by Linnet Moss
“Why, James? Does it excite you to think of me desiring another woman?”
“Mmm,” he said into her ear. “It does, that.”
“Well, don’t get any ideas. If I ever slept with a woman, it would be private. No men allowed. But this girl, she was unusual. She had short black hair and very fair skin, with freckles on her nose. She was tall, with long slim legs, but she had an almost matronly figure compared to the rest of us. That was back in the days before American girls were all fat. This girl had fat, but it was all on her hips and her chest. Her breasts were so big that they wobbled. And one of my dormitory roommates, I never fancied her, but I thought she had lovely breasts. Her nipples were a rose pink color.”
She paused, as James began to shift about on the bench. He had an erection, she noticed with interest. He cleared his throat and turned to pick up the now-cold cigar and slip it back into its tube. “I’d better get you back to your flat,” he said, standing up and holding his jacket in front of him. She put her blazer back on and they turned to leave. “But for the record,” he said, wrapping an arm about her as they set out on the path, “Your friend June doesn’t know what she’s about. Your tits are just right.”
7.
Pappy Channels Socrates
“I’ve fallen in love, Pappy.” Her father, Lionel Livingston, was a youthful seventy-two years old, and they had always been close. She wrote him letters and called a couple of times a month on Sundays, since he refused to use Skype and still had not fully reconciled himself to email.
There was a silence on the other end of the line as he digested this, and then, sounding pleased, he said, “That’s the first time I’ve ever heard you say that, Laura. I’m happy for you. What kind of a man is he?”
She gave him an edited version of how she and James had met and their outings to date. Then she heard a click as her mother Joan picked up the extension. She’d obviously guessed the tenor of the conversation and didn’t want to miss it.
“You met someone!” she said. “Is he marriage material?”
Laura sighed. This was a familiar conversation. “Neither of us is interested in marriage, Mom,” she said. “And even if we were, it could never work because we have jobs on opposite sides of the Atlantic.”
“Laura, there is something you may not have thought of. You could quit your job and move to England to be with him. That’s what women used to do in my day when they fell in love.”
“It’s out of the question, Mom. Love or no love, I’m not going to give up my career for a man, and I wouldn’t respect any man who asked me to do that.” The chances of her landing any academic job in England, much less one comparable to her tenured professorship in Pennsylvania, were vanishingly small. She had a good reputation in her field, but not that good.
“Joanie, my love, I want to talk to Laura. Do you mind?” he said.
“All right. I have to fix your father’s dinner anyway. But give some thought to what I said, dear.” She hung up. Hope sprang eternal in Joan’s mind when it came to marrying off her daughter. She was probably already planning a winter wedding and calculating whether Laura might still have a few viable eggs in her ovaries, even at the age of forty-three.
“Pappy, I’m scared. I have to leave here in a few months, and I don’t know what’s going to happen. And I don’t really know about James. Someone I trust told me that he was ‘a decent man’ but that I shouldn’t get mixed up with him.”
“And what do you think of his character?”
“I think he works in a field where you only succeed by being unscrupulous. I think he’s no saint. And I’m afraid that when it’s over, I’ll be hurt. But I can’t help loving him anyway. I barely know him, yet it feels like something deeper than a physical attraction— though that’s certainly present,” she said, wondering if this was too much information for her father.
“Laura, do you remember when Cecily died, and how painful it was for you?” Pappy asked.
“Of course.” Laura had been a very introverted child with few friends, but the minute Cecily showed up in their neighborhood, the two girls were inseparable, writing lengthy notes to each other, which they folded into intricate designs before passing them in class. Reading the same books (Judy Blume, and then Jane Austen). Talking for hours on the phone. Cecily had been her best friend for about three years, until they were both fourteen. Then her friend contracted meningitis and died with terrifying suddenness. Laura had been depressed for months afterward, to the point that Joan insisted she get treatment.
“Did you ever wish you had never met her? So that you wouldn’t have to feel all that pain when you lost her?”
“No, not at all.”
“You have so many memories of the times you spent with her, that those experiences more than make up for the pain?”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“And if you had discovered that Cecily had flaws in her character—even if she did things that hurt you—do you think you would feel any differently?”
“No, I wouldn’t.” In fact, Cecily did have character flaws. She shoplifted, and whenever she did it, Laura was gripped with guilt on the one hand, and on the other, chilling fear that she would be caught and punished too, since she was often present when Cecily pocketed a candy bar, or a lipstick. And Cecily had hurt her by ignoring her and pointedly making conversation with other girls at school, after she haltingly explained her doubts about the shoplifting. But none of that mattered next to the sheer joy of knowing Cecily, and being known by her.
“Thanks, Pappy,” she said.
8.
The Honey-Sweet Scroll
On Monday, sitting in the Porteous library, she found an edition of Horace that was not listed in the catalog. The two volumes were the perfect size for her hand, no more than ten inches tall, and they were bound in a luscious, blue-green morocco with ornate gold embellishments. Opening the first volume, she noted reverently that this was John Pine’s Horace of 1733-7. Not only the sumptuous illustrations, but the text itself had been laboriously engraved by Pine; among his patrons on the project were Alexander Pope, George Frideric Handel, and William Hogarth, and the book contained a dedication to Pope. She flipped through each volume checking for marginalia, but none seemed to be present, although there was a curious scattering of tiny handwritten numbers and letters throughout, like footnote markers. In spite of the beautiful bindings, the volumes were scuffed and worn. The first volume had a sliver of the title page clipped off the top, and the second volume had been bumped so seriously that the spine was damaged and the last signature had come loose. It appeared that the last several pages and the flyleaves were missing, pages that might have contained clues to the handwritten numbers and letters. She recorded the location of each of these; now she needed to find out where Mr. Porteous had obtained this set, and who might have owned it previously. She closed the volumes and caressed the leather bindings, holding them close to her face and inhaling deeply.
“I sometimes do that,” said a voice from the other side of the table. Startled, Laura hugged the books protectively to her chest, and then looked up. Ellen Porteous was standing opposite her in a rose colored velour hoodie and matching pants. Today her hair was gathered in a ponytail, and she wore a pearlescent pink lipstick, but the rest of her face was scrubbed clean. “Once I dreamed that I ate a book.”
Laura smiled. “How did it taste?”
“Sweet.”
“Then you’re like the prophet Ezekiel. God gave him a scroll to eat, and he said it was like honey in his mouth.”
“That’s in the Bible, isn’t it? What’s your name?” Her voice was rather low, and husky sounding. She’s the female personification of eros, Laura thought, and then replied, “Laura Livingston. I’m here to study your father’s books. And you’re Ellen, right?” Ellen nodded.
“I haven’t met your father yet. Do you think that would be possible?”
Ellen looked troubled. “I’m not sure. He’s been very ill. Hamish says he shoul
dn’t see anyone but us, as it might tire him too much. He’s eighty-five, you know.”
“I see. In that case I won’t ask to see him. But my problem is that these books aren’t in the catalog, and I want very much to learn where he bought them. Do you think he would mind if I wrote him a note, and you took it up to him with the books?”
“Oh, I think he would like it of all things. He never gets to talk to anyone about books now. I bring him things from the library when he wants them, and I talk to him sometimes, but I don’t know as much about books as Hamish.”
“Is Hamish a scholar, then?”
“No, but he’s been helping father buy the books since we were little. Hamish has a gallery and he mostly deals in paintings.”
Laura took a sheet from her notebook and began to write, glancing up apologetically at Ellen, and self-conscious about keeping her waiting. But Ellen simply sat down across from her, elbows on the table and chin in her hands. She had the same blue eyes as Hamish and a smaller, more refined version of his nose.
“There,” said Laura, and folded the paper, placing it on top of the twin volumes and holding them out to Ellen. “Thank you. And please tell Mr. Porteous how delighted I am to have this chance to consult his collection. It is truly a privilege.”
Ellen accepted the books from her hands, nodded gravely, and turned to walk from the room, affording Laura a view of her shapely posterior.
The next day, when she returned, she found the Horace back on the library table with a note and a thin envelope tucked inside the first volume.
Miss Livingston, I am pleased that you are able to make use of my little collection. I only regret that it is not possible at the moment for me to meet you in person. Your mentor John Tiernan is a dear friend of mine, and I hope you will send him my warmest regards. These volumes were purchased in 1980 at a Sotheby’s auction. Why the Pine was omitted at the time my catalog was drawn up in 2008, I do not know. You should be able to locate the auction record, for it was a well-known sale, George Patterson’s estate. I purchased the volumes based on their possible association value, in spite of their less than desirable condition. I have always cherished the hope that the Pine may once have belonged to Pope, as Patterson was related to the Blount family. No doubt you will have seen that there is no ownership inscription. And now, my friend, I wonder if I could prevail upon you to do me the favor of posting the enclosed letter. I am quite particularly anxious that it leave the house today, and would be very grateful should you choose to indulge an old man in his fancies. Yours, Alexander Porteous.
Laura felt her heart begin to pound as she read the note. One of her passions was the (usually futile) pursuit of books Alexander Pope might have owned. Martha Blount had been an intimate confidante and friend of Pope almost his entire life. Indeed, it was once rumored that they were lovers, though most scholars believed that the friendship was chaste and that Pope was largely celibate. In his will, he allowed Martha the first pick of his library, three score of books, before the rest were turned over to his literary executor. Next, she examined the letter. The envelope itself was plain, and there was no return address. The intended recipient was one John Curtis, Esq., on Furnival Street in London.
Laura wondered which day Mr. Porteous had meant when he wrote that he wanted the letter posted “today.” In any event, she must do all she could to honor his request. She reshelved the Pine, slipped the papers into her bag, packed up her laptop, and rang the bell. After a few minutes, Charlotte entered the room. “Yes, Miss Livingston?”
“I just remembered that I have an appointment this afternoon. I won’t be able to work today after all. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”
9.
Awaiting the Rapture
Opening up the Herald on Thursday afternoon, Laura read a number of articles about ongoing investigations of phone hacking, police bribery, and other chicanery at the Murdoch-owned daily, the Sun. It was fortunate, she thought, that James’ paper, the Herald, was not part of Rupert Murdoch’s media empire. Turning the page, she noticed an article in the food section under the byline James Whelan.
Wouldn’t It Be Lubberly?
Rick Menzies has traded in his fish forks for steak knives. The London restaurateur, long known for the gastronomic temple to fruits de mer known as Pêcheur, invested two years and £300,000 in his newest venture, an Argentine style restaurant. Devoted carnivores will be elated to learn that Menzies does not disappoint. From the perfect steaks and ribs to the succulent morcilla (blood sausage) and grilled whole mollejas (sweetbreads), the execution at Casa Córdoba is as flawless as it was at Pêcheur, despite the vast differences in the medium. On two recent visits, my companions and I sampled…
She put down the paper, disinclined to read more of James’ ode to the delights of Argentine beef. So he moonlighted as a restaurant critic. She was unsurprised, given his apparently intimate knowledge of the food scene in London. She skyped June. Laura was five hours ahead in London, and June was sitting at her breakfast table eating Cocoa Puffs and soy milk.
“Two women on the Parnell campus were raped in the past week,” she said. “Are you being safe like we talked about, coming home before dark, and locking your door every night?”
“Yes,” answered Laura. June was adamant on the topic of self-defense for women. “Don’t worry about me. I’m perfectly able to take care of myself.”
June snorted. “No, you’re not. How many times has your parking permit been stolen because you forgot to lock your car? How many times have you tripped on the uneven sidewalk outside Chester Hall? You’re about as observant as Mr. Magoo. Would you even know if someone was following you?”
“I’m very observant,” Laura said, stung by the Magoo comment. “I just focus on one thing at a time.”
“Who was it that called me from New York to ask for directions because she was lost?” On the occasion in question, Laura had preferred to consult June, a native of Queens, instead of approaching a stranger on the sidewalk. “How could you get lost in Manhattan? It’s on a grid, for chrissakes.”
Laura wanted to argue that the West Village didn’t follow the grid, but she decided instead to change the subject. “Listen to this.” She read June a snippet from the restaurant review. “Maybe this shows that we simply aren’t compatible. How can James consume all that meat without a thought to where it comes from?” she said.
June made a face and slurped up a mouthful of Cocoa Puffs. Crunching noises were clearly audible as she chewed. “Kid, you’re not exactly a shining example in that department, ya know,” she said. “Where do you think the cheese and eggs you eat come from?” June’s tiny, wiry body was fueled by a completely vegan diet. She even refused to eat honey, preferring maple or agave syrup.
Laura sighed. “You’re right. I’ve tried to give them up. Several times. Somehow I never manage it for long. But James is completely unreconstructed. I’m sure he’s never even made an effort.” She added with exasperation, “And people think I’m too focused on pleasure!”
“Speaking of pleasure, how are things going in the Department of Getting Laid?”
Laura described the cigar-smoking episode and James’ interest in her as a would-be lesbian. June was so taken with this idea that she set down her spoon.
“No wonder he was turned on,” she said. “How come you never told me those stories about college?” she said.
“I don’t know. I guess I haven’t thought about them for ages. I had almost forgotten.”
“But this Ellen Porteous… maybe you should be with her instead of James.”
“She’s beautiful, but I can’t imagine it. Too complicated. And anyway, James is the one I think about at night.”
“What about in the day? Don’t you want to see him every day?”
“No. I like having time to myself, and I have a great deal of work to get done while I’m here. As long as I know I’ll be with him again, I can concentrate. We never agreed in so many words to see each other only on weekends
, but somehow that’s how it’s worked out. I like the anticipation.”
“And when is the Day of Reckoning? Any time soon? Honestly, it’s been weeks. I think you’re being a tease.”
“Well, he said something about my having dinner at his place on Saturday, which would mean sleeping together, but nothing’s been confirmed yet.”
“Hallelujah!” said June, tracing a cross shape with her hand. “Bless thee, my child, and may thy Rapture be of the multiple variety.”
When Laura picked up her post that evening, there was a card from James with his address in Bethnal Green. Come at 6:30 on Saturday and bring your next day’s knickers.
10.
The Bookshelves of Bethnal Green
On Saturday, Laura felt nervous. She checked the tube station map several times and estimated that it would take her about a half hour to get from her flat in the Kings Cross area to Bethnal Green. She found his street online and printed out a map, but decided to allow extra time. She often got lost in London when visiting unfamiliar areas.
As the afternoon wore on, she debated what to wear and considered stepping out to buy something new, but she hated shopping under pressure, especially in the noisy bustle and traffic of London. She ought to have considered her clothes sooner, she thought, mentally kicking herself. Going to her meager closet, she decided on a casual outfit: a chocolate brown cotton skirt with box pleats and orange and yellow embroidery around the hem. There was an orange scoop neck tee to match, and sandals. She had a light jacket in case it rained, which seemed likely. She laid out her best lingerie, which consisted of panties in a leopard print with lace edging and a matching underwire bra.
In the bath, she considered her body and wondered whether James would find it unattractive compared to the more nubile bodies of the younger women he dated. She was neither tall nor short, and her weight was about the same as in her college days, for in spite of the restaurant meals, she did not always indulge her appetite. She never skipped a meal, but she ate small portions, and the dinners she cooked for herself consisted mostly of vegetables and small amounts of cheese, with a glass of wine. She hadn’t given birth, so her belly was unmarked, though gently rounded. Her waist was still small, but her body fat had begun to redistribute itself, resulting in a less girlish figure. Her breasts were large enough to fill a man’s hand, and firm. But they didn’t sit as high on her chest as before, and she had begun to notice creases and loose patches in her skin where before it had been smooth and tight—on her neck, and on her inner arms at the elbows.
