The Bohemian and the Banker

by Bonnie Dee

  Indignation fled, leaving Nigel cold and shivering and humiliatingly hopeful. Would he recognize Jean Michel without his makeup and gown? And would the clearly popular chanteur have a glance to spare if he should pass Nigel?

  He held his breath and waited. A few performers left with wealthy older gentlemen, but the crowd grew larger as more people joined the queue waiting to see the star attraction. Nigel rose impatiently on his toes to see over the shoulder of the fellow in front of him. The large man chattered loudly in annoying French at his companion and kept shifting so Nigel had to crane to see around him.

  The stage door opened again, and suddenly Jean Michel was there. Time froze. Nigel froze too. His gaze riveted on the dark-haired man in the blue suit who strode into the cheering throng. The jostling group trying to get close enough to shake hands or offer presents to their minor celebrity pressed Nigel against a wall. He could scarcely see a glimpse of Jean Michel’s brown hair as the man came closer. In a second, he’d be gone, disappeared up the alley to wherever a creature such as he might dwell.

  A feeling of loss such as he’d not experienced since his mother’s death swept over Nigel in a drowning wave. He couldn’t bear to let the singer go without at least expressing his appreciation of the performance. He pushed off the wall and shouldered his way through the crowd, forcing himself to the front of the group. “Excuse me. Beg pardon.”

  His last push propelled him past the loud, large Frenchman and straight into the path of Jean Michel. Nigel tripped and nearly fell to the pavement. He staggered upright—to gaze into intense eyes under eloquently arched brows currently twisted in a frown.

  Jean Michel reached out to grasp Nigel’s arm. “Steady on, mate.”

  Nigel blinked. Where was the French accent? With those three short words, spoken in that flat Cockney tone, the man would have fit in at Covent Garden.

  “S-so sorry,” Nigel stammered. “I…I wanted to thank you for your, ah, fine singing. It was quite lovely. And I, um, wanted to let you know how much I appreciated it.”

  The frown disappeared. “Out-of-towner, eh? Good to hear the sounds of jolly old, though I can’t say I miss the old girl.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “England. Hail Britannia. I’m saying I don’t miss her.” He clapped Nigel on the shoulder. “But I wouldn’t mind having a drink with a countryman. Why don’t you come along with me, and we’ll jaw about what the prime minister and his lot have been up to.”

  “Oh. I…” Nigel couldn’t escape the heavy hand on his shoulder. He fell into step with the unexpected expatriate singer and flowed forward into another insane adventure on this outrageous night.

  Chapter Two

  Jay wasn’t sure why he was dragging the very English businessman with the immaculate homburg and grey gloves home with him. He’d long ago grown bored with shocking the bourgeoisie. And despite the fact that this fellow Brit seemed to be a stage-door admirer seeking a companion, he was stuffy from the top of his carefully combed hair to his…well, his untied shoes. “Best lace those up.” Jay pointed at the shoes. “You’re liable to fall on your arse otherwise.”

  “Yes, of course.” The gent leaned against a lamppost, balanced his foot on the opposite knee and got to work. In the glow of the lamp, Jay could see his hands trembled so much he had trouble with the laces. He glanced up at Jay every few seconds as if to make sure he wasn’t running away, or maybe he suspected Jay was on the verge of bashing him over the head and stealing his wallet.

  What on earth was such a nervous creature doing hanging about this unwholesome part of town? Funny to risk such fear or excitement merely for a stroll through the streets. What must it feel like to be such a person? Jay tried to imagine walking through his day in those polished but oh-so-sensible leather brogues.

  Stuffy Sam gave another glance up at him. Their gazes held and…hallo, look at that. Jay smiled at the sheer hunger on the other’s face. Really, what a nice compliment, especially since the gent obviously would rather gouge out his own eyes than admit he admired Jay.

  So much desperation and needy hunger…ho hum. Jay felt almost old. Except such need was poignant and rather amazing. Would he feel that way if the gent in question was old and had hair in his ears and a big belly? Likely not.

  This specimen had large brown eyes and hair as black as coal soot. Perhaps his well-tailored suit covered flaws, but in the dim light spilling from cafés and the street lights, he looked as well proportioned as any of the lads Merde brought back to the flat to pose for his paintings.

  “Thank you,” the gentleman said in a husky voice. He straightened and tugged his jacket into place.

  “Just a drink and talk.” Jay felt he must warn him. “The place I’m staying is rather crowded at the moment.”

  “Oh yes, yes. Of course.” So much stammering, and too bad the street was dark, because Jay was sure he’d see the man turn bright red. After a silent step or two, the man asked, “What else would one expect?”

  Jay snickered. “Do you really want to know? Are you such a babe in arms? Mm. Perhaps you are, despite the public school education.”

  “How do you know where I attended school?” asked the tastefully tailored Englishman in his cut-glass accent.

  That struck Jay as even funnier, and he began to laugh in earnest as they walked along. When Mr. Naïve, staring at him with a puzzled frown, nearly ran into a café awning, Jay had to stop and lean against a wrought-iron table until he got his breath back.

  Jay wiped a hand across his mouth and asked, “What’s your name?”

  “I’m Mr. Warren. Nigel.”

  “Of course you are. Nigel Warren, it’s plain, English and fits you to a tittle, though I’d have thought a sir or lord or what have you might be even better. Sir Nigel.” He turned down the dark alley that led to the gate of his building. His innocent companion hesitated, and Jay could hardly blame him. No light penetrated that cobblestone-and-dirt path.

  “Shall I take your hand and lead you, Sir Nigel?” he offered.

  Nigel fairly vibrated at that suggestion. “Yes.” He held out his hand.

  Jay had been joking with him, but why not? He reached for the hand, and Nigel’s hard grip surprised him. He gave a little tug, and they made their way into the dark.

  That hand was large and strong. Perhaps Jay should be the one worrying about coming to harm in a dark alley, though Nigel would be sadly disappointed to rifle his pockets and discover nothing more exciting than a few sous, Le Figaro.

  He could hear Nigel’s breath coming fast and harsh, which must have been in response to their casual touch. And Nigel wore gloves. Jay smiled in the dark. Really, his new companion was rather charming.

  “Nearly there,” he said. “See that light floating high over our heads? Yes, that’s our destination. And I believe Polisson is home. The strange sound on the breeze could be his braying. He laughs like a donkey.”

  He squeezed Nigel’s hand and then released it so he could open his gate. “Our concierge died last month, poor old duck, so we come and go without anyone to gossip about us. I suspect that disappoints Merde and Lagniappe.”

  He waited for Nigel to come through the iron gate, then latched it firmly behind him.

  Nigel paused to look up at the single light shining through the window. “You live with someone named Merde? Does that translate to what I think it does?”

  Jay grinned. Calling his friend “shit” might seem crude, but if Nigel knew Merde, he would understand. “I invented both names, though I’ve trained my friends to answer. Save your breath for the stairs. We are four stories up.”

  “At the very top.”

  “Yes, it’s a wonderful place in the rain, all the noise on the skylights—wonderful, that is, if you have the buckets positioned in the right spots. The view is fine. I like the rooftops.”

  He was impressed by how well Nigel took the stairs,
trotting at his side, even poised to pass him. “You’re keeping up. Were you a boxer at Oxford? A punter at Cambridge?”

  Nigel stumbled at a turn in the stairs. “I rowed at Cambridge. How did you know?”

  “I study my fellow countrymen. It’s a more interesting subject, now that I’m no longer on England’s green and pleasant land.”

  “That sounds familiar. Is it a quote?”

  “A poem by William Blake. Someone I knew…” He hesitated. Yes, his first lover, Lord Grenton, counted as a friend. “A friend introduced me to poetry. Not my usual lookout when I was very young. Did you like poetry when you were a boy?” Time for Nigel to contribute more to the conversation.

  “I was better at numbers,” Nigel said. “I still am. I work for a bank.”

  Jay placed two fingers along his own temples and indulged in his old pastime of fortune-telling. He droned, “You’re good at your work. You don’t enjoy it as much as you should.”

  “No. I like what I do.”

  “Ah. Then it must be where you live that is the issue.”

  “No, I say.” He sounded almost indignant. “I have a pleasant house in London.” He paused on the third-floor landing, not out of breath, however.

  Jay stopped, twisted and looked down at him, the conventional, tidy figure with a homburg and gloves. “Then the restlessness must come from your soul.”

  “I am fine.”

  “You were waiting for a painted boy outside a less than reputable French theatre in an unsavory neighborhood. Do you think your life and your curious preferences fit well together?” He tried to sound kind, not accusatory, but Nigel glowered.

  “I beg your pardon. I should go.” Nigel looked down the stairs as if he planned to flee. “This is all wrong. You aren’t so far off about… Only a few hours ago… Yes, this is an aberration. If you could inform me where one might find a cab?”

  Suddenly, Jay didn’t want to lose his funny new friend. “I’m wrong. You’re having a drink and a bit of harmless adventure in a foreign city. It shouldn’t matter a jot in your real life, hmm? Don’t allow yourself to be talked out of a simple visit by my blathering. That’s an order from me to you. Besides, we’re nearly there—just a few more stairs—and I smell pasta puttanesca. A delicious dish made by whores, or in this case, a designer of stage sets, darling Roger.”

  He shouted in French. “Get dressed if you’re naked. I’m bringing home a sweet visitor who is easily shocked.”

  “A girl at last?” That was Roger’s shrill voice shouting back.

  “No. A male, all grown up.”

  He switched to English. “And here we are,” he said as he jammed an elbow against the door, jiggled the handle and gave a jabbing kick with his heel. There was never any need to lock the apartment. Few people came up so very many stairs and even fewer could figure out how to open the door in its cockeyed frame.

  Roger stood in the doorway to the main room and gave their visitor a look up and down. “’Ow do you do?” she asked. She wore a kimono and trousers. A scarlet fez sat on her straight dark hair, which had been undone and reached to her rear end.

  “Ah. I’m fine?” Nigel stuttered for a moment, then gave an unexpectedly charming smile. Not everyone smiled kindly when they met Roger. Jay would have expected her androgyny would make the straitlaced banker uncomfortable, but Nigel was disarmingly gracious.

  “You may call me Roger. You are who?”

  “Mr. Warren.”

  “Come eat.” She turned to Jay and spoke in French. “We haven’t enough forks, so you and your new playmate will have to use your fingers or perhaps the cheese knife.”

  Jay began to wish he hadn’t dragged home a stranger. He’d thought it would be a quiet night, but now he heard the raucous laughter from the other room. “Run out of forks? How many people are here?”

  Roger pursed her lips. “Eight? And I believe we found five forks.”

  “That’s not so bad.” He reverted to English. “Come on, straighten up, Nigel, and we’ll go meet ’em all,” he ordered. This ordering a stranger about made him more cheerful—or perhaps he enjoyed the way Nigel instantly obeyed. The man actually pushed his shoulders back. It would grow tiresome to have a groveling, adoring creature like this in one’s life every day, but an interesting pleasure for an evening.

  “I wonder if I should order you to lick my shoes?” he said to torture the man—or send him into ecstasy.

  Nigel’s face clouded. “I would clean them for you, if you wished. But…er. Licking? Shoes?”

  That amused Jay. Obedience, but only up to a point. “Sensible Nigel.” He narrated the exchange to Roger, whose English was good but not perfect.

  Roger rolled her eyes and moved out of the way so they might enter the great room.

  Nearly every pillow in the apartment had been dragged to the center of the room, and bodies lay sprawled on backs, fronts, sides. Some held a plate or cup or bowl of pasta. Most wore clothes—but not all.

  Merde was off to the side with his sketchpad shouting orders—“Turn your head, Pillbox. Renee! Don’t put that knee up!”—that were mostly ignored.

  Merde scribbled hard, his tongue between his teeth when he wasn’t trying to direct the bodies.

  “Let’s see.” Jay tried to remember names, but he wasn’t especially good at that. He did remember details. Since most of them didn’t speak English and none were paying the newcomers any mind, he could say what he liked about them.

  “The one with the big beard, crooked nose and naked shoulders is Lagniappe. He’s a philosopher, he says, but at the moment he’s making his money writing pornography for a wealthy gent who pays by the word. He’s also written several screeds in which he sounds quite bloodthirsty about people like you.”

  “What?”

  “The wealthy bankers.”

  He ignored Nigel’s faint “Oh. I say,” and went on.

  “The one next to him with her head on the plate, sleeping, is Veronique. She’s an artist and makes her money being a model for other artists. Ha! I shall have to tell her that I finally got the introduction correct. I used to call her an artists’ model who paints, but that’s not how she sees herself. God knows she’s got more talent than Merde.”

  He smiled at the heavy-breathing Veronique, probably his favorite of these visitors. There was also the red-haired actress who loved drama and tried to seduce him—and whose name he’d forgotten.

  There were the interchangeable twins—he called them both Bertolette, their last name. One had a mole on the cheek and the other didn’t, but he couldn’t keep straight which was Anton and which Bruno. They worked for a newspaper and wrote sentimental ballads together.

  There was the Ox, a man who boxed professionally and who hated to wear clothes and was nearly naked now. All those well-defined muscles probably made Merde swoon with joy, but Merde was rather afraid of the Ox, so he wouldn’t shout orders to him.

  There was Polisson, who actually lived here and who juggled, a couple who lay whispering in each other’s arms—Jay couldn’t recall either name—and M. Roux, the small, too-polite man who sold drugs. One could buy coca or opium derivatives at any pharmacy, but Roux seemed to carry a collection that was more potent.

  Roux noticed the attention and lifted a silent toast with a mug that probably contained Vin Mariani coca wine, his preferred drink.

  “You look shocked, Nigel. What do you think?”

  Nigel pressed his lips tight, then burst out, “It reminds me of an opium den.”

  “I’m surprised you visit such places.”

  Nigel, whose eyes were transfixed by the scene and who’d grown rather pale, said, “I? Never! I read an article.” He dragged his attention away and looked at Jay, his brow creased with concern. “I hope I haven’t offended you?”

  “Me?” Jay laughed again. Really, this man amused him more than he woul
d have guessed. “I’m near impossible to offend.”

  He looked up the scene of his flatmates, friends and acquaintances, a sprawl of limbs and torsos—so commonplace to him now. No doubt to Nigel it appeared exotic, erotic—a sight to make a man’s heart race and his cock grow eager.

  Jay’s main goal at the moment was to get past the bodies to the food without anyone grabbing at his ankles to tumble him.

  “But if that is what it took. If that’s what I needed.” Nigel shook his head without looking away from the cushions and bodies. “I am not myself tonight.”

  “Of course you are, Nige. How else would you be? Come along then, tell me what you need. How about a nice plate of food?” He grabbed Nigel’s hand—ignoring the gasp—and edged past the people on the floor. He kicked a plate across the floor, where it thumped against a table without breaking. He dipped and picked it up as he dragged Nigel into the other room.

  “Hmm. They’ve left a scant bit of food. We’ll share it, shall we?”

  He grabbed the nearly empty pot of pasta puttanesca Roger or Polisson had probably cooked down at the empty la loge, the concierge’s apartment. With a “Voila! Such superior service, eh?” he dropped down on the floor and beckoned Nigel to join him. “We’ll share the wooden spoon too.”

  Nigel’s mouth opened a little, and he breathed. “Both of us eating from the pot with the same spoon?”

  Jay took Nigel’s hand and dragged him down beside him. “That’s what I said, isn’t it?” He shoveled a mouthful of the lukewarm pasta, tomato sauce, olives and capers into his mouth and pushed the spoon in Nigel’s direction. “So what do you need?” he asked through a mouthful of food. He swallowed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “A minute ago, you said you needed something.”