Lace II

by Shirley Conran

  “You know I’ve always been a coward, Abdullah.”

  He smiled at her and clicked his fingers. An equerry stepped forward. “Lady Swann wishes to place a five-pound bet each way on the favorite.”

  “Abdullah, don’t be silly. I was only teasing. Of course I’ll put my money on your horse.”

  As soon as he had mounted, Reh al Leil pitched her jockey onto the velvet turf, and the odds lengthened to 100–7.

  As the other horses cantered sedately down the course to the start, Reh al Leil tore off at a gallop, her once-glossy flanks thickly plastered with white foam and her nostrils gaping wide and red.

  She reared in terror at the starting stalls, again unseated her jockey, and delayed the race a further ten minutes.

  When the starting gate finally flew open, Reh al Leil was twenty feet behind the other horses and heading in the opposite direction to the race.

  “Wherever did you find that filly?” Pagan asked Abdi, as Golden Gondola set a businesslike pace in the lead.

  “Kentucky,” he said pleasantly. At the first furlong, Reh al Leil was the last horse in the race.

  At the third furlong post, she was halfway up the field of eight young horses, and showing extraordinary speed.

  By the last furlong, Golden Gondola had dropped back to third place and Reh al Leil, cheered on by the roar of the packed grandstands, was out in front, then triumphantly won by a neck.

  “I’m glad I didn’t bet on the favorite, she’s lost a lot of money today,” laughed Pagan, as they made their way to the winner’s enclosure. “She couldn’t have gone slower if she’d been a real golden gondola.”

  “Most modern gondolas are motorized.”

  “How unromantic. Were there ever golden gondolas in Venice?” Pagan asked Abdullah, as they watched Reh al Leil, draped in sweat rugs, being walked steadily up and down.

  “Yes. In fact, there still are, Pagan. Haven’t you ever been to Venice?”

  “No,” said Pagan. “What’s your tip for the next race? Oh, watch out, here’s the Queen Mother.” With difficulty, Pagan curtsied in her tight primrose silk skirt.

  Afterward, Abdullah and Pagan walked slowly past the paddock to the sun-dappled half-circle of white rails at the end of the racecourse grounds. “This is my favorite part of Ascot,” Pagan said dreamily, as she watched the horses being prepared for the journey home. The farrier removed the light racing plates from Reh al Leil’s oiled hooves, and Abdullah rewarded the horse with a couple of peeled, scrubbed carrots.

  * * *

  “His Majesty is upstairs,” the ancient doorman told Pagan the next day, after directing her to the back staircase. Women—or lady guests, as they were known at Black’s—could only enter certain parts of the club and they were forbidden to use the main staircase.

  In the shabby dining room, the walls were covered by gold-framed pictures of bloodstock. Elderly waitresses moved slowly from table to table. “I see nothing’s changed,” Pagan said to Abdullah.

  “Nothing has changed.” Abdullah smiled back at her. “The food is as bad as ever.” He nodded amiably at the Minister of Defense, as he passed their table. The part of Abdullah that had been educated at Eton and Sandhurst, the lover of field sports and a respecter of tradition, was extremely comfortable at Black’s. The part of Abdullah that was proudly Arab detested the claustrophobic atmosphere of privilege and prejudice in the dim-paneled rooms, where judges, politicians, churchmen, and diplomats drank fine champagne from silver tankards, snoozed in old leather chairs and, although polite, really wanted nothing to do with dirty wogs.

  In the early days of their friendship, when lunch at Black’s had been a frequent event, Pagan and Abdullah had realized that the only way to eat well in the club was to order food that had been purchased from the members’ own estates, which meant river fish, game, and esoteric vegetables such as salsify and samphire.

  Abdullah watched Pagan as she dipped slim green asparaguss spikes in melted butter, then ate plain salmon trout with new potatoes, fresh peas, and cucumber salad.

  When the raspberries arrived, Abdullah ate them with his fingers, picking up each small red fruit, one at a time. Why should such a harsh man have such a soft mouth, Pagan wondered, watching him; his lips look as soft as Reh al Leil’s nose. Pagan felt the elation of flirtation. She realized that not once, since they had sat down, had Abdullah taken his dark eyes from her face.

  When the waitress removed the silver raspberry dishes, their hands were half an inch apart on the white damask tablecloth. Abdullah slowly stretched his fingers and Pagan felt the warmth of his fingertips.

  Speaking very slowly and pinching her fingertips very lightly between his, he said, “I don’t want to play games with you, Pagan, and I don’t want us to mess it up this time. I want you. I want a real relationship.”

  “I didn’t realize that you have real relationships in Sydon,” Pagan babbled, speaking too fast in her nervousness. “I thought you had political marriages.” She immediately regretted her words.

  “Darling Pagan,” Abdullah said, thinking he’d like to thump her, “we are not in Sydon now.”

  “Will you be having coffee, sir?” the waitress interrupted.

  “Why not have coffee in my suite at the Dorchester?” Abdullah suggested.

  Pagan sat silent for a full thirty seconds, her lips parted, her legs trembling, and her mind frozen with alarm.

  Abdullah said a word he very rarely uttered, and he said it quickly, with force. “Please, Pagan.”

  “Why not?” Pagan heard herself agree.

  What on earth am I doing? she asked herself as she glided down the back staircase, listening to the fears in her head. “I’m a widow. I haven’t made love for ages. I’m only used to Christopher. I must be put of my mind. I’m no longer the girl he remembers. He won’t want me once he sees me with my clothes off. Arabs treat women like donkeys, and Abdullah’s hurt me so much already. He’s dangerous for me. If I get involved with him again, he’ll hurt me again.” All her old feelings rushed back to frighten Pagan, the fear of private humiliation or, even worse, of public humiliation.

  Internal red lights and warning sirens continued to blare at the back of Pagan’s head as she reached the bottom of the threadbare staircase. Abdullah stepped forward, caught her in his arms, and pulled her out of sight behind a pillar. “Don’t you dare change your mind, you little coward,” he breathed, brushing her lips with his. She felt the tip of his tongue touch her lips, erotic and inviting. She melted, then clung to him. Abdullah said, “Let’s get out of here.”

  At the doorway of the club, they were stopped by a policeman. “Sorry, sir, we can’t let anyone leave the club. Another bomb scare. Please return indoors, and keep the lady as far as possible from the windows.”

  Outside, they could see that the road was crisscrossed by white tape; a police transporter was slowly towing away all cars except for a blue Ford on the right-hand side of the road. At the end of the empty street, a small group of police chatted beside an ambulance, its door ominously open.

  “What are we going to do?” Pagan asked Abdullah, almost crying with disappointment, but at the same time relieved. A group of club members, noisy with drink, was turned back at the door. Led by a rubicund bishop, they clattered up the staircase, back to the bar.

  Abdullah led Pagan away from the door. He took her hand, quickly pressed the narrow pale palm to his cheek, then kissed it and licked each finger with his warm tongue. “I’ve wanted you for years, and I’m not going to be stopped by an IRA bomb.”

  “Abdi, stop starting, when we haven’t anywhere to go. A bomb scare could trap us here for hours, you know.”

  He kissed her palm harder, crushing his lips against it. “Run up the ladies’ staircase,” he whispered. “I’ll meet you on the top floor, in the billiard room.”

  The billiard room on the top floor of Black’s was as quiet as a cathedral. The windows were permanently covered by green velvet, so only a few motes of dust floated
in the occasional ray of sunlight. In the green gloom stood two billiard tables. Larger than pool tables, they were made of smooth, heavy slate, covered by green cloth. Pagan eyed the polished boards of the floor, the narrow black leather bench that surrounded the room, and then the tables. “Abdi,” she whispered, “we can’t! Not on the table!”

  “We can,” he said, as he locked the door in the half-darkness and pulled her toward him. He kissed her slowly and gently. Then he crushed Pagan’s body against his, and she felt the side of the billiard table press against the back of her thighs.

  Slowly, Abdullah took off the green-and-white dress, kissing each exposed area of flesh as he did so. He looked at Pagan in her plain, white satin slip, picked her up in his arms and laid her long white-satin-wrapped body on the green baize table. The slate felt hard and cold, beneath the cloth. Soft, slow kisses traced Pagan’s collarbone, then she felt his lips on the delicate skin below, where the faint shadowy outlines of her ribs appeared. As his warm lips touched her skin, she thought dreamily, I’m lighting up, like the sun rising over the Swiss Alps, when the mountain peaks get that living pink glow that spreads slowly down to the valleys. Suddenly, she realized that it had been years since her body had felt so alive.

  Pagan’s slip slithered off the table as Abdullah started to kiss her breasts, then moved downward, beyond her ribs, his warm breath clinging like mist to the rise of her belly. Pagan suddenly thought of the dark velvet of a horse’s nose, and the potential power of that animal’s strength for danger and destruction. The tip of Abdullah’s tongue traced round her navel and slowly trickled over her lower abdomen. Then, maddeningly, his lips returned to kiss her on the mouth, and Pagan felt the harsh fabric of his uniform, the hard metal of brass buttons against her bare flesh.

  “But suppose we spoil the table?”

  “Then the table will be spoiled.” He unbuckled his belt.

  “Abdi—please! What if somebody comes up?”

  “They will find the door locked, that’s all.” Slowly he undressed, and Pagan thought, why, he’s treating me like a young horse. Act confident, make no sudden movements, and never let them know you’re scared. Having shed his clothes, Abdullah leaned over the table and kissed her body again until Pagan quivered, moaned, and forgot about the table and the bishops and discovery, as a warm brown arm encircled her long white waist. Abdullah’s velvet brown eyes looked into Pagan’s pale blue eyes, then his full lips moved forward as he bent to kiss her again. Then he pulled back, lips smiling, eyes dancing. Pagan tried to kiss him, but he ducked his head. Giggling, they struck at each other like snakes, then finally surrendered in a long erotic embrace as they both felt the strange hard chill of the slate that lay below the bright green baize covering the table.

  As she became increasingly conscious of the lazy warmth and sympathy of their entwined bodies, Pagan felt her self-consciousness evaporate. The comfortable friendship, which had endured since they were teen-agers, now wrapped them in cozy intimacy as Abdullah’s fingers slowly caressed her body as softly as his lips had done before. He kissed the arch of her mahogany eyebrows, the fine bridge of her nose, the long line of her jaw. He began to kiss her breasts, nuzzling her right nipple with his lips, sucking, first gently, then more insistently. He’s taking the whole afternoon to get to know my body, thought Pagan, tingling with ardor.

  As Abdullah slipped his hand inside the back of her white cotton panties, Pagan wished with all her heart that they were apricot satin and lace from Keturah Brown, and didn’t have a safety pin on the side. She felt another flash of vulnerability as light warm kisses fell on her soft mound, and the the hot tip of his tongue wriggled into the opening under the curls. Then she felt nothing but yearning, crushing pleasure as his hands slid under her buttocks and pulled her to him, so that he drank from her, like a cat lapping cream.

  Repeatedly, Abdullah swept Pagan to the edge of orgasm, then moved up to kiss her mouth again. Then, slowly, he mounted her and began to enter her quivering flesh, pushing inside her a millimeter at a time. This deliberate, careful slowness made Pagan feel as if she were moving in a dream. When they had first met, Pagan had imagined what it would be like, to let Abdullah make love to her. After her teen-age decision not to let him, Pagan had never allowed herself to regret it, or even to admit that there was anything to regret.

  But she’d never imagined anything like this.

  “Open your eyes, Pagan,” he breathed. As she looked at him, inhaling her own musky odor on his mouth, he pushed slowly on and Pagan felt as if she was being swept away on a foaming Hokusai wave. She gave a weak cry as her climax gathered, then broke over her. Abdullah held her body tightly to him, cherishing the communion of their flesh.

  She did not cry, as he had expected, but lay quietly in his arms, mouthing gentle kisses with her narrow lips. Abdullah considered taking her again to climax, but decided to wait until he knew the long, pale body better, as gently he returned her light kisses and began to satisfy himself. He knew that he could sensually dominate the timid Pagan, but he wanted her to love him and to come to his arms with confidence. Later, he would show her how to caress him, teaching her, as he had been taught, the art of love.

  Afterward, they lay together in the green quietness of the billiard room, her long pale body and his brown one, side by side. Faint bursts of tipsy laughter wafted up from the bar on the floor below, where the bishop and his friends still quaffed champagne from silver tankards.

  With his lips against the mahogany hair that spread over the green baize, Abdullah whispered, “When I first met you, I tried to imagine you naked, but I never could. I think that’s when I discovered that, for me, you were different from other women, because I couldn’t do what I wanted with you. I couldn’t even undress you in my own imagination.”

  Pagan pulled him toward her and felt the room recede, together with her sadness and confusion and timidity, as she felt the flesh upon flesh of their lips.

  Then the bomb went off.

  The explosion shook the entire building, including the heavy slate-bedded table on which they lay.

  There was an instant of silence. It seemed to last forever. Then, glass began to fall in deadly waterfalls from the windows.

  Snake swift, Abdullah scooped up Pagan and pulled her naked body beneath the billiard table. A cacophony of voices rose from below them. “We should perhaps get dressed,” Abdullah suggested.

  * * *

  The telephone call from a call box in Kilburn to the Daily Mail news desk was semicoherent. A voice announced that the bomb had been planted outside Black’s Club, and that they hoped the Minister of Defense had enjoyed his last lunch.

  When the antiterrorist squad discovered King Abdullah playing billiards with Lady Swann, they realized how much more serious the terrorist attack might have been. This time, instead of the senseless, pulped-flesh carnage of the usual IRA bomb attack, there had been no casualties, except for a superficial cut on the cheekbone of the uniformed doorman, who was reluctantly escorted to St. Thomas’s casualty ward, muttering that he didn’t know what London was coming to, what with the Irish killing old women and children, the Iranians holding Americans hostage in their own Embassy, the Lebanese machine-gunning each other, the Syrians hijacking airplanes, and the Nigerians kidnapping their diplomats and crating them up for export. Sometimes he wished he was back in the trenches, he grumbled to the paramedic; at least on the Somme, you knew who your enemy was and where Fritz was hiding.

  Abdullah turned to Pagan, who was huddled in the corner of his Rolls. “Next time we must go somewhere quieter,” he suggested.

  “Abdi, your driver will hear.”

  “No, he won’t. That’s a permanent, bulletproof, glass partition.” He noticed that, for the first time, she had called him by his old pet name of Abdi.

  “Will you spend the weekend with me? We could go where nobody knows you.” Abdullah’s hand was insistent on her thigh.

  Pagan gabbled, “I couldn’t do that. People would talk. I
t’s only been five months since Christopher died and I was very fond of him, you know.”

  “That is exactly why you need a few days away from life. A weekend in Venice. We could be there and back before anyone noticed.”

  Pagan hesitated. “What do you mean by a weekend?”

  She felt his forefinger trace her calf, then her knee, then her thigh again. Pagan wished that she wasn’t wearing chainstore pantyhose. She wished that she was wearing black sheer silk stockings with black satin garters and lots and lots of lace. She’d better nip round to Keturah Brown before this trip to Venice.

  * * *

  Pagan walked slowly up the stairs. It seemed a very long climb to her bedroom. Once inside, the drawers of the Queen Anne tallboy were difficult to open. Where did I put my bathing suit? she wondered. Aimlessly she began to pull out clothes and throw them on the floor. Suddenly she felt something hard and knobby in her hand. She looked at it for a few moments before realizing what it was. The old red dog collar was worn and curled at the end; a few of Buster’s coarse hairs were still caught beneath the metal studs.

  Suddenly, Pagan saw Buster lying dead on the road, then this was replaced by a different mental picture. Pagan saw the hospital sheet draped over her husband’s mangled body. She felt her mouth open in a distorted scream. At last, she felt tears in her eyes. “Christopher!” she shouted to the empty room, as sobs tore at her chest. Why am I crying? she asked herself. I shouldn’t be crying. Christopher died months ago. This is ridiculous. I must stop it.

  One of Mark Scott’s war photographs flashed into Pagan’s mind. She saw a bombed building, exposed like an open doll’s house to the outside elements. The flowered wallpaper was hanging in strips from the walls, the pictures were crooked, a chair and a smashed television set were piled on top of the rubble. Coats still hung from the hooks in the hall, but the end of the hall was missing. It wasn’t meant to be like this, the building mutely said. That was how Pagan felt about herself and her altered life. One minute it was there, whole and complete, and the next minute it had been smashed. Half of her life was missing, like half of that building was missing.