The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 5 (44 page)

Momentarily, I feel guilty for deceiving her. But I start to read my novel, and I quickly get seduced by the allure of my own words, my own characters.

I’m only a few pages into the manuscript when Tamara suddenly gets up.

She mumbles, “I’m tired . . .” – heading back to the bedroom, not even glancing at me, shutting the door.

For the next five days – after I stood him up for Tamara – Andrei didn’t answer my calls. Was my friendship ultimately as meaningless to him as his dalliances with his glamorous girlfriends? Had I finally suffered his inevitable rejection?

Tamara called me, and we saw each other once. We went for a walk on Mount Royal. She held my hand. She sensed my dark mood and did not push.

Her goodbye hug conveyed less promise than her first; she asked me to call her soon. Translation: if you want me, show it.

I mumbled that I would, knowing that I’d made a mess of what should have been a great evening. I had been much too distracted by my anxiety about Andrei.

Finally, I showed up at his apartment without calling. He hated it when people did that.

When I got there, there was a girl with him. She was stunning: the kind of face that stared back at you from magazine covers; long, shapely legs; delicate toes; toenails painted bright orange peeking out from elegant high-heeled sandals. She was crying.

I ignored her. I didn’t say anything. I stood firm and did my best to stare Andrei down. I needed to prove to him that I aspired to be his equal.

He surprised me. He smiled at me, turned towards the girl, and said, “Get out. Can’t you see that my friend is here now?”

She opened her mouth to say something, but then closed it sharply, visibly trying to hold on to some degree of dignity.

She didn’t even glance at Andrei, but she shot me a disdainful sneer as she hurried past.

The rain never lets up. I stay in all day. Tamara never leaves the bedroom. I hear her use the adjoining bathroom a few times.

Finally, at midnight, I open the bedroom door. I get undressed and slip into bed.

Tamara is feigning sleep. I know her body language and the rhythms of her breathing too intimately to be fooled.

We do not press hands against each other’s chests tonight. We do not whisper absurdities to each other. We do not touch. We do not have sex.

We’ve never skipped our ritual before; in sickness and in health.

A despairing loneliness chews on my innards, chasing sleep away.

Tamara gets up in the middle of the night. I hear her bustle in the kitchen. When she’s done eating, she climbs back into bed, carefully not touching me, and falls asleep immediately.

I stay awake until dawn.

I realize that the rain has finally stopped, the clouds finally gone. Sunlight hits Tamara’s bare shoulder. I yearn to kiss it, to taste her. But I dare not.

I didn’t know whether or not to believe Andrei, but I didn’t question him, didn’t push my luck. I was too relieved, thrilled, exhilarated that our friendship was still intact. He claimed not to care that I had stood him up. He hadn’t been in touch because he’d spent the last few days with the woman he’d just thrown out of his apartment. He had known it would only last a few days.

Suddenly, it seemed so egocentric to think that Andrei would have been affected by my absence the other night. I chastised myself for my arrogance and self-importance.

Nevertheless, I told him all about Tamara. Was it he or I who suggested that we all three get together for a meal? I suggested it, I think – but was it only because he wanted me to?

I called her from his apartment; we would meet there on the weekend, and he would cook for both of us. Already, my mouth watered. Andrei was a fabulous cook.

We spent the rest of the night as usual: we pored over his latest writings until sun-up.

I am running. The morning sun spurs me on. I am exhausted from my sleepless night. My muscles are complaining because of the days of inactivity I imposed on them during the recent rains.

But I run, nevertheless. I don’t even notice where. I just run and sweat.

I come back home. I look at the clock. It’s nine fifteen. I’ve been out running for three hours. I walk through the bedroom to get to the shower although I don’t have to. I could use one of the other bathrooms. But I want to gaze at Tamara.

She’s not in bed.

I call out her name, look through every room.

She’s not here. She’s never awake this early.

I go out again.

I run.

I run until the pain and exhaustion is all that I can feel. I just run; and sweat – so much that it’s impossible to distinguish the tears from the sweat.

I knew, of course, that whatever spark I ignited in Tamara’s imagination would be dimmed by the greater conflagration that Andrei would provoke. I was not wrong.

They were beautiful together, but I also knew that Andrei would soon tire of her.

Pathetically, I fantasized about consoling her after Andrei inevitably broke her heart. Fearfully, I never spoke to Tamara – about my feelings, about Andrei who discarded lovers like flakes of dead skin. Boldly, I imagined telling Andrei he had no right to use Tamara like a disposable mirror, when I could love her more truly than he ever would. Stupidly, I confronted Andrei in such a way.

It would be inaccurate to say that we had a fight. I said my piece, and he just laughed at me. I got angrier, and he just laughed harder.

“You’re my friend,” he said, between guffaws. “But go home now. When you get over your anger, come back, and we’ll work on one of your stories.” He was still laughing.

I left his apartment, melodramatically slamming the door, feeling self-conscious for doing so, but unable to express myself any other way in the face of Andrei’s dismissal.

There are messages from my agent. Details to work out. Contracts to sign.

So what? It’s not like I need the money.

Am I betraying Andrei’s legacy by publishing my own work under my name? Should I use a pseudonym? Or maybe scrap the whole idea. I’ll never be the writer he was.

I lie on the couch all day. The phone rings. Again. And again. I let it ring. Tamara wouldn’t call, and there’s no-one else I want to talk to, even if, as I fear might now happen because of my transgression, we never see each other again.

When Tamara wakes me by caressing my cheek, I realize that I had fallen asleep.

Andrei’s relationship with Tamara lasted a full year, months longer than any of his previous affairs. I had barely seen either of them since I’d stormed out of Andrei’s apartment like a bad actor. After a few weeks, I visited Andrei twice, but my resentment was too overpowering, and the encounters were forced and awkward. I was physically unable to be around Tamara without feeling nauseous. So I stopped calling them, and I never heard from either of them. Occasionally, I’d spot them downtown, but I always managed to creep away unseen.

Then one day I found a handwritten invitation in my mailbox. I recognized Andrei’s precise, feminine script. There were no details, save for a time and the name and address of a restaurant. I dreaded some sort of wedding announcement. Or that he’d finally shooed Tamara out of his life like all the others before her. I didn’t know which of the two I feared more.

Of course, I went. I was lonely, bored, and miserable, and I missed my friend.

I’d never heard of the restaurant, so I was unprepared. I’d dressed casually, and this turned out to be an intimidatingly swanky establishment. I was sure they weren’t going to let me in. True to my expectations, the maitre d’ sneered at me when I stepped through the door, but when I said Andrei’s name, he repeated it almost reverentially and instructed a waiter to escort me to Andrei’s table.

Andrei’s table turned out to be a private room, lushly decorated with museum-quality reproductions and fresh flowers. I recognized Debussy’s String Quartet – a favourite of Andrei’s – playing at just the right volume. The table was set for two; there was an empty chair waiting for me. Tamara sat in the other chair.

Tamara asked, “What are you doing here? I mean – Where’s Andrei?”

I shrugged. “Andrei sent me an invitation. I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“But it’s our anniversary. Where—?”

I knew, then, that Andrei had left her. And indeed he had, but that wasn’t the whole truth. That came later.

Before either of us could say anything more, the waiter brought in the hors d’oeuvres.

Tamara said, “But we haven’t ordered anything.”

We learned that Andrei had arranged our evening’s menu in advance. We ate in silence, but not even that tense awkwardness could mask the heavenly taste of the food.

We finally spoke to each other when it came time to argue over who would get the cheque, but we were informed that Andrei had already paid for everything, and that not even a gratuity would be accepted from either of us.

Befuddled, we walked out together. We glanced at each other, and we both laughed at ourselves. Still chuckling, Tamara took my arm, and we walked together through downtown, all the while talking like dear old friends. We didn’t utter a word about Andrei.

When we parted, she gave me a chaste kiss on the cheek, but there was genuine warmth in her smile. Silently, I cursed Andrei for what I believed he was doing to her.

The next day, I received a couriered letter, requesting my presence at the law office of Laurent Tavernier the following Monday at nine in the morning. Not a little alarmed, I called to know what this was all about. The attorney’s secretary told me: “We can say nothing of this matter until the appointed time.”

Tamara called me every day. She was worried about Andrei’s disappearance. More than once, she cried over the phone. As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t bring myself to tell her that I thought Andrei had deserted her. I grunted noncommittal responses and sidestepped any suggestion that we should meet. I refused to follow Andrei’s transparent script, no matter how much it matched my own desires.

The following Monday, I was startled to see Tamara sitting in the attorney’s waiting room. A few minutes later, we were both ushered into Tavernier’s office, wondering to each other what Andrei had planned for us this time.

This is what we learned: Andrei was dead, had poisoned himself on the day he’d set us up to meet at the restaurant; Andrei was wealthy, worth millions of dollars, all of which was now ours . . . in a joint account, no strings attached. Tavernier needed our signatures to make this official.

In addition, Andrei bequeathed all of his writings to me, with instructions that I seek to publish them under my own name only and that, with his blessing, I should edit his works as I saw fit.

There was a letter addressed to both of us; the attorney read it. It was terse.

I had nothing more to write
, it said.

But that wasn’t true. In death, Andrei was writing the script of my and Tamara’s lives, and we followed every stage direction like fawning understudies.

I almost speak, but Tamara shushes me. I can’t decipher her expression.

She’s sitting on the floor, next to the couch. She looks away from me and into her lap. I hear the rustle of paper.

I look down and see that she’s holding my manuscript. My novel.

She starts to read. I cry.

I cry because I see her mouth form the words that I’ve written, because I hear the tenderness in her voice when she speaks my words.

She reads a few chapters. She takes her time. She forms the words carefully, imbues their articulation with a slow sensuality.

Finally, she pauses. She looks at me, and she’s crying too.

She says, “I like it.”

When I come back from my morning run, Tamara is still asleep. Her feet are sticking out from under the sheets. This is one of my favourite sights: tenderly domestic and deliciously sensual. I fantasize about straying from our scripted lives, about indulging in spontaneous intimacies outside the confines of our rituals, and . . .

Fuck Andrei.

I look at Tamara’s sleeping body and let the sight of her overwhelm me.

I stoop down and kiss her toes. I slip my tongue between them, slide it around each one. I nibble on them.

She moans, still asleep, and throws off the sheets.

The sun hits her skin, from her nipples to just below her luxuriant pubes. The prospect of transgression makes my blood rush, but I rein in my impatience and move with slow but focused intensity.

Cupping her heels, I raise her legs in the air. Below, I catch a glimpse of her moist vulva, framed by her butt cheeks and by the backs of her thighs. I bend down and breathe on her wetness. She gasps, still asleep.

I smell her and close my eyes. Her pubes tickle my nose, and I can’t help laughing.

That wakes her up.

I fear her reaction to this unscheduled intimacy, but she opens her arms in invitation.

I let go of her legs and fold myself into her sleepy embrace.

“You’re sweaty,” she mumbles. I’m still wearing my jogging clothes. “I love your smell.” Have we broken free? Can we write our own lives? Together. Finally, truly, together.

She disentangles herself and sits up. She hugs me, drowsily rubbing her face against my chest.