Pierre, who was gently holding in the eager horses, turned to Maxine. As the high bench seat bounced on its curved black springs, Maxine felt the stealthy pressure of his thigh against hers, underneath the thick fur rug which was tucked around their knees.
“Is there a short cut? We don’t want to get bogged down on this wet track.” Again Pierre pressed his hard thigh firmly against Maxine’s soft leg. Message received and understood, thought Maxine, as she pointed. “If you take that track through the beeches, we can meet up with them at the bottom of the hill.”
The horses trotted swiftly as Pierre leaned closer to Maxine, and then suddenly turned and quickly brushed his lips against hers. Equally suddenly, Maxine thought, why not? He’s been flirting with me for the whole weekend and I love it. It’s especially flattering when your first lover makes it clear that he still wants to go to bed with you. I have been faithful to Charles for twenty years, and my reward was that bitch in my bed.
Maxine felt flattered, excited, and a little nervous, which is the essence of flirtation. “There’s a barn a bit further on,” she suggested as they bounced past tall trees hung with tattered brown leaves.
“Perfect,” said Pierre. They both knew that an invitation had been issued and accepted.
Outside the high timbered barn, Maxine now shivered with anticipation as Pierre put blankets on both horses and looped the long reins over the carriage hook. “It’s a hay barn,” said Maxine, so he brought out half a bale, grunting, “this should keep them happy for hours.”
Then he turned and looked at her for a moment. As they faced each other, he cupped her chin in his hands and quickly and firmly kissed her chilled lips. “Let’s climb to the top where it’s warm.”
He caught her hand and they scrambled up the prickly steps of hay to the top. Pierre threw the fur carriage rug on the sweet-smelling hay, then leaned toward Maxine. At first she was taut and trembled, but then her tension dissolved and she felt soft and boneless as a pillow. He took her in his arms and as he pressed her to his body, Maxine felt a long-forgotten lurch of pleasure. Warm, melting desire was heightened by the fact it was forbidden. She whispered, “I can’t stand up, my knees are shaking.”
“So are mine.”
Together, they fell against the tightly baled hay. His fingers felt under the glossy red fox of her coat; her trembling fingers undid the fasteners, then he was pulling up her russet sweater and pulling down the lace cups of her bra. “Maxine, your breasts, haven’t changed.” He teased her nipple with his tongue, then started to move from one breast to the other, nipping the little peaks with his teeth. Maxine purred with sensual pleasure, thinking that there must be a bit of inner, magic elastic tugging from the nipples to the groin.
This is it, Maxine told herself, this is the moment when all you want is to lie back and let this easy pleasure wash over you. But perhaps that had been what had gone wrong between her and Charles. She had always expected him to do it to her; she had always been passive and timid in a way that people who knew Maxine out of bed would never have believed possible. If only she hadn’t been plump, if only she had been the perfect shape, then she wouldn’t have been so shy and self-conscious, wouldn’t have minded bouncing around erotically all over the bed. But she was, so she didn’t.
Pierre pressed her breasts together and ran his tongue down her cleavage. How can I do things to him while he’s doing things to me? thought Maxine. I can’t concentrate on two things at once; when he’s kissing my breasts and driving me out of my skull with excitement, I can’t think, I can’t do, I can only feel.
“My turn now,” said Pierre, as if mind reading. He rolled over on his side and unclasped the buckle of his belt, then Maxine reached for his hard solid body.
Later, Pierre gently pushed her head downward and Maxine licked the pink tip of his penis, which swayed as she took it between her lips. She steadied it with her cold hand, hoping that she wouldn’t shrivel him. She was terrified of biting him by accident. She tucked her lips over her teeth, making a hollow monkey mouth which slid easily over the penis. No way could she get all of this in her mouth, she worried.
Pierre wriggled. “Move your hand and mouth up and down together at the same time with the same rhythm.” Sprawled happily on the fur rug, Pierre made small involuntary movements with his hips toward her mouth. I seem to be doing it right, thought Maxine. She could feel a bump under the ridge of his penis, so she swirled her tongue round it experimentally. Pierre whinnied with delight, and his hips jumped eagerly toward her mouth. Maxine lost the rhythm, panicked, and thought she was going to choke; then she felt Pierre’s hands on her head, gently guiding her. Suddenly, she felt quite powerful and very pleased with herself.
Later, Pierre pulled the red fox fur tenderly over her plump, white body then nuzzled underneath, into her softness. “I have dreamed of your breasts for twenty years. Did you ever think of me?”
Maxine thought this must be standard, French post-coital dialogue, so she did her best to reply in the same vein of syrup. “Of course. Doesn’t every woman always remember her first lover?” He raised the glossy fur and dropped a kiss of homage on her soft honey-colored pubic hair.
“What about your wife, Pierre?” she said curiously.
“Obviously, you’re not used to committing adultery, Maxine. Rule one is never to mention the wife but, since you ask, she is obsessed by the children and we do our duty every Saturday.”
Maxine thought, that sounds like Charles and me.
“You’re not just after our sponsorship for your skier, are you?” Maxine asked, immediately wishing that she hadn’t been so insensitive.
“No, I am after you. Seriously.” He kissed her. “You can always find a sponsor if you’re the best—and I think my pupil will prove to be the best. But I hope we sign up with Chazalle, because then it will be necessary to meet two or three times a year—at least.”
“At least,” agreed Maxine, carefully picking a wisp of dried grass from his hair.
* * *
“We wondered if you’d turned over,” called the huntsman, as the antique racing carriage bounced across the glade.
“Took a short cut and got lost,” Pierre called back to him, his round blue eyes expressionless.
How can Maxine get lost on her own estate? wondered Judy and looked at Charles, scowling astride his slushspattered gray, as he wondered the same thing. In the circumstances, he can hardly play the jealous husband to Maxine, Judy realized. But why did Maxine have to be so stupid and choose exactly the wrong moment to screw up Judy’s pitch to Charles? If Judy ever got to make her pitch to Charles; in spite of her determined efforts to catch him alone, it was obvious to Judy that Charles had been avoiding her with equal determination.
So Judy was surprised when he offered to drive her to the airport, to catch her Concorde flight. As they set off down the kilometer-long, gravel drive, Charles surprised Judy by saying, “I thought I might as well give you the opportunity to reason with me again, which is obviously why you hopped over the Atlantic for the weekend. How I hate women’s plots!” He suddenly accelerated violently, tires squealing round a corner, and Judy remembered what a bad driver Charles was, as he continued, “I fail to understand why Maxine expects me to behave with decorum, when she fools around with her old boyfriend under my nose, as everybody saw yesterday.”
Maybe Maxine hadn’t been so stupid to flirt openly with Pierre, thought Judy, as she said, “I’m sure Maxine wouldn’t have looked at him twice, Charles, if you hadn’t hurt her so. Why do you do it? Have you reached the age where you need to prove your virility?”
“You make adultery sound like arthritis. Why don’t you mind your own business, Judy?”
“Maxine is my business, and she’s your business as well, Charles. Surely you can see that this assistant of yours hasn’t the sophistication or the style or the background to run the castle and handle all the business entertaining? The public associates Maxine’s glamour with your champagne. She’s starred in
your TV commercials all over the world. You’ll find you can’t switch images as easily as you can switch wives.”
Charles turned onto the highway and increased speed. “It’s not that easy to switch wives, the lawyers have already made that clear. You needn’t worry, Maxine will have plenty of money.”
“That’s not what she wants. She wants you.”
“You expect me to believe that, after seeing her today with that attentive oaf?”
“I don’t know anyone else who’s been faithful to her husband for so long. But you know that Maxine loves you. And you love her. She makes you laugh. You’ve gotten used to her, like a baby to its blanket, and she’s the mother of your children. Nobody’s going to spell it out to you if I don’t.”
They drove in silence, through the sleet. Judy thought, I’ve got to give it one more try, and said softly, “I think your hand was forced. I think that what you really want, Charles, is to have the clock put back a month.”
Another silence.
“So how would I get out of it?” Charles addressed the windscreen, as they turned into the airport.
“You’ll have to take a deep breath and tell this woman that you have no intention of altering your life. Maybe you’ll have to pay her—call it severance, of course. A year’s salary should do it. And fix a better job for her, with more prestige. Make it clear that she has a choice of the cash and the job—or nothing.”
“You American women are so tough.”
“Tough means being sensible and firm, refusing to be exploited. I hope you’re tough, Charles.”
* * *
That evening, Judy heard the whine of a police car hurtling down Fifth Avenue, far below. “It seemed a long weekend without you,” Judy murmured sleepily as Mark snaked his arm around her thin waist and pulled her close to him, under the cinnamon silk sheets. “What did you get up to, Mark?”
“Nothing much, the weather was foul. Took Lili to a couple of restaurants.”
“Sounds a drag.” Judy wriggled hopefully against him.
“Yes.” Mark suddenly realized that those two days had been wonderful; that after spending forty-eight hours with Lili, his first reaction of purely physical lust had changed. He remembered her eagerness, her ebullience, her rages, her depression, and her pathos. All now seemed violently appealing to him.
Mark felt the tip of Judy’s tongue, and automatically slid his hand between her thighs. He remembered hearing her once say that when men feel guilty, they make love with especial care, because they don’t want their women to guess what’s happened, and because they want to reassure themselves that it realty doesn’t make any difference. Expertly, Mark began to caress Judy, determined that she should not realize that, instead of her neat firm buttocks he wanted Lili’s ripe, rounded ass, and instead of Judy’s little pink-nippled breasts he wanted Lili’s golden, dark-tipped flesh, and instead of Judy’s charming, button-nosed face, he wanted Lili’s dark eyes, misty with ecstasy and her full lips whispering his name as he thrust inside her.
6
March 1979
PAGAN LAY AWAKE listening to the early morning sounds of home: the click-whirr-click of a London milk cart, the chink of bottles, a blackbird piping with indignation in the mischievous March wind, a heavy thud on the doormat as the Times came through the letterbox, a lighter thud as the British Medical Journal hit the doormat, soft swishes as the mail was pushed through the brass door flap. Downstairs, her old sheepdog, Buster II, gave a token growl at each invasion of his territory by Fritz, the dachsund.
Sophia must be awake, thought Pagan, as she listened to her daughter’s rock music drift up from the basement. Seven o’clock in the morning and she’s playing the drums already. Pagan then heard the noises she had been unconsciously waiting for, the sounds of her husband getting up. She heard footsteps on the polished boards of his dressing room, snatches of Mozart, whistled while he shaved, then stairs creaking as he thumped down to the kitchen.
With much whirring of weights and rattling of ancient brass chains, the grandfather clock struck seven. Then there was silence until Pagan again heard Christopher’s feet on the stairs, then the rattle of her bedroom door-handle—and there he was, gray hair still damp from the shower, deftly balancing her breakfast tray. “We seem to have run out of marmalade.”
“Christopher darling, I’ll never make a housewife, you must have noticed by now.” He rearranged the antique lace pillows behind her head, then took the Times from her tray and sat on the end of her bed, saying, “I thought the lack of marmalade was part of a plot to force me to divorce you.”
Pagan began to pour their tea. “Grabbing the newspaper first—always—is practically grounds for divorce in Britain.” Her primrose cotton nightdress slipped off her shoulder and her mahogany hair fell into her eyes as she leaned forward and handed him his cup.
“I once thought you might run off with a gigolo.” Christopher bit into his butterless toast. “When the cardiologist said it might kill me to make love to you again, my first thought was, how long will Pagan stand it?”
“Thank Heavens that medical opinion eventually changed its mind,” growled Pagan. “But I’ve always loved you for your brilliant conversation.” She never told Christopher how much she loved him. She was superstitiously afraid of doing so. Christopher was the mainspring of her life, the focus of her days, the theme of her thoughts. Only her husband’s care had transformed Pagan from a self-destructive, insecure, upper-class failure into a society figure famous for her outrageous glamour. Ironically, when Lady Swann, in some dazzling dress, swept into the room on the arm of her older, quieter husband, people naturally assumed that it was she who dominated the partnership, but the foundation of Pagan’s cheerful flamboyance was Christopher’s emotional stability.
For the first few weeks of their marriage, Pagan and Christopher had continued their rich and, for Pagan, revelatory sex life. When his first heart attack had ended that phase of their relationship, Pagan had been far more concerned about losing her husband than losing their good times in bed. “Sex is like opera, darling,” she used to tell Christopher. “Something that other people find fabulous, but which simply doesn’t thrill me.” She hadn’t really missed it that much.
“Are you ready for your joke of the day?” Christopher asked. Pagan crunched her toast and nodded.
“If you believe in the Virgin Mary’s immaculate conception, then Jesus Christ must have been a woman, because the Virgin’s baby could only have had X chromosomes!” He roared with laughter.
Pagan looked blank. “Don’t you remember my little lesson in genetics? Women have only X chromosomes, men have both X and Y. You can’t give birth to a boy without Y chromosomes. You can’t have Y chromosomes without spermatozoa. You can’t have spermatozoa without a man.”
Pagan still looked blank. “I can see you’ll never win the Nobel Prize for genetics, darling. Don’t you remember that I was able to predict when you were pregnant that Sophia’s eyes would not be brown, because the color of a child’s eyes depends on the genes of its parents. Two clearly blue-eyed parents can’t produce a brown-eyed child. More toast?”
“Tomorrow morning, darling, I’d like a joke that I can understand without a Ph.D.”
Pagan leaned back in bed, sipped her tea, then reached for her letters. She grabbed the one with the New York postmark and read it. “Half a million dollars!” She sat upright, waved the letter at her husband, then threw it to him. “See for yourself. That’s from Stash, Lili’s agent. That’s the profit they expect from the première and it’s all for the Foundation, as well as the money we’ll get from Spyros’s jewelry.”
“Tiger-Lili certainly wants to try out for the team.”
“I think she does; it’s rather sweet. She seems to have had such a rotten life, in spite of all the fame.” Pagan leaned back against the lace pillows. “She’s always on her guard, always wary, very conscious that people try to use her—which they do all the time. It’s perfectly disgusting. Lili can be a bi
t imperious but, basically, she’s a perfect pet.”
“She’s certainly a generous friend.” Christopher kissed the top of Pagan’s head. “I’m off. Cross your fingers for the new strain of hepatitis-B. It should either do the trick, or give us an epidemic.”
As he eased his elderly Rover into the flow of traffic heading south, Sir Christopher reflected that Pagan was probably the only woman he knew who would automatically feel nothing but sympathy for a voluptuous star like Lili. Perhaps Pagan understood her because both of them were a mixture of surface shockingness and underlying insecurity, he reflected, as he waited in traffic between two container trucks.
A bread van cut into the line of vehicles ahead, then swerved violently out again. Sir Christopher checked a rush of anger. Traffic snarls were a classic stress-inducer; no sense in shortening his life over someone else’s bad driving.
Morning mists lay in ethereal slabs over the gray river as the line of traffic started to move along the Thames embankment, then picked up speed down the clearway. He wouldn’t be late, after all, thought Sir Christopher, still in convoy between the two massive trucks.
He never saw the bakery van shoot the lights, make an unsignaled right turn, then crash head-on into one of the graceful spherical street lights that stand on the stone balustrade of the River Thames.
But Sir Christopher heard the crump of metal, the thin crash of glass, then the louder impact as an oncoming automobile piled into the back of the bakery van. He slammed on his brakes at the same time as the orange truck ahead of him, which stopped abruptly, air hissing from the pneumatic breaking system.
The worn disc brakes of Sir Christopher’s car were not so effective, and he realized that he would not be able to avoid hitting the lurid orange truck ahead.