Pierre

by Primula Bond

  ‘I can’t believe I nearly missed this. I thought the easiest thing to do was leave.’ He looks away over the river. ‘But not before I’d taken up my membership. Then I walk into that jazz bar and there you were. Do you know what this could mean, Rosa?’

  ‘That you like my singing?’

  ‘And your breasts, and your mouth, and your eyes, and your hair, and your pussy –’

  I stop his words with another kiss, my body urging me to take him into me. I try to pull him to his feet, get him down into my bed again.

  ‘I think you already had me that first day,’ he says, grabbing the rail to pull himself upright. ‘When the zip on that bloody uniform got stuck –’

  I slap at him. ‘Liar. I was invisible to you. Just the carer, remember? The little cleaner!’

  ‘Fair enough. Maybe it took me a little longer to appreciate your charms.’

  We sit in silence for a few minutes, listening to the late-night traffic.

  ‘So come to bed again,’ I say, helping him through the hatch. ‘Let’s not waste any more time.’

  Halfway down the steps he stops and laughs.

  ‘I might have known you’d live like something out of a fairy tale, Cavalieri, but I was thinking more toadstools, or maybe a rabbit-hole. Look at you! You’re the young woman who lived in a shoe!’

  Pierre looks so happy, so fired up, so content to be tucked away in here. He claims I didn’t hurt him, that making love didn’t give him pain, but a tremor of anxiety runs through me. Suddenly he looks frail.

  ‘I just need to freshen up,’ I mutter, backing into the bathroom.

  I stare at my reflection in the little tarnished mirror. My eyes are wild and sparking, darker and deeper than usual, glazed with all that kissing. I look sexy and dishevelled, lipstick licked off long ago, my kimono slipping carelessly down.

  I return to the cabin, look at him lounging there, ensconced in my bed, so easy, so comfortable, leaning up against the wooden headboard. Such a big presence in my little wood-panelled cabin.

  ‘What’s the matter, Rosie?’

  ‘I want so much to take care of you, Pierre –’

  ‘I don’t want a carer. I want a lover!’ He’s frowning, reaching for me. ‘Christ, I must have lost my touch! Didn’t the way I fucked you just now show you that? You don’t have to worry about hurting me, Rosie. You can be as wild and as abandoned as you like.’

  His eyes are glittering dark slits arrowing into mine.

  Something has bothered him. I daren’t ask what. I don’t want to talk any more.

  Nor does he. He pulls me closer, so that my stomach is on a level with his mouth. He groans into the soft flesh, his hand fanning my buttocks to push me against his face. Such a primaeval, sexy sound. My man, groaning because he wants me.

  Standing before him I feel even more naked than before. I wriggle, press my thighs together. He slides his hand in sideways and parts them.

  Out in the cabin the CD goes onto repeat, Stan Getz sending his saxophone wailing suggestively up the scale, a minor key, sad but sexy.

  The way Pierre’s looking at me. Examining this part of me like a precious jewel, a long-sought specimen. It’s because he’s so slow, so quiet, his lips working silently as if he’s praying. It’s as if this core of me is rare, precious, the Holy Grail, something he’s somehow been denied.

  It fills me with a hot, wild surge of womanly pride. There’s nothing special about the way I’m built. But this guy’s slow-burning, horny fascination is making me feel like the sexiest woman in the world.

  I lay my hands gently on Pierre’s head, on his face, run my fingers through his thick black hair. He parts me gently with one hand. His lips are so close to my core. I wriggle shyly. His fingers hold me open like a prize, wide open, unfurl me like a flower. One finger smoothes out each petal, making each part damp, then wet, as he touches it, and then his mouth is moving against me and he slides his tongue up me, like a cat, in one movement.

  I cry out before I can stop myself. I moan and shake uncontrollably, tugging at his hair. It’s not just the one small sliver he’s touched and inflamed. The wet slick of his tongue has licked right through me, embers catching fire. To the roots of my hair, the tips of my fingers as the sensation shoots through me.

  I gasp, a really dirty, wanton sound, grasp his shoulders, tangle his hair in my fingers. He pauses. I loosen my grip but I’m not letting go completely. His fingers hold me open, the exposure exquisite yet excruciating.

  His warm, strong tongue licks me again. My legs are buckling as he licks, and then his tongue flicks on the bud that’s poking out rudely, waiting.

  It’s private, but it’s no mystery. Certainly not to him. Shades of other women, Venska, Polly, scores of others, other kisses on other body parts, should turn me off, make me cold, but those thoughts only make my desire all the fiercer. I want to be the best he’s ever had.

  As Pierre touches my burning clit with the tip of his tongue it’s like an electric probe. I close my eyes to all those shadowy rivals, consign them to the past. I’m starting to come now, those first strong ripples of rising excitement breaking like surf on the beach.

  I’m grinding against his mouth, his fingers, his tongue, ripping at his black hair, squeezing my thighs round his face, crying out as I fall onto the bed, shaking as if I’m cold, crashing onto him, too late scared I’ll hurt him as he slides backwards to catch me.

  I land on top of him and lie there, never wanting to move, listening to the slow, steady thump of his heart beneath me.

  Outside the porthole the water is black as pitch, the surface ruffled by the autumn breeze.

  CHAPTER TEN

  There’s no note. No sign of him. I thought I heard the kettle being switched on earlier, heard him clumping around the salon. The frying pan is on the stove, with the bacon uncooked and a box of eggs opened up beside it.

  He was going to make me breakfast, but now Pierre has gone.

  The hatch is open. I rush up the wooden stairs on to the deck to see if he’s maybe taking the air. There’s a fine rain falling this morning, and it’s chilly. No one would linger up here. In fact I’m amazed he’s managed to get off the houseboat without slipping on the wet polished surface.

  I blink against the harsh grey light as I scramble fore and aft. The hugeness and brightness of the world are confusing me. All the more so because he’s definitely gone. What was it he said about rabbit-holes? That’s how it’s felt, hiding away in the warm darkness all night, but putting my head above the parapet is like being slapped in the face. I’ve slept more heavily than usual. My mouth is bruised from all that kissing, my legs strained from being spread over him.

  My sex is throbbing and swollen, singing with memories.

  And my lover is nowhere to be seen.

  My prissy neighbour is up on her roof deck, deadheading her plants. She watches me standing on top of the cabin, scanning the street, the bridges spanning the river. I expect her to frown at me, barely covered by my silky kimono at midday, but instead she waves.

  ‘What a lovely young man! Unusual for people to be so polite and charming that early in the morning! So handsome in his dinner suit, too!’ she calls, putting down her watering can. ‘A pity about his poor legs.’

  I step across my deck towards her.

  ‘How early?’

  ‘Well, I was still having my breakfast. Poor man needed help getting down your gangplank.’

  ‘Did he say where he was going?’

  ‘Ah, now what was it?’ She lifts the watering can again, registering my distress. ‘Something about a passport?’

  I thank her, scurry back down the steps and bang the hatch down.

  A passport?

  I want to call him but my mind has become a snowstorm.

  I grab a croissant, which would have gone nicely with a slap-up breakfast. It’s warm but slightly stale, and I throw it into the bin. I sit down on the tartan bench seat and stare around the salon, as if Pierre Levi might be hidi
ng amongst the coffee cups or in the little dining area where the wheelhouse used to be.

  Apart from the breakfast things and the fact that the kettle is warm, there’s no sign of him. Not a sock, a bow tie, even a crumpled fiver.

  And if he’s gone to get his passport that surely means he’s not sticking around. Worse than that. It means he can’t get away fast enough or far enough.

  What have I done wrong? Was I too easy, kissing him like that in front of everyone in the bar, who admittedly broke into spontaneous applause? Was I too brazen, dragging him home to my bed?

  I’m afraid of myself.

  Is he really afraid, those puppy-dog eyes winning my sympathy, or is this how it works with him? He takes what he wants and then gets bored? Is that how it was with Polly and all the others? She and Robinson Junior were pretty clear. They were warning me.

  Those with hearts will get their hearts broken. Those without don’t give a shit.

  My phone and my laptop beep at the same time. I lunge across the cabin and grab the phone, but it’s not him. It’s Francesca, alerting me to her presence, her icon a little waving Tinkerbell in the corner of my screen.

  ‘So you scored, then!’ she cackles as soon as I’ve settled the laptop onto my crossed legs. ‘And you were right. Signor Levi is absolutely gorgeous!’

  I look around me, as if Pierre has just reappeared.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘We had a chat over Skype this morning. I rang, as arranged, but you were sleeping like a baby. He told me all about it. How he was struck by this coup de foudre when he walked into the club last night and heard you singing.’

  ‘He fell for my voice?’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t your ugly mug was it? You have a great face for radio!’ Francesca grins. ‘I’m kidding, silly. As for your paramour, well, he looked as if he was born to make breakfast on a boat. I wish I was right there with you. I told him he looked like a waiter in those black trousers and white dress shirt.’

  ‘That’s all very cosy. Both you and my neighbour have had the pleasure of his company this morning.’

  ‘Don’t be such a grumpy mare. You should be basking in the afterglow.’

  ‘I’m not grumpy. I’m worried. He’s vanished.’

  ‘Really? He was wielding the frying pan when I last saw him. Maybe he’s planning a surprise. Some flowers, maybe – oh, hang on.’

  Francesca turns away for a moment to speak to Carlo, who has wandered into the background. From the décor of the bedroom I see they’re back in their Upper West Side apartment. My brother-in-law has a towel tied dangerously loosely round his slim hips and is rubbing his mad hair with another towel.

  ‘Ciao, sis. You had a good night with a new man, I hear?’ he calls, wandering off stage left. ‘Brava. About time you got that little prick Daniele out of your system.’

  The hot coffee burns my sore lips. ‘Ciao to you!’

  ‘By the way, did Antonio track you down?’ Francesca says after a time lapse, turning back to the screen. Her sleek black hair, straight as a ruler compared with my crazy curls, is up in a high ponytail and she looks slim and sporty after her inevitable run around Central Park. ‘He said he was travelling to London.’

  ‘Yes, he did. Oh, it’s all getting so complicated!’ I glance out of the window up at the hatch, but Pierre Levi is not coming back. ‘He’s asked me to work in the new bar in Rome.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And it’s tempting. My tenure at the club finishes whenever I want it to finish. And as you predicted, he mentioned New York, too –’

  ‘Fab! We’ll all be together again!’

  ‘But things have developed. Between me and Pierre. I can’t just swan off. I don’t know what to think.’

  ‘On the basis of one night? Get a grip, Rosa. You can’t pass up a huge opportunity like Antonio’s offering.’ Francesca leans down to tie her laces. ‘You have to continue living your life. Following your dream. Using your talent. If Antonio makes an offer you can’t refuse, then you have to follow it. It’s your career, not Pierre Levi’s.’

  ‘What about my love life? I can’t ignore what happened last night. Which is why I need to know why he’s stormed off.’

  ‘How do you know he’s stormed anywhere? He might have just gone to get a newspaper. Rosie, if he likes you, he’ll be back.’

  ‘Maybe. Or maybe he’s gone off me. Thinks I’m a prize slut.’

  ‘He’s hardly one to judge. I’ve been asking around. He looks perfectly charming, but he had a dreadful reputation. A right Lothario. He certainly has a devilish look about him, but what do I know?’ My sister stands up. ‘I’ve only seen him through a screen.’

  ‘You must have said something to scare him off, Fran. Come on. Think.’

  ‘Oh, I just laughed and said that maybe now you could stop masquerading as a nurse and leave that clinic. Focus on your proper career. You’re not cut out for being a carer.’ She kicks out her slim legs like a show pony. ‘Can I go now?’

  ‘Having sowed the seeds and freaked me out. Yeah. Be off with you. But Frannie?’ I mutter, as a wave of fatigue washes over me. ‘Why not just cut the crap and send me a one-way ticket?’

  ‘One step at a time. You may not need it.’ She tips her head on one side. ‘You shagged the object of your desire last night, and that’s great. I salute you. But first you have to work out if last night is going to change the course of history. Capisce?’

  I stare back at her, wishing I could just crawl through the screen into that luxurious bedroom in her penthouse apartment overlooking the mean streets of Manhattan. I wish I could just let her resume her big-sister role, and let me just get on with – with what?

  ‘Si. So how do I do that?’

  ‘You find him, you muppet. And you talk to him!’

  I switch her off and step into the shower, turn on the hot spray of water. Examine the naked body that Pierre caressed, kissed, entered only a few hours ago. My nipples are dark red, still tingling from his lips and teeth, and still hard.

  Find him. Talk to him. Easier said than done when the man’s not answering his phone.

  I squeeze gel between my breasts and rub them gently, cupping them, seeing how soft they are, so swollen with longing. I circle the foam over my stomach, my skin glossy with soap and water. When I open my legs there’s the scent of sex, his and mine mingled. My pussy starts to throb, ripples of desire streaking through me, following the urgent runnels of water.

  He licked me. I shiver. I can still feel it. He took his time, lapping like a lazy cat to bring me to ecstasy.

  Then he was in me, filling me with his hardness, thrusting into me as I bore down on him. I can feel it now, remember the sensation of that muscled shaft sliding in to me, out of me, ramming in harder each time. My body bucks with little shocks of excitement as I see it all, as clearly as if it was a fuck film spooling across a silver screen, starring the two of us.

  He was in me, groaning with lust, moaning my name. I didn’t imagine any of it. Pierre Levi was in my house, filling my little nest with his broad frame and his unmistakable maleness. It wasn’t all about rutting. Afterwards he stroked my hair and we talked. And talked. And slept, overheated and overtired, in each other’s arms.

  I wonder if there’s any emptiness more absolute than the emptiness following total fulfilment.

  So what’s changed? What’s happened? What’s going on in that fucked-up head of his?

  I get dressed. I’m copying my sister by donning my running gear. Finally I leave a brief text for Pierre. After all, he might think it odd if I don’t. Maybe he has just gone home to change.

  ‘Where’s my breakfast?’ is all I say. I don’t add, ‘Why the fuck do you need a passport?’

  Then I clamber out on to the deck and lock the hatch. I plan to run up to Battersea Park and back, pretend I’m in Central Park. I plan to run that man right out of my hair.

  A text buzzes through. My hands are shaking. But it’s not him.

  It’s
Antonio. In typical style he has opened the message quoting an enormous sum of money, attached a contract and suggested not only this new stint in Rome with me as the headliner, but following it up early next year with a European tour supporting a major jazz artist.

  Think about your future, cara. Others would bite my hand off. I need an answer today.

  I nearly hurl the phone, with Antonio in it, into the river. As if he can see me my phone immediately buzzes again with a text. Yes or no?

  This is like torture. Why isn’t it Pierre? As I stare at Antonio’s text my calendar sings out its daily reminder. I have an afternoon shift at the clinic.

  I’ll go, but not to work. I’m going to hand in my notice.

  I reply to Antonio’s text, punching out the letters as if I hate them.

  You’re on. I’ll see you in Rome.

  I don’t know what Pierre’s up to, where he’s gone, if he’s going to come back, if he’s playing some sort of game, but if that’s it, if I’m dumped after just one weekend, well, it looks as if the leopard hasn’t changed his spots after all.

  * * *

  I find her eventually, leaning on the desk in the drugs cupboard, checking off a new delivery. I stand in the doorway for a moment, out of breath from running all the way to the clinic.

  She’s so absorbed in her task that she doesn’t know I’m there. Her hips are neat in her tight white uniform, her little butt tipped towards me, her toes tapping to some unheard tune as she concentrates. Her hair is slicked back today, but a couple of curls behind her ears have escaped the gel.

  ‘Jeannie?’ I bleat, crossing the little room towards her. ‘I need to talk to you.’

  ‘What the?’ She spins round, dropping her pen as the door shuts softly behind me. ‘Rosa! You’re early!’

  ‘So you don’t want me around either?’

  And then to my astonishment, and hers, I start to cry.

  Nurse Jeannie folds her arms around me and pulls me close. She smells of peppermint. She’s a little smaller than me, but her arms are so firm, her cheek soft yet cool as it presses against mine, her words, whatever she’s saying, so soothing and calm, that she could be twice the size.