Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances (27 page)

But she would phone Jack first. At least there was that to look forward to.

It was good to have Christine back, Rodney thought. He had missed her in the worst way, not that he saw her all that much, but at least she was there, within reach of a phone, and during the time she was in Italy he had felt frightfully deprived, knowing that calling her number would only yield Bruce or Nancy, or else that housekeeper, who never could understand a word he Said. Because of his accent, she told him, which had ultimately brought forth a sharp and shirty retort from him. “I believe it’s you have the accent, not I, madam.” It had left her, to his gratification, speechless.

Christine had been home for a week: he had immediately invited her to lunch, but she had asked for a “rain check,” which he now learned meant people had something better to do, ask them another time when they didn’t have something better to do. Chris had claimed to have a million and one things to attend to, sort out vacation clothes and get some cleaned, film to be developed — “You name it,” she added. She said she needed a vacation after her vacation and was going to take it easy for a bit. Appending all this with, “Sometime next week I want you over to dinner, see what you’ve been up to while we were away.”

He had given her enough time now, he would call her this morning. Take her somewhere and tell her he hadn’t been up to anything, more was the pity, that boredom had begun to set in and he thought it might be time to acquaint himself with another part of the country, maybe California. And if California, then San Francisco seemed the logical place. He had seen television shows based in San Francisco and it looked very smashing, with that Golden Gate bridge and all those precipitous hills climbing up steeply. Cable cars. Interesting restaurants. More than likely outdoor cafes.

It occurred to him that perhaps he could cajole Christine into accompanying him out there. She might worry about him otherwise, off on his own and who knew what trouble he might get into. On the one hand he didn’t care for her thinking in such condescending terms, such
maternal
terms, but on the other hand if it would be a selling point —

He had just finished his breakfast, now began to have glowing visions of the two of them flying out to San Francisco, where they would stay at that hotel — what was the name? Ah yes, the Mark Hopkins, with the famous restaurant on the roof.

Warming to the glorious picture of himself and the divine Mrs. Jennings occupying adjoining rooms, Rodney sat on the arm of his Brown Jordan settee, smoking a cigarette with quick, enthusiastic drags and dreaming a little. She must have smashing evening frocks: he would invest in a dinner jacket and they’d dine at posh places at night, drink champagne and inevitably Christine would loosen up. Maybe it would take him a while, but sooner or later she would turn to him with glistening eyes and say in a passionate whisper, “Why don’t we just give into this thing, haven’t we waited long enough, Rodney?”

Thinking about it, he erected. He toyed with the idea of playing out his fantasy, give into the mood he had put himself into, spin out a long sequence of events between himself and Christine. It wouldn’t be the first time and it wouldn’t be the last. But he was now too fixated on the notion of a real-life adventure — what do you think, he asked himself with quickening breath, was it an actual possibility?

Or was he a wish-thinking ass?

It was difficult to be even remotely certain of such things. At least so far as he was concerned. There were no comparisons for him to make, no backlog of experience to bring into play. His education was purely academic: as a man of the world he hadn’t got started yet.

The fact was that he was a quasi-virgin, of which he was angrily ashamed, not only because of his virginity but also because of the circumstances under which he had not actually, one hundred percent, lost it. The girl in question had been a little beauty, one of those bewitching Dorsetshire lasses he met on a country holiday while bicycling with a friend, Mark Macmillan.

They had put up at rural homes during the trip: Molly was the daughter of the farmer who provided accommodations for two nights of the fort-night’s journey. She was a tease, like so many of those girls in out-of-the-way, secluded villages, girls who had faces like Raphael Madonnas and the sexual appetites of a sow, which was probably only to be expected considering their opportunity to observe the activities of the animals with which they were surrounded. They married early, frequently when they were impregnated by some over-acquiescent yokel, losing their deceptive physical frailty to a robust overripeness. Then they became like the sows themselves, bursting with fat, like Rowlandson sluts.

But when they were young they were charming. “Hands off,” Mark Macmillan warned, needlessly expounding what Rodney already knew, that you didn’t lay a hand on a country girl if you wanted to keep your hide intact, or else be saddled with a wife you’d have to hide in the attic. Or if you were lucky, just having them bleed you for a bundle to pay for your transgression.

It was good advice, reinforcing Rodney’s own caution, but Molly, who made no secret of its being, not Mark but his friend who titillated her, was persistent. So persistent, in fact, that she had her way with him, as Rodney’s blood was hot and young too: she cornered him in a woody glade one early morning when he was alone and communing with nature. She must have followed him, all intent and guile, and before Rodney knew it, he was disrobing as rapidly as the girl, conscious of only one thing — her slenderwaisted, full-bosomed form on the loamy ground, her legs spread wantonly, revealing what he had never before set eyes on, the moist and blossomy lobes that led to the dark gates of an Elysian entrance and which, as he stared, exuded further moisture. On Molly’s saintly little face a Circe smile spread slowly: eyes filmed, she drew her legs farther apart and deliberately, with the fingers of both hands, parted the fleshy lips that were crowned with curly chestnut hair and invited him in.

He needed no further coaxing. There was bird-song in the trees, the sun rayed through leaf and branch, warmth came from the summer day. It should have been Arcadian, but the boy was inexpert: his body was not accustomed to the real thing. Alone, unobserved, you could draw it out, slow up to prolong the delicious proceedings, then heat up once more and decide now was the time, now well work it up to the finish. But he was operating on a two-way basis now, and there was a decided difference.

It was predetermined in his mind, before he actually went down on her, to withdraw when he felt the approach of climax. The decision was made in a desire-haze, but was firm: the consequences of an “accident” were dire.

His body raced ahead of his mind, however, and he missed his target. The sight, the smell, the proximity of this rich and eloquent body sent him into a tailspin, he had no command over his performance. With his bursting member imperatively demanding quick release he went disconcertingly bleary-eyed, as if he had on a blindfold and was playing pin the tail on the donkey. He got himself part way into Molly and then shot out again, a victim of the very liquids that were designed to aid him in his entry, and found himself exploding, in great jets, over the Dorsetshire girl’s belly.

He wanted very much, after he was able to breathe again in a more normal way, to kill her quickly and dispose of her body somewhere. An irrational but not entirely unreasonable longing. His first fuck and look what happened. Furthermore, she was shaking with laughter. Her legs were now clamping about his own, in a punishing grip, like that of a victorious wrestler underlining the punier strength of a defeated opponent. She was laughing audibly not long after that, throaty and rhythmical, plus tossing about his hair, tangling it up in a friendly frenzy, saying maddening, condescending things like better luck next time, li’ul man. He would infinitely have preferred her shoveling into her clothes and stalking off in contempt.

It was a horrid memory, a quite wretched one, and for long afterwards it had plucked him out of sleep at night, firing his face with shame and humiliation. Molly had laughed, but Christine was a kinder person, and no crude country girl. It would be in the dark, in her room or his at the Mark Hopkins, and he was no longer a callow eighteen-year-old. A more sophisticated woman, such as Christine, would not expect clockwork efficiency, but instead would entice him slowly and leisurely, one seductive step at a time until, with masterful expertise, he gave it to her, and gave it to her … and gave it …

Whoops. Just in time he thrust his breakfast napkin against himself, puffing like a locomotive. Bloody close that, almost inundated the settee. He came back to the present, not without some chagrin. Ah, the divine Mrs. J. Ah so near and yet so far. How the bloody hell was he ever going to accomplish that which he so yearned for?

He got rid of the sopping napkin, cleaned up his breakfast dishes, told himself it was time to become really serious about starting up something it was clear the lady was obviously not going to instigate on her own, and dialed her number.

After six rings he sagged. Out. She was out.
As
usual. Damn bloody damn. Teeth set, he kept at it. Maybe she was in the bath. Give her a little more time. Wrath replaced disappointment. She wasn’t out, it was too early, it was only just past ten. She was always home at this hour, she was a late riser. He’d just keep on until he drove her crazy, and if she was in the bath she would have, in desperation, to get out of the tub and answer the phone that was screeching away.

“Hello, hello,” a voice suddenly said in his ear, so unexpectedly, by this time, that he jumped.

“Oh,” he said jerkily. “Is that you, Christine?”

“Is that you, Rodney?”

“Yes, did I get you out of the bath?”

“Out of the bath? No, I went downstairs to get our mail.”

“How about lunch,” he asked. “I’ve given you a good bit of time to rest up after your hols.”

“Wish I could, Rodney, but I’m meeting my friends at oneish. You know, my women’s group. Oh. Can you come to dinner this week? You say what night, any’s okay for me.”

“I’m disappointed,” he said slowly. “I had particularly wanted to see you today.”

“Why today?”

“I’m at loose ends today. Not feeling up to par a-
tall
.” He made his voice just the right shade of forlorn. “I wanted, very much wanted to be with you today, Christine. Can’t you rearrange your plans?”

After a minimal silence she said, with gentle concern, “Are you sick or something?”

“Just lonely.” The dolor deepened in his voice. “Just a little lonely.”

Heartlessly, she laughed. “Oh,
Rodney
. Why should you be lonely? What’s the matter with Jeannie, has she given you the gate?”

“It isn’t Jeannie I wanted to see. If it was I’d see her.”

“Then find some other girl. Nothing like a little variety. Silly boy — why, you’re the most eligible bachelor in town.” Then she became maternal and brisk. “Darling, I’ll call you tomorrow. No, tonight, I’ll call you tonight. Meanwhile, when can you come for dinner?”

“We’ll see,” he said coolly.

“What’s the matter with you, dear?”

“And don’t call me dear in that patronizing way,” he said, dropping the cool and making it icy. “I expected better from you, Christine.”

With that he hung up.

She’ll call right back, he thought, waiting expectantly. She would of course instantly call right back. Certainly. She wouldn’t ignore his plaint, her heart was too soft for that. So now she’d call him back and say, Rodney, we can’t have you so upset, of course I’ll change my plans and meet you.

She didn’t call right back, however. She didn’t call back at all.

He considered rushing over to her apartment and raping her on the spot.

Getting dressed, he began to really weigh this thought in his mind. She was clearly alone, otherwise the phone would have been picked up before it had been. That meant it wasn’t the housekeeper’s day to be there. Bruce and Nancy would be at school. Even if he didn’t rape her he could make some kind of headway with her, soften her up in some clever way. She would be dressing too, half naked, she would throw a robe over herself and hurry to the door. “Hello,” he would say nonchalantly. He debonair, dangerous, his eyes intent. “Why, Rodney, you look so strange, so — I’ve never seen you like this.”

No, we are not going to build up a head of steam again, he told himself disgustedly, tightening his legs. What the hell was he going to do with himself today anyway? Suddenly New York City seemed an alien place. Now that he had canvassed its purlieus it remained that he was, in all the real ways, just another tourist. He had had fun, but he hadn’t made a striking dent in the businesslike tenor of this gleaming metropolis; he was just another face in the crowd.

Dressed, brushed and walking tall, he locked up and went out to the street. Once there a surge of confidence gushed up in him. He had no way of knowing that this was a common Manhattan reaction, that once out of the confines of the studio or one-bedroom — little boxes made of ticky-tacky — a New Yorker gained a sense of heady power, mingling with the throng and under the impression that he was now in his rightful place, in the mainstream of the city he not only inhabited but also possessed —
his
property,
his
sward and, for that matter, his very living room. What’s to worry, look at all this, and now we’ll dance. The arrogant smile wreathed his handsome features once again and he strode untroubled downtown. Downtown because even if Christine refused to succumb to his entreaties today, maybe Jack Allerton would not.

He hadn’t seen Jack since that afternoon in early June when he and Christine had been invited there. Chris, of course, had helped him find a few things for his flat, which she said looked very nice when finished. Aside from that she hadn’t seen him either, for he had asked her, but she said Jack was busy carving out a writing career and the best thing was to leave him alone to do it.

All very well, Rodney thought, but it remained that Jack Allerton had done him a quite stupendous favor: if it weren’t for Jack he might still be looking for a flat. He wondered if Jack had been to Windows on the World yet, at the Trade Center; it would be a good way to show his appreciation by taking him there to lunch. The poor chap must need a break anyway, crouched over his typewriter. It must be a most restricted life: Rodney was far from sure that it would suit himself, though the rewards could be great, and he would dearly love to see himself on the back cover of a book. The blurbs — “a fresh, new, blazing talent …”