Bird Inside

by Wendy Perriam

  ‘Rose?’

  She started. Christopher was standing by the car, leaning down to let her out, his coat collar turned up, snow crusting on his hair. ‘I forgot to ask Jonathan to lend me an umbrella. You’ll have to make a dash for it.’

  Yes, she thought, I will, and too fast for you to follow. But he was faster still, already had her arm – the suitcase in his other hand as he steered her down the path, feet slipping on the shining treacherous cobbles.

  ‘Welcome, Rose,’ said Jonathan, smiling at the door, a tall immaculate-looking man in slate-blue trousers and an exactly matching shirt; a flowered cravat around his neck, and unnaturally fair hair, which she suspected would be quite as grey as Christopher’s without assistance from a bottle. She shook his proffered hand, which felt small and soft and moist, like the scallops in the restaurant. He coaxed the case from Christopher, led the way upstairs, prattling brightly on about the weather and the traffic, and those endless wretched roadworks just north of Peterborough. She wondered why he hadn’t called a porter, and why they were using the back staircase (the servants’ staircase, judging by its steep and narrow treads); disliked the sense of being hustled out of sight, like somebody infectious.

  ‘Goodnight,’ he said obsequiously, as he left them in a passage outside a door marked 21. ‘See you in the morning.’

  ‘Wait!’ she almost shouted, as Christopher inserted the small and fiddly key. ‘I’m coming down myself.’ But Jonathan had disappeared already, the echo of his footsteps suddenly cut off as the artist scooped her in and closed the door.

  She stopped, transfixed, saw a double bed and roses, in that order – a king-size bed, and at least six dozen roses – expensive hothouse roses, more precious than the strawberries, arranged in bowls and vases all around the room: reflected three times over in the astonished triple mirror of the dressing table. Every rose was red – tight-furled buds half-lost in swathing foliage; fuller, more exotic blooms, opening out in the heat of the two radiators; tall and thorny roses standing to attention in an exquisite cut-glass vase. She was so dazzled by the sight, she could only stare at Christopher, struck dumb by his extravagance. The strawberries had been rationed – eight scant fruits apiece – but here was a whole feast of flowers, a riot, a luxuriance.

  Christopher was watching her, smiling at her face. ‘Red roses for my Rose,’ he said, shrugging off his coat. ‘I’m afraid I couldn’t rival Cleopatra. When she entertained Mark Antony, she spread the floor with roses to a depth of eighteen inches – or so the story goes.’ He slipped across, to take her coat as well, helped her with the fastenings, since she seemed still mesmerised. ‘Perhaps we should strew them on the bed, like the Romans used to do, sleep on scarlet petals instead of boring sheets.’ He laughed, and pulled her close. ‘There’s a story in Seneca of a Sybarite who couldn’t sleep a wink if just one single rose-petal happened to be curled. I suppose it’s an earlier version of the Princess and the Pea.’

  ‘What’s a Sybarite?’ she asked, cursing her own lack of style, her sheer artlessness with words. She should be pouring out her thanks to him, in a Keatsian ode, or Shakespearian pentameters, telling him how touched she was, how flattered, overwhelmed, and all she’d managed so far was to ask a futile question.

  ‘Well, literally an inhabitant of Sybaris, but more generally a sensualist, someone who loves luxury. We’ll be Sybarites tonight, Rose.’ He gestured to the ice-bucket, removed his jacket before opening the champagne, the cork blasting off in a violent spurt of foam. He poured two glasses, set hers on the table between the chintzy fat armchairs, which had been arranged as a small sitting area at one end of the room. ‘Sit down,’ he said, ‘And let’s drink a toast to us.’ He clinked his glass against her own. ‘To Rose and Christopher – Christopher and Rose.’

  She mouthed the phrase herself. Their names were linked, their glasses, fingers touching; the toast official now. But that was just the overture. They would be joined completely soon, and he would expect her to be worthy of him, worthy of the roses, the dinner, the champagne; also expect her to be blatant, repeat her wild performance of Wednesday afternoon. She could hardly understand now how she had behaved so flagrantly, actually pressing herself against him, shameless and stark naked, once he’d finished sketching her, and had laid his charcoal down. Posing nude seemed to have set off some explosion in her body, as if by drawing her, he’d changed her, unleashed a different self, abandoned, unrestrained. But he had gone the other way – aloof and unresponsive – removed himself from her embrace, unlatched her naked limbs, then told her sharply to put her clothes back on, his whole manner strangely fraught.

  She’d felt humiliated, baffled, as she replaced her limp blue jeans. He had wanted her three weeks ago, yet now he was rejecting her. Had she injured his male pride by taking the initiative, or was he worried about Anne, who might be chafing back at home? Or did he simply feel the ambience was wrong; preferred a slow seductive build-up to a sudden low-key grope? She hardly knew this new romantic Christopher, who had deemed her worthy of a ten-course feast of flowers, and who contrasted most emphatically with the stern exacting artist who seemed wary of indulgence, insisted on hard work. He was a mystery to her generally, despite their weeks together – his partner on the window, but a stranger to his mind. If he didn’t still desire her, then why bring her here at all, why book a double bed? In fact, he had burst into the studio the day after she’d posed for him – arrived before first light, with a letter postmarked Lincolnshire, suggested they drive up there, and stay for the weekend; leave as soon as possible, as if the deteriorating window, which he’d dismissed as just a drag, had become his top priority.

  She crossed her legs, uncrossed them, fiddled with her bracelet. If only he would draw her now, so that she could feel those same sensations in her body, that new sense of flaunting confidence, as if she were indeed a goddess, an imperious Muse who could make the first bold move. But instead of picking up a pencil, he was fumbling for his lighter.

  ‘I was going to buy you white roses,’ he said, tearing off the cellophane from a new pack of cigarettes. ‘I’m reading this marvellous new biography of Nijinsky, and when he was first married, he bought his wife a good two dozen roses every single day. But he insisted they were white ones. He said red roses frightened him, and he wrote in his journal that he knew his love was white, not red. Odd, that, isn’t it, when red roses are the flower of love?’

  She sneezed in answer, the champagne bubbles tickling up her nose. The word ‘love’ made her nervous. She was as inexperienced in love as she was in sex – or more so. Yet that brief four-letter word had changed the course of history, blazoned through all literature and art. She was still the philistine, responding to his gesture with a gauche and witless silence, so lost in introspection, she hadn’t even thanked him for the flowers.

  ‘They’re fantastic!’ she told him, gesturing round the room to all the vases; roses smiling back at her whichever way she looked. ‘The most amazing thing anyone’s ever done for me.’

  He leaned across and kissed her in reply, a very cautious kiss this time, as if her lips might bruise or crush. ‘The Romans used to put them in their wine, you know, to flavour it and scent it. We could do that with our bubbly.’ He leaned across to pluck a rose from the nearest of the vases, eased its outer petals off, then floated one in each of their tall glasses.

  Jane sipped her rose-champagne. It tasted just the same, but she shut her eyes, imagined a new flavour – the taste of Sybaris, Scarlatti, Nijinsky, Cleopatra – all those names he had woven through the evening, seductive stirring names. The artist was still playing with the flower, dipping it in his champagne, then sprinkling wine-drops on his tongue. ‘I chose red because you’re red yourself – passionate and fiery, Rose, however much you kid me you’re a shy and shrinking violet. But let’s try to keep things white this evening, which means slow and very gentle, like Nijinsky. He called himself a dove, you know.’

  ‘A dove?’

  ‘Yes. The bi
rd of peace and innocence.’

  ‘Well, this dove’s getting hot.’ She unfastened the two top buttons of her dress, could feel her heart thumping through her fingers, though not just from the heat. She had to make some gesture, some sign that she was willing. If they spun it out too slowly, as the artist seemed to want now, she might lose her nerve completely, become even more bogged down in speculations.

  ‘It’s a stunning dress,’ he said, undoing the next button.

  ‘My favourite.’

  ‘A shame to take it off, then.’

  ‘Yes.’ She liked the rustle that the skirt made as she slid it past her knees, stood in her white waist-slip, hands across her chest. ‘Aren’t you hot yourself?’

  ‘Boiling. The heating must be turned too high. Shall we go outside and cool off in the snow?’

  She nodded. ‘Roll naked in it, like – who was it you said?’

  ‘I can’t remember. I say too many things.’

  ‘No, you don’t.’

  ‘So you don’t wish I was the silent type?’

  ‘I like you as you are.’

  He hugged her to him suddenly, his hands reaching round to unhook her bra, peel it gently off. His shirt was silky-cool against her skin, the rough nub of his tie pressing on one breast.

  ‘You’re the shrinking violet now,’ she whispered. ‘Still got all your clothes on.’

  ‘So are you going to take them off?’

  She unknotted the tweed tie, forced the tiny fiddly buttons through their holes. His chest felt burning hot, heart pounding like her own. ‘Listen to our hearts! They’re going wild.’

  ‘So they should.’ He cupped his hand around her breast, feeling for her heart. ‘Yours is even missing beats.’

  ‘It can’t be.’

  ‘Yes, it is. I think we ought to go to bed and rest.’

  She laughed, took off her tights; slid inside the covers, still wearing her lace waist-slip. Christopher turned the lights off, save for one small bedside lamp. He vanished for a moment and she heard a cistern flushing, the sound of water running in the bathroom. She should have washed herself, but she knew she mustn’t move now, spoil their happy mood, that blessed sense of letting go, at last. She’d had a bath just before they left, doused herself with scent, washed her hair, smarmed on every aid she could – deodorant and hair-spray, lip gloss, hand cream, talc. Surely all those creams and potions would last a few hours more, see her through the night. She spread herself across the bed, stretching out diagonally, relishing the cool kiss of the sheets. Despite its heat, the room seemed kind and friendly, not snobby or too grand, but a homely sort of place which would help her to relax. She unfastened her gold bracelet, started pulling at her hair, shaking out the hairpins, trying to smooth it with her fingers. They were away from prying eyes now, so she’d no need to be sophisticated, or try to look a soignée twenty-five. She took another sip of her champagne, which Christopher had left beside the bed, the damask crimson petal floating on the top contrasting with the effervescent gold. The wine had helped already, softened all her edges, so she could merge and blend more easily, flow out of her body into his.

  ‘No room for me?’ he asked, gliding naked from the bathroom, a skimpy towel tied round his lower half.

  ‘A good six or seven feet,’ she flustered, moving right up to the edge and patting the expanse of crisp white sheet.

  ‘I’ve kept my fig-leaf on,’ he said. ‘Like a shy and shrinking violet.’

  ‘I’ve got mine on, too.’

  ‘So we’ll be shy together, shall we?’

  ‘Yes.’ She touched his chest, curled her fingers gently through its fur.

  ‘Do you want the light off?’

  She nodded. ‘Would you mind?’

  ‘No. It’s quite exciting.’ He reached out for the switch, plunged the room in darkness, and as he bent to kiss her, she heard a sudden raucous shout rising from the courtyard, echoed by a bray of drunken laughter. She tensed immediately, listened to the laughter swell, other voices joining in, then uncanny total silence; the only sound her own expectant startled breathing.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Jane was dreaming. Someone in the dream was stroking her and touching her, though she wasn’t sure quite where. Her body felt shadowy – vague and undefined; had lost its usual boundaries. She tried to nudge the hand away, too sleepy to wake up. Her own hand closed on nothing, seemed to have no weight or strength. The stroking didn’t stop. It was soothing, very soothing, slow and sensuous. Perhaps she’d simply accept it, as part of sleep, of dreaming; not push those swansdown fingers off. Everything was soft – the fluffy clouds beneath her, the drifting snow on top. Except the snow was black, not white – black velvet on her eyelids, black midnight in her mind. No, she didn’t have a mind, just a blur of body, stirring slowly into life as the fingers probed more deeply, opening up some dark and secret part of her she didn’t know she had.

  She liked the secret feelings, yet didn’t want to float up out of sleep. It must still be very late – or very early – shadow-time, nothing-time; or perhaps she’d travelled to some country where there was neither night nor morning, only twilight in between. She did remember driving – whirling white on black again, the drone of other ghostly cars, revving, swooshing past; then a sudden lurch as they braked to skirt a pothole in the road.

  She half-sat up in shock, tried to push the driver off, was thrust back underneath him, wincing at the stab of pain, then jerking with his movement, picking up its rhythm, lunging back and forth in some extraordinary impetuous ride; then a judder and a strangled shout, and the driver was slumped over her, sweating, strangely quiet.

  She kept her eyes closed, so as to memorise the sensations, etch them in her mind. They were nothing like she’d thought, nothing like the books said. She groped her hand between her thighs, surprised to find them slimy-wet. Her hair was tangled, one strand trapped by Christopher, as if he’d fettered them together. She could see his face in a shaft of light filtering through the curtains; eyes shut tight, full lips clamped together, forehead tense and frowning.

  ‘I’m sorry, Rose,’ he said, at last, his voice smaller and less spirited than usual. ‘That’s not what I intended. Absolutely not. I don’t know what it is between us, but every bloody time I’ve tried to …’ His laugh was forced and awkward, and he left the sentence hanging, clearly too embarrassed to remind her of last night. ‘I think I was half-asleep, just now – to start with, anyhow. I hardly even realised what was happening – until …’

  ‘It’s okay,’ she said, wincing as he shifted, trapped a second strand of hair.

  ‘It’s not okay – far from it. I was utterly determined to make it good for you, and then I go and …’

  ‘It was good, honestly.’ How could she explain that all his slow and gentle wooing of last night had only brought her doubts and fears back, so that the more he kissed and fondled her, the more uptight she’d become. She couldn’t understand it; had only slowly realised that it was affecting him, as well, so that when he finally tried to enter her, he had simply slithered out again, no longer stiff after an hour of holding back. They had finished up not making love, but pacing round the room, swapping lame excuses and apologies; he furious with himself for losing face; eyes dark-ringed with sheer fatigue – the only time she had ever seen him tired. It was a relief he’d come, at last, and come so sneakily and suddenly, she hadn’t time to agonise or think. It was almost comic, in a way, though she dared not laugh, in case she hurt his feelings. He had suffered quite enough for one short night, seemed to take the whole thing so intensely, as if it wasn’t merely pleasure, but some religious ritual, or vital rite of passage. Well, for her it was, of course. She had joined the adult world, passed from girlhood into womanhood, grown up with a jolt.

  She glanced down at his stomach, then lower, to his thighs, amazed she had slept so soundly with a naked man beside her, sharing the same bed. Her eyes kept tracking back to the dark thatch of his pubic hair, and the pale shape just
below it, which looked putty-soft and innocent, so different from the way it felt inside her. How peculiar men were. All that thrust and anguish in a bauble of pink flesh.

  She tried to move her head, found herself still snared. ‘Can I have my hair back, please?’

  ‘Your what? Oh, I see. I’m sorry. I’m being a real brute today.’

  ‘No, you’re not.’

  ‘Perhaps you like brutes, secretly.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  He moved his hand towards her breast, stroked the palm across it, rhythmically and hard, then inched his fingers slowly, slowly lower, probing her deep navel, his touch softer now, and tantalising. She shut her eyes. All her fear had gone. She was no longer scared of being hurt, or of not meeting expectations; no longer fazed by what she didn’t know. She was experienced, an adult, with an artist’s sperm inside her. She still felt wet and sticky from his come, and his sly hand found that wetness; was rubbing and exciting her, where no one had ever touched her in her life. She could hear her parents’ labels: ‘dirty’, ‘private’, ‘dangerous’, vaguely warning in her head – but her parents were quite wrong. It was no longer private, but opening up to Christopher; not dirty, but incredible, and maybe dangerous, but she craved and courted danger if it felt as good as that.

  She had hardly ever touched herself, was vague about the details of what lay between her thighs, despite the plethora of sex-books which urged women to explore themselves, to use mirrors, fingers, to examine their anatomy, or give themselves more pleasure. She found such advice distasteful, if not even slightly comic, and there was always Amy’s own distaste affecting her, inhibiting her; her constant presence in the house acting as a straitjacket. But her parents had been banished now, and Christopher had read those books, knew precisely what to touch, and where, and just how much crafty pressure would excite her in that spot or this, and how to subtly tantalise her by moving his slick fingers to somewhere less intense so, that she was crying out for their return, even moving her own hand down, to nudge or shove them back. She could feel her body arching up, hear her breathing loud and laboured, lungs bursting through her chest. Nothing else existed now save that vast and tiny triangle of heat and throb and fret, which had to be resolved, or she would die from the sheer build-up, from the sense of wolfish hunger. She had been waiting for this force-feed all her life – without even being aware of it – itching for this final wild release.