London Broil

by Linnet Moss

  “Mmm. I want a picture of the divine Ellen. She sounds magically delicious.”

  **

  On Monday morning, Laura was sitting in the Porteous library puzzling over the Latin marginalia in an old edition of the Venerable Bede, when she heard the front door bell ring. After a moment, Charlotte’s voice could be heard in conversation with one or two male voices. She caught the words “Mr. Porteous,” and “indisposed.” Getting up, she stepped softly to the doorway and stuck her head out. Charlotte’s back was to her, and she was facing two men in suits. The one speaking was relatively young, and large-boned, with reddish blond hair and glasses. His expression was grimly determined.

  “Madam, I have received a communication from Mr. Alexander Porteous asking me to wait upon him immediately, and I intend to do so. Unless you’d prefer that I involve the authorities?”

  Charlotte hesitated for a moment and then said, “I require your names. I cannot admit anyone to this residence without that information.”

  “I am John Curtis. My colleague is Mr. Terence Drake.”

  “Please follow me,” said Charlotte, in a voice that sounded strained and displeased. Laura hastily drew her head back in the door before Charlotte turned to lead the men into the house. As they passed the library door, one of them threw a glance her way. They proceeded up a dramatic white staircase with marble-clad steps that led to the more private areas of the house.

  Laura wondered whether the visit was the direct result of the letter she had posted. It seemed all but certain. She tried to return to her work, but was unable to concentrate. She moved to a chair closer to the library door. Finally, after about an hour, she heard the two men return down the stairs and walk toward the door; they were silent except for the exchange of a chilly “Good day” between Charlotte and the blond man.

  That evening she went to Roxana for dinner; Monday had become her new day for Afghan food. The restaurant was much quieter than on weekends, and she always got a prime table. She ordered ashe, a vegetable-noodle soup, and a plate of shireen palow, a sweet orange-flavored rice with pistachios. As she ate, she pondered the day’s events as well as those of the weekend. Now that she and James had had sex, would they sleep together every weekend? She would enjoy that. But perhaps they would go to her flat instead of his, if the restaurant they chose was closer to Kings Cross. She must put in some time cleaning. She also resolved to buy herself some new clothes before Friday: a couple of pretty dresses, a pair of shoes, and the most critical need of all, good lingerie. Even if James preferred her naked, she still wanted to look good taking it off. She was considering a haircut when George stopped by her table to say hello.

  “You need something salty to go on that shireen palow. Maybe I’ll fry you a nice slice of eggplant.”

  “That’s okay, George, I’ll have it finished faster than that.” She hesitated, and then asked, “Do you still see James Whelan around here?”

  “Oh yes, on Thursdays. He usually gets takeout, but last time he brought Maggie with him, just like the old days. It’s a good thing you didn’t take up with him. I have a friend who’s about your age, a solicitor. Good-looking bloke, and nice. Maybe you’d like to meet him sometime? I could invite him and seat you at the same table.”

  “Thanks, George, but I’ve started seeing someone.”

  “Good. Bring him here, sometime! I’d like to meet him.”

  She smiled weakly at George as he turned back toward the kitchen. So James was still seeing Magda. There were any number of reasons he could have for doing so, she told herself. Legitimate ones that didn’t involve their sleeping together. But she felt far from certain.

  14.

  A Very Satisfactory Transaction

  The next day, she stopped in at Sotheby’s and learned that George Patterson, Esq., deceased in late 1979, had indeed been a relation of the Martha Blount who inherited sixty of Alexander Pope’s books and most of his estate. But without a catalog of Pope’s library, and without an ownership inscription in the Horace, she was left in doubt. She obtained a copy of the Patterson sale catalog, reasoning that if the Pine had belonged to Pope, then other books in the sale probably had as well. The next three days were spent isolating the volumes in the catalog that could have been owned by Pope, based on publishing dates and other information in the descriptions. Notices of auction records from old book-trade periodicals were her next avenue of inquiry. She discovered that two large lots containing her likely quarry were purchased by an antiquarian bookseller, J. Roworth, whose store was still in operation. It was a longshot that anyone there remembered the Patterson sale, but good researchers left no loose threads. And besides, thought Laura, it’s time I treated myself to a book or two.

  J. Roworth was in Islington, east of Kings Cross near Barnard Park. Entering the high-ceilinged shop, she breathed in the familiar scent of old paper and leather bindings, and feasted her eyes on the laden, towering shelves, some fitted with sliding glass doors and some not. There was a jumble of separate, smaller cabinets holding various bibliophilic treasures, and several cardboard boxes of books, strategically placed in spots that seemed calculated to induce stubbed toes or herniated discs. Any wall space not filled with books held an old print in a dusty gilt frame, and a heavy, dark library table dominated the center of the long, narrow room. To the side, at a cluttered desk with a squat green-shaded reading lamp, sat a man with a mostly bald head, thick glasses, and a slightly unkempt grey beard. He studiously ignored her.

  This was standard behavior for booksellers, so she wasn’t dismayed in the least. She browsed about, spending extra time in front of the items she knew were either more expensive or more obscure. When she took a book from the shelf to examine it, she didn’t use her index finger to pull at the top of the spine, but reached back and pushed it from behind until it jutted far enough from the rest to grasp it lower down. Slowly she worked her way around to the greybeard’s desk and commented casually, “You have a very fine selection of Amsterdam imprints from the Golden Age. Jansson, Caesius…” She trailed off, having deliberately dropped the name of the publisher with whose volumes he was least richly supplied.

  He looked up at her through his thick spectacles. “Did you see the Blaeus? I have more of them, but Caesius is really Blaeu by another name.”

  “I didn’t know that,” she said, wide-eyed, though she did. “How are you for English imprints of the same period? I’m particularly interested in Greek and Latin classics.”

  “I have a few Brindleys, though they’re eighteenth century. Caesar, Lucan, Juvenal. I could probably unearth some others if you’re interested.”

  “Oh yes. I’d appreciate that very much.” Most male antiquarian booksellers fell into two categories, she had discovered: the misogynists who would be happy if a woman never sullied the masculine purity of their domains, and the ones who were pleasantly surprised to see a woman enter the premises. Especially if she were (relatively speaking) younger and appeared to hang on their every word. Even the latter type, however, never failed to drive a sharp bargain when it came to settling on prices. Browsing his shelves, she had fallen in love with a set of Ovid’s works, each volume no taller than an index card, and printed by Blaeu in 1649. They were bound in light cream-colored vellum with gold stamping, and Roworth wanted £930, about $1500. Tempting, but out of her league, she decided regretfully. After some spirited haggling, she concluded a deal for a desirable but less costly volume of Juvenal’s satires from 1744. It was the date of Pope’s death, she recalled with a pang. As he was about to ring up her purchase, she told the bookman that she’d like to have some tea. Were there any teashops close by?

  “No, but I can give you some if you don’t mind my old crockery. I was just about to have a cup myself.”

  “How delightful. Have you been at J. Roworth for long?” He had. “Are you by any chance Mr. Roworth himself?” He was. By the time Laura left, she’d learned that Roworth purchased the two lots in question from Sotheby’s in the 1980 Patterson sale, an
d in January 1981 had sold nearly all the books to a member of the nobility from Yorkshire, a Baron Belmont-Speck.

  It was Thursday, so in the late afternoon she emailed James using the address on the card he’d given her: In dire need of pizza and beer. Do you know a place for tomorrow? He answered within an hour: Olivera. It’s in Shoreditch near my flat. I’ll collect you after work, 6:00.

  15.

  Home Improvements

  It was warm and muggy, so she wore one of her new dresses, a lined sleeveless shift in light blue with little daisies embroidered on it. She had espadrille sandals with a short heel in light blue with yellow trim. The dress was a style she often wore, but the colors were more girlish and youthful than her usual taste, as were the shoes. She’d also bought an inexpensive straw handbag, really not much more than a tote, but it had a zipper. She rolled up a pair of black stretch pants and a yellow tee to wear home, along with a change of underwear, and stowed them in the bag. Under the dress she had on a new pair of lacy panties in robin’s egg blue, and a matching push-up bra. She hoped it would give Magda a run for her money.

  James looked appreciative when he picked her up at six on the dot. He was in a suit as usual, this time in light grey with a pale blue, satiny tie that almost matched her dress. When he kissed her, she could tell that he had just shaved— presumably at work.

  On the way to the restaurant, she complimented him on his flat. “How long have you lived there?”

  “Since my divorce three years ago. But I’ve owned it for quite a while. My uncle left it to me, and I found some tenants because it wasn’t big enough for Claire and Chanda, and then Magda didn’t want to live there. It was a bit of luck that I hung onto it, as property values have risen so high in London. It’s worth a tidy sum now.”

  They were standing on the tube traveling east, hanging on to the overhead grab bars. “Will we go back there this evening?” she asked, and felt his arm circle her waist and pull her closer to him.

  “If you want to,” he said, looking into her eyes. She nodded her head slowly. “I do.”

  Olivera was a brightly lit place with a lot of blond wood and big windows. They were shown to a table for two with a chair and a banquette seat; couples sat closely spaced on either side of them. She hesitated, wondering if he had a seating preference, until the gentle pressure of his hand on the small of her back propelled her toward the banquette. They nibbled some marinated olives as a starter while they perused the menu. She asked for a Guinness on draft, and he ordered a Bethnal Pale Ale. “They brew it in my neighborhood,” he said. “You’ll have to taste it. But I didn’t know you liked beer. I’ve only seen you drink wine.”

  “It’s true. I don’t know much about beer, but sometimes I get a mighty thirst for it. It’s so good with cheese, better than wine, often. I saw you raise an eyebrow when I ordered the Guinness, James. Probably a lager would be better with pizza, but I haven’t had a Guinness since I left the States. And besides, if it’s not a match for pizza, why’d they put it on the menu?”

  “For Yank tourists,” he said, teasing her.

  “I’m curious to taste the pizza here,” she went on, ignoring his little jab for the moment. “It all looks very upscale compared to pizza at home, or even in New York. Oh, they have expensive artisan pizzas there, but I mean American-style pizza. And I see that everyone here eats with a knife and fork. No picking up the slices.”

  He laughed. “Is that how you eat it? That’s something I’d like to see. It sounds very sensuous.”

  “Well, the pizzas here might not be the right type. In order to really savor a slice eaten from the hand, you have to have big slices with a thin crust that you fold in half to hold in the gooey cheese. And then the strings of cheese stretch out when you take a bite. It’s one of the best foods on earth.”

  Their drinks arrived and she tasted the Guinness. It was cool but not chilled, with a thick, dense head of foam. “This is better than what we get at home. The foam is so creamy, it’s almost like a dairy product.”

  “When you lick your lips and close your eyes like that, it reminds me of last Saturday,” he said, setting down his menu.

  “Does it? I’m glad. Did you spend time during the week thinking about what we did?”

  “Oh yes,” he answered, his eyes widening and focusing on hers. She had his full attention now.

  “I thought about it often. Especially when I was in the shower,” she said. He was about to speak when the server came up to take their order. Afterwards, it seemed the moment had passed. He glanced at the people talking and eating close on either side of them, and she could tell he was thinking that they might hear.

  “Do you often think… along those lines while you’re showering?” he asked softly. She nodded, smiling. “You have fantasies,” he said. She nodded again, as one of the women next to them looked over with slight smirk.

  “We’ll continue this discussion later,” he said firmly, picking up his ale. They talked for a few minutes about UK beers and his favorites, ones he thought she might like to try. He let her taste his ale, but she found herself distracted. She enjoyed simply gazing at him as he talked. He had high, rather prominent cheekbones that gave his face a distinctive stamp, and as always, she found it impossible to look away from his eyes. When he was amused, they sparkled and crinkled at the corners. Other times, they were burningly intense, or, when he was contemplating something in silence, deep and almost mournful.

  Her salad was composed of arugula (identified in the menu as “rocket”), fennel, and pine nuts with parmesan cheese shavings. His was radicchio, which she usually found too bitter, and gorgonzola cheese, with toasted walnuts and a honeyed dressing. He scooped up a reddish leaf loaded with cheese for her to try. It was like a little cup, so she lifted it from his fork with her fingers and popped it into her mouth.

  “Not bad. In college we used to make a canapé called Sweet Georgia Browns. It was a cracker with blue cheese, gorgonzola if we could get it (which we usually couldn’t), toasted Georgia pecans, and orange blossom honey. Back then, it was the height of sophistication. Most people I knew wouldn’t eat blue cheese at all, and the idea of putting something sweet on cheese was bizarre. But I can still remember what an epiphany that taste was.”

  “If you like to drink Guinness, you should try some goat cheese with it. Brings out the flavors.”

  “James,” she said slowly, “are you handy around the house? Do you ever do repairs in your flat?”

  He nodded. “I had it renovated before I moved in, but I did quite a bit of the work meself. The tiles in the bath, and the kitchen cabinets. Used to work in that line, before I went to college.”

  “Do you have an electric drill?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. There’s a utility room next to the kitchen in my flat—you didn’t see it—but I keep a few odds and ends there.”

  “I think you should bring it when you come to my place.” She glanced at the two women eating to their right, who were engaged in an animated conversation. “I need to hang a picture and it’s heavy. I couldn’t get the screw deep enough, and I want it… really deep. Do you think you could help with that?”

  He’d looked puzzled for a moment, but the penny seemed to drop now. “Yes, I might have what you need.” A smile began to play about his lips as the server set down their pizzas: buffalo mozzarella, tomato and basil for her, and for him, San Daniele prosciutto with tomato, ricotta and pesto sauce.

  Cutting her pizza with a knife and fork, and taking a tentative taste, she said, “Oh, this is good. The wood-fired oven gave it lots of charred spots.”

  “I think I can feel the heat from here,” he said.

  “Since you’re so handy,” she continued, “I want you to check the showerhead in my bath too. The… passage inside it seems partly blocked. It needs to be thoroughly reamed out. I’m sure you’ll have the right tool.”

  He shook his head at her, but then added, as though he couldn’t help himself, “Any other jobs aroun
d the flat in urgent need of attention?” He took a long pull off his Bethnal ale, without removing his eyes from her.

  “Just one more. There’s a little nail sticking out of the wall, only a little one, you understand, but it’s been bothering me night and day. It needs to be pounded hard, and I know you have a big hammer.” She took another bite of pizza margherita and looked across at him, smiling as she chewed. Was he actually blushing?

  “Laura,” he began in an ominous voice, but she got up suddenly and excused herself. In the restroom she checked her makeup, combed her fingers through her hair, and going into a stall, removed her panties. She folded them into a small square and palmed them. As she squeezed back past him, she slipped her hand into his jacket pocket and left them there. Settling herself on the banquette, she watched as he pulled them out of his pocket and then hastily shoved them back in, looking up at her with a priceless expression. And then, he sat up straighter and pretended to be eating while he fingered the panties. She noted the exact moment when he felt how damp they were.

  He caught the server’s eye and mimed writing out a check, and pointed down with his index finger toward the table as if to say, “Now.” Their pizzas were only half finished. She worked on what was left of her Guinness as the server came with a box and a check. “No messing about with two checks,” he said quietly. “I’m paying this in cash.” She didn’t object, demurely packing the remains of the two pizzas into the box and picking it up as he ushered her toward the door and out of Olivera.

  “This way,” he said, and led her toward the tube station. “It’s not far. Christ, Laura, when you gave me those knickers, I wanted to climb across the table and swive you right on the banquette.” His guiding hand at the small of her back descended briefly to cup her panty-free rear end.

  “But what about the food?” she asked sweetly. “I haven’t satisfied my appetite yet.”

  “None of that,” he growled. “I’m more concerned about my appetite at the moment.” In her heeled espadrilles, she had trouble keeping up with his long strides. The walk back to his flat took longer than the tube ride, and meanwhile he seemed to grow calmer, pointing out various spots in the neighborhood. He’d lived nearby, it seemed, many years ago, before Bethnal Green became gentrified. But as soon as they stepped inside the flat, he shut the door behind them, took the pizza box from her and tossed it on the kitchen counter, then whirled her up against the wall as she was pulling off her sandals. Holding her by both wrists, he looked down into her eyes and pressed a rapidly growing erection against her belly. He manhandled her over to the kitchen counter, and then pulled her dress up around her hips, lifting her so she sat on the countertop while he stood between her spread legs. Now he seemed more sure of himself and his breathing slowed while hers quickened, as he ran his fingers in and out of her, rubbing her up and down with the slick moisture. She began to feel lightheaded with desire.