. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning. And tell Hartley to get his arse into my office first thing or he’ll rue it.” He sounded different at work, Laura thought. His voice was louder and deeper, and he seemed quite comfortable ordering people about. Jenna turned away with a last assessing look at Laura, and James picked up his jacket and guided her out of the office and down the hallway, his hand at her back. Today he had a navy suit with a white shirt and a pink paisley tie.

  As they approached the tube stop, he said, “You look very striking this evening— that green necklace on your white skin, and with your hair.” She had auburn hair cut in a bob; there was enough red in it to complement green clothes and jewelry, as long as the green was the right shade. Tonight she had added some red lipstick, but she wore little other makeup. They were going to an Italian restaurant, Leonardo. According to James, it was excellent and not very expensive. It turned out to be a smallish place with lots of tables for two and dark wood paneling accented by nineteenth-century prints of Roman city scenes. Each table had a green cloth and a small brass holder for a votive candle. Examining the menu, she chuckled when she spotted carciofi alla giudia, fried artichokes. “I’d love to start with these,” she told James.

  “That’s an excellent choice,” he said. “For you I can recommend the tonarelli with black pepper, lemon and pecorino. The pasta here is fresh and made in-house. I’ll try the bollito misto with gorgonzola. I think a white could work with that.”

  “If you’d prefer a red, we can order by the glass.”

  “But a bottle is more companionable, don’t you agree?” he said, and she nodded. With luck it would not be an expensive one. She was determined to split the check this time. They decided on an Orvieto that was reasonably priced, and it arrived at the same time as the artichokes.

  She speared a piping hot, crispy morsel of artichoke, dusted with grated, sharp cheese and sprinkled with lemon. She paused to enjoy it, closing her eyes in reverent appreciation. It was perfect, and a slight involuntary moan escaped her. She opened her eyes; James was regarding her with amusement.

  “I have this theory that every person is like a food,” she said. “And this is the dish you most remind me of.”

  “What?” He looked less than pleased. “I admit they are quite good, and I grant that your obvious… appreciation of them is a point in their favor. But there is something deflating about being compared to an artichoke, don’t you agree?”

  “Not at all. This happens to be one of my all-time favorite dishes. The choice is a compliment to you,” she replied sternly. “Furthermore, count yourself lucky that you didn’t turn out to be eggplant. Or tofu,” she added, for good measure.

  “I stand corrected,” he said hastily. “But let us probe this theory of yours further. What other people do you compare to foods?”

  “My friend Juniper. She’s like peanuts with lemon and chili flavor, or maybe popcorn with romano cheese and green Tabasco. And my father —my brother and I call him Pappy— he’s like a cup of aromatic Ceylon tea, no milk or sugar, with two buttery shortbread cookies.”

  “Are both your parents living, then?”

  “Yes. Mom worked as a clinical psychologist until she retired. Pappy’s a philosopher, and he reared me on all the maxims of the Greeks. Everything
in moderation. Know thyself. And most importantly, wisdom lies only in realizing how ignorant you are.”

  He nodded. “That explains your familiarity with Aristotle and Epicurus.”

  “Yes. It was Pappy who introduced me to philosophy. Maybe he reminds me of tea and shortbread because the combination has a classical balance— the astringency and clarity of the tea paired with the richness and crumbly texture of the shortbread.”

  The artichokes had quickly disappeared, and now their salads were arriving. His was thinly shaved mushrooms with capers and lemon, and hers was cold blanched rapini with olive oil and chili flakes. “I don’t know anyone I can compare to rapini,” she went on, “but it’s by far my favorite vegetable.”

  “Perhaps you’re missing the iron in red meat,” he suggested.

  “Possibly,” she allowed. “All I know is that crave it. I would eat it every day if I could.”

  “Spoken like an Italian,” he said, refilling their glasses with the chilled Orvieto. “I have friends in Lazio who can’t visit the Baths of Caracalla without rhapsodizing over the abundant weeds and trying to stow them in a sack for their suppers.” She laughed and replied, “Either we have some friends in common, or it must be that foraging is a national trait of the Italians.”

  “I’ve been musing on what you would be if you were a food,” he said slowly. The first thing that comes to mind is foie gras.”

  Now it was her turn to be outraged. “Do you have any idea how they produce that?” she cried. “You might as well call me a veal cutlet!”

  “I wasn’t thinking of where it comes from. I was thinking of the taste. Rich, smooth and velvety. Sensuous. Like the browned bits of fat on the edge of a perfect steak. Mouth watering,” he said, fixing her with that intense gaze of his, and lowering his soft, deep voice almost to a whisper.

  “Yes, I remember eating steaks,” she said, deliberately ignoring his seductive tone. “My mouth still waters when I smell them. But just because something tastes good or feels good, and we can do it, doesn’t mean we should do it. Pleasure should be taken mindfully.”

  “Perhaps,” he said, “but aren’t there limits on knowledge? Can you truly know everything about the foods you eat… or the people you sleep with?” His tone was serious.

  “Point taken,” she replied uncomfortably, wondering how to change the subject and seeing with relief that their entrées were arriving. Her pasta was excellent, like a thick spaghetti, light and fluffy, yet with a toothsome bite. It tasted of pungent black pepper and lemon. As they ate, she wondered whether his message was that he didn’t know her very well, or that she didn’t know him.

  After they had split the bill, James said, “Will you come with me to the park? I have something to share that I think you’ll enjoy.” It was a warm summer evening, and the sun would not set for another hour. When they arrived, they strolled through St. James’ Park until they came to an empty bench overlooking a pond with a fountain. The walk had warmed her, so she removed her blazer, revealing bare shoulders. She didn’t have a strapless bra to wear with her camisole, and abhorred the common practice of allowing straps to show, so she hadn’t bothered with a bra. James’ eyes slid over her as he loosened his tie and removed his own jacket, drawing a tube from the breast pocket as he did so. He patted his trouser pockets and located a lighter, an ornate Zippo that appeared to be made of chased silver. As he sat down on the bench, she asked, “Are you going to smoke a cigar?”

  “Yes,” he answered, “and you’re going to share it.”

  “But I hate smoke,” she said. “I can’t bear cigarettes. Aren’t cigars even worse? And smoke irritates my throat.”

  “Hush,” he said, holding the cigar in one hand and the lighter in the other. “Just trust me. I picked this out for you. It’s very mild, and I think you’ll be surprised. Now, I’ve already clipped the cap off this one and it’s ready to go.” He put it to his mouth and flipped open the lighter, holding the flame well under the tip and rotating the cigar, then took a tentative puff. A plume of smoke emerged from the end and swirled up into the still air. She could smell the smoke now, as he continued to slowly ignite the cigar. It was different from a cigarette, more aromatic. She was surprised at how far it diverged from her memories of foul, stale cigar smoke, left by Pappy’s friends when they visited.

  “Now,” he turned to her, setting down the lighter and holding out the cigar. “Don’t inhale. Just take it gently into your mouth, and taste the smoke for a few seconds, then let it out.” She did so, self-consciously wondering whether he intended the erotic significance that she read into his words. Sometimes a cigar was just a cigar. “What does it taste like?” he asked.

  “It’s a bit like burnt toast. No, not as bitter as that. More like dark chocolate, or espresso. Herbal, or perhaps grassy. I’m surprised that the smoke isn’t even hot.”

  “Yes, that’s right. With a cigar this size, the smoke won’t feel warm until it burns down at least halfway. Now, take some more, but this time, try to blow it out slowly through your nose as well as your mouth. You’ll be able to taste it better.”

  They sat in silence for a while, sharing the cigar, as joggers and people out for an evening stroll passed by. It wasn’t bad at all, she thought. In fact, it was very good. It dawned on her that she was now officially a smoker.

  “James!” she cried accusingly. “I never smoked before. You’ve… you’ve debauched me!”

  “Oh no, I haven’t,” he answered, smiling. “Not yet. But I will. Soon.”

  She couldn’t help asking, “Tonight?”

  “I think not,” he said. “For our purposes, it’s best if the bed is located conveniently close to the dining table. I’ll make you dinner at my place. Next Saturday, unless you’d rather continue to… savor the anticipation?”

  “Next Saturday, then.” An image of the two of them dining together naked crossed her mind, and she glanced up to see that he was watching her expression closely. Feeling a flush creep up her cheeks, she picked up the lighter and examined its silver case. On one side was engraved “James and Sita 1989.”

  “This is beautiful,” she told him, noticing that the silver had the polished glow of long and regular use.

  “Yes. A wedding gift from my first marriage.”

  “The picture in your office, is that Sita and your girls?”

  He nodded. “Sita died a couple of years after that was taken. Struck by a car on Oxford Street near Selfridges. She was a pediatrician, just starting her career.”

  This put Laura at a loss for words. “I can’t imagine how painful that must have been,” she finally said. “Do you still miss her?”

  He handed her the cigar after gently tapping off the ash. “Yes, every so often there’s something I want to ask her about, and even after all these years, I forget for a moment that she’s gone. Magda couldn’t bear having that picture about the flat. She made me move it to my office.”

  “I can see why you like it. Three pairs of green eyes and three long braids,” she said, smiling slightly and raising her chin to blow the smoke upwards. She was beginning to feel oddly sedated, though she noticed that her heart was beating faster. To change the subject, she handed back the cigar and said, “Speaking of beautiful women, today I met someone who is probably the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, in person, that is.”

  “Really?” He sounded surprised. “Who was it, and where?”

  “I think her name may be Ellen Porteous. I’m working with books in the Porteous collection, and she came to the library door while I was there. There’s something rather feline about her that riveted my attention. It reminded me of going to the theater and seeing a really magnetic star walk on stage. I couldn’t take my eyes off her.”

  “Ellen Porteous. Yes, I know her, Hamish’s sister. Looks a bit like Nicole Kidman, I always think, but not so thin. She gets in trouble from time to time. Once, we were investigating an M.P. for graft. She was in bed with him when he had a heart attack. He was married, of
course. A paramedic let the story slip to one of our lads, and Hamish tried to come and buy us off. I told him it was too late, the news was already spreading like wildfire. But Ellen’s a good lass, so I toned down the salacious bits in our story. Took a proper lashing for it too; I was a deputy editor then.” He gazed out at the fountain in the pond, remembering, then turned back to her with a teasing expression. “But it sounds as though you quite fancied her.”

  She considered this. “Yes, I believe I did.”

  He looked slightly taken aback, and then keenly interested. “Laura, have you ever slept with a woman?”

  “No. My best friend June is a lesbian, and at my university a lot of people think we’re an item, but we don’t like each other in that way.” She threw him a rueful glance and added, “She said my tits were too small.” She could see the corners of his mouth wavering, as though he was trying not to laugh. “Go on,” he said.

  “When I was in college, there was a girl I fancied, as you call it. At the time, I didn’t even realize that’s what I was feeling. All I knew was that whenever I saw her in the dining hall, I couldn’t tear my eyes away. I never met her, nor tried to, but I’ve not forgotten her in twenty-five years.”

  The sun was nearly below the horizon, and there was a slight breeze that cooled the moisture on her skin. She settled back on the bench closer to him, and he put his arm around her, his fingers closing over her left shoulder. The cigar was nearly half gone now and she slowly shook her head, feeling stupefied. He reached over and took it from her, putting it out and setting it carefully on the bench. “Sorry, I should have cut you off sooner. That’s more than enough nicotine for someone who’s never smoked before. Do you feel ill?”

  “No, just kind of dreamy, though my heart is pounding. It’s a strange combination.”

  He gathered her in closer and bent his head to nuzzle her ear. “Then tell me about this girl you fancied. What did she look like?”