Inside her studio, Althea took off her clothes in the dark and got into bed, her mind swimming, still feeling his body against hers, how his mouth tasted, his unwavering eyes, his smooth fingers on her skin, the feel of his erection and her mounting desire. This was only the fourth man she had ever kissed — there had been no one since Kevin, and it felt so different, different than anything else she had ever felt.
As she drifted off, she could feel Dr. O’Sullivan’s body next to hers. She imagined what those lips would feel like on her breasts, between her legs, how his body would feel as he lay on top of her with his full weight and then inside her, how he would move, how his face would look as he came. As her fingers brought herself to an audible climax, she imagined what it would be like to surrender to him. As she orgasmed, the image of Dr. O’Sullivan collapsed, and instead of his smoky cinnamon scent
slipping closer to sleep
green
more powdery than that
a form emerged, feeling so real the realest thing, so smooth, soft amber scent, arms holding her as she slid into the dreamtime
in front of a window, water pooling at her feet, swirling intensely around her ankles, or was it blood.
She stared out, waiting, and the voice behind her came. Look at me, it said, and though she had never heard him speak, she knew the voice and she shrunk from it, her eyes on the window, fixed on George O’Sullivan who was standing outside, his face turned away.
Look at me, the voice said just above her ear. No, she said, frozen at the window, which now held only the moon and the reflection of His form, rising up, casting a shadow over her, his amber scent fading, his green eyes glistening with tears.
chapter 15
ALTHEA AWOKE, HER SHEETS twisted around her legs, feeling light-headed and sad. She closed her eyes Look at me her body possessed by sleep where A single tear glistened green until the images began and the phone rang, jolting her awake. The caller didn’t leave a message. She looked at the clock. It was 11:11 in the morning. She had missed Organizational Behavior.
Althea put on some coffee and checked her mail, removing the letter jammed in her mailbox. She recognized the handwriting. She opened the blanket box at the foot of her bed and tossed the letter inside, where a number of others lay unopened. As the coffee maker gurgled, she sat cross-legged in the Montauk chair-and-a-half that she and Kevin had saved months to buy, her phone in her lap. She stared at Dr. O’Sullivan’s business card. She dialed. When he picked up, she was startled.
“Oh hi. It’s Althea.”
“Althea.” He was smooth, unruffled, as if she called every day at this time. “I’ve been thinking about you. Are you free for dinner tonight?”
• • •
LA MAQUETTE WAS A French-influenced restaurant on trendy King East, decorated in antiques, with one of the most elegant outdoor patios in Toronto. At a corner table George O’Sullivan sat across from her, his face illuminated by candlelight. Althea was powerfully drawn to him. He was so different than Kevin and maybe that was the point. Their dinner discussion spanned business, travel, politics, literature and foreign culture. Sometimes, Althea struggled to keep up. He had lived in Germany for three years and much of his business was still overseas.
Connecting with George was like climbing a precipice over which lay an entire new world. His speech was direct. He was a challenge to her. He also kept her off-guard and she found that stimulating.
George represented everything she wanted, everything she was working toward — the education, the travel, the career, the money, the sophistication. He was part of it — she knew that, she could feel it. This man was her reward after being betrayed so unfairly. Perhaps even the reason it happened.
No, this time, she wouldn’t run away.
They finished a bottle of wine, a crisp white Bordeaux, and he ordered two Rémy Martins. He probed her with personal questions. Pliant between sips of cognac, she served up pieces of herself. He asked about her family. She spoke of the loss of her father and brother, her bond with Sophie, and she spoke of Albert, the only father she had ever known. She hadn’t talked about these things so completely to anyone since she had shared them with Kevin. George listened, waiting for her to finish. She was aware on some level that he did not share anything about himself.
“What do you most desire?” he asked her, his eyes penetrating. Her words came in a slow exhale, as if they were coming from someone else. Hypnotic. The alcohol had a hold on her. And his voice.
“I want to finish school. I want a great-paying job — a fucking great paying job. I want to travel.”
“Of course. That’s not what I’m asking. When you were a little girl, and you and your mother were living alone, and your step-father had died. What did you dream then? What did you want more than anything?”
“Albert back.”
“No, for you, what did you want?” Althea considered his question, the alcohol creating a warm fuzziness within her. She looked just over George’s temple as she contemplated, and the room transformed into creamy white, the sound of her beating heart filling her ears, her own voice muffled as if underwater.
“I didn’t want it really but I used to write sometimes.”
“You wrote about what?”
“Short stories. About places where magic happened.”
“What else?”
“I’d write letters.”
“To whom?”
“To Tori. Later, to Kevin.”
“Your friends.”
“My best friends.” She felt a pool of sadness open up beneath her, as if she was being pulled down into tepid water. A grey shadow stood before her, leaning forward, offering his hand Dance with me? it said and she smelled its powdery sweetness, or was it their desert, orange-infused crème brulé. She blinked, shook her head, lost her train of thought, then looked into George’s eyes. They were magnetic. She felt as if she was falling and she welcomed the feeling. It would be lighter this way. To allow him. The words tumbled compliantly from her lips.
“They’re together now.”
“Not always?”
“No, Kevin and I were together. Not any more.” Their waiter poured them another cup of coffee. One tear traced its way down her cheek. George leaned forward.
“What did you write for them? What did you write for Kevin?”
“I used to like to make him laugh.”
“And ...”
“Erotic letters. Sometimes.”
They shared the crème brulé. As the waiter brought the check, he said:
“I’d like to end this evening with you in my bed. What do you think about that, Althea?” The waiter’s face pinched in embarrassment. George’s pale brown eyes with golden flecks were intent behind his glasses. She met them, unblinking, her heart cool and full.
“Not in your bed,” she said, her voice faint. Silently, he removed his credit card from his wallet and held it up over his shoulder so the flustered waiter could see that they were ready to leave. His eyes never left hers.
“Okay, Althea. And in return, you’ll do something for me.”
• • •
GEORGE PARKED ON THE street across from Althea’s studio. He opened the door for her, standing close as she got out of the car. She could feel his breath on her neck.
“Open your coat,” he said.
Althea opened her coat and the cool air moved over her bare breasts, creating goose bumps. Her heart was thumping. Could someone see them? The moon shone, bright and full.
George stepped to one side, blocking the moon. Her cell phone rang, and she tensed.
“Ignore it. Don’t look away, look at me.”
His voice created a tingling inside of her, a dissolving unlike anything she had ever known. It was soft, yet it demanded her full attention. He stepped close to her, his mouth moving over her neck, his rough coat on her skin.
“Inside now,” he said, stepping away. She stumbled across the road. Inside her studio, it felt chilly to her, as if the air condi
tioning was on too high.
“Face me please.”
It felt as if George was standing at the other end of a long passage-way and a small thread was connecting them, steadily contracting. He’d come for her soon. She wanted him to. No running away. She dropped her coat.
“Take off the rest of your clothes.” She did, letting them fall beside her. Her eyes fluttered, and she glimpsed herself standing topless in her narrow hall mirror, George’s body melting into the murky corners of her home.
“You’ve seen enough. Look at me. Close your eyes. Good. Now touch yourself. The way you do when you’re alone.”
Althea closed her eyes, trance-like, and her hands moved over her own body. Time stilled, and just as she was about to open her eyes, she felt his hands, and a sting on her shoulder. It was his mouth, and he was behind her now, naked, his erection at the small of her back.
She smelled perfume. He tied something over her eyes. It felt rougher than silk, yet pliable. As the blindfold settled in, he moved her backward across the room, until her legs buckled at the edge of her bed. He climbed on the bed and straddled her, forcing her hands over her head, pinching her left breast, the pain unexpected, crystalline. A moan escaped her lips.
He guided himself inside her. His control was extraordinary. Every time she wanted more, he slowed, as she surrendered, he quickened, their movements a polar dance. When he came, it was with the same kind of discipline, slowing his thrusts, the nape of her neck between his lips, his teeth grazing her skin.
• • •
ALTHEA AND GEORGE MET three times a week. He dictated the place and time. He told her what to wear and how to wait for him. She had his work and cell phone numbers. He did not divulge his home number.
His behavior that first night was characteristic. He probed her desires, her most private fantasies, listening to her with quiet intensity, urging her to explore her limits, until she trusted him more than she trusted herself. They played out scenes of submission and control, escalating her threshold, until the pain was like a laser beam and the blackness that surrounded it like a cocoon. He encouraged her to write about how she was feeling. Sometimes, he called her late at night, at times from his car on his way to her studio, at other times waking her, catching her by surprise, whispering his intentions in her ear. Some-times he asked that she read her words aloud to him, delaying her orgasm until he was satisfied that he knew everything that she was experiencing.
She immersed herself in the physicality of their encounters, welcoming the pain, which was exquisite, a visceral transmutation. When she was with him, it was as if she could sense everything in a way previously unknown to her — the air, her skin, the rawness of her sexual arousal, her mounting desire to experience everything and access the vision he helped her create. Through George, Althea’s fantasies grew, encompassing every aspect of her life, culminating in a single-minded resolve — to become all that George symbolized, the raw sensuality, the career, the intellect, the money, the control.
In time, the pain that she craved transformed into a negotiation: an offering made in exchange for the total eclipse of her past — and an elusive promise of a new life.
chapter 16
MICHAEL WAS ON HIS bike downtown, riding east toward the Beaches district. It was a cool March day, early spring, the time of year that still offered the occasional night frost. The trees he passed were bare, the flowerbeds empty, and the grass was brownish yellow. Still, he encountered two dog walkers and one lone biker he recognized, who nodded at him as he whizzed by. The lake was choppy and grey and as he got closer to it, the wind intensified. He pushed himself, head down, relishing the burn in his muscles. At times, his thoughts wandered.
Lara’s reaction to his decision to stay with Exeter had been anticlimactic. The crease between her eyes had been visible only for a second, before she nodded in acknowledgement. At first, Michael wondered if she had heard him correctly. Then he thought that the ease of her consent may have been some sort of allowance for her affair.
He wasn’t complaining. It was simply that Lara was generally quick to express her opinion. It was one of the reasons their relationship had worked for so long: she never let him get away with anything. Disagreements were on the table and dealt with.
It was all part of the plan.
Two hours later, just after sunset, Michael coasted into their driveway, his body aching, his hair wet under his helmet despite the cool air. In their living room, he stretched, his muscles protesting. When he was finished, he called Lara.
This weekend, Lara was visiting her parents. He listened to his wife, who was telling him about an opportunity that was opening up at work, about how she was considering taking it on, despite the pregnancy, and going back to work sooner than they had planned. About possibly hiring some help for the baby. She talked about what the move could potentially do for her career.
Michael listened while lying on the floor in their darkening living room, his eyes closed. A year ago, he would have been excited for her, cheering her on toward her dream. Instead, he felt himself drifting away.
He wasn’t angry with her in any way. Her words came from a true part of her, the part that desired recognition, reputation, influence. She would be successful with or without him. Without him. As their conversation continued, he tried it on, floating backward the length of ten telephone cords until her voice was at the end of a long tunnel. From here, he could feel a pulling at the base of his neck, a warm tingling, and tasted iron. Like blood, or like water that had been sitting out for too long. He knew what was coming. In the past, biking would exhaust him to the point that he could sleep uninterrupted. The physical activity would also lessen his depression. Lately, the visions had become more insistent, visiting him as he drove, as he walked, while he worked, no longer waiting for solitude. Reminding him.
Lara’s voice was distant, and he was vaguely aware of his own, acknowledging her words.
“What happened then?” he asked, and her voice responded as the warmth spread over his back and out through his forehead, face and chest.
“That’s great,” he said, and the images came to him like a door opening on its hinges, as if he was seeing into the present, into the dynamic web that was the universe, the hidden interconnections of thought and emotion, the levels of energy underneath his own reality, and the words that offered understanding.
“I’ll be here,” he replied, his body stationery, yet feeling as if it was being lifted up, suspended, every pore open to new understanding, absorbing the words and the images and the messages offered up to him, despite his best efforts to shut them out.
“Love you too.” The click of the phone in his ear. His mind filled like a hot air balloon, the pressure full and inviting. Why don’t you write it down? Dr. Reynolds’s words echoed from six months before. He hadn’t seen her since, though once he’d called her office and asked her to renew his prescription.
Two hours passed. The cool air in the living room settled into the muscles in his back. He lurched up from the floor and headed upstairs to bed. Instead, he went into his office and turned on the computer, his face illuminated by the monitor’s incandescent glow. Contemplat-ing. Trying it on. He stared out the window as if the night could give him answers, his mind active and full. The computer monitor flashed once more as Windows booted up, winking at him. How do we start Michael? It’s your move.
Quickly, before he could change his mind, he created a new folder under Michael’s Stuff and Our investments. He didn’t know what to call the folder, so he left it as NewFolder1 and added password protection. He created a new Word document, saved it as Doc1, and exited the document, rolling his chair back so the keyboard was out of arm’s reach. There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?
His heart was pounding and his head hurt. He double-clicked on Doc1, sliding his eyes away from the blank screen, and put his hands on the keyboard. With his eyes closed, he typed, fitfully at first, just one phrase, over and over, the end of the beginning is the
beginning of the end the end of the beginning is the beginning of ... Stopping suddenly, he hit the return key and typed: The beginning. Two lines down, he typed slowly and then faster, the ideas coming as fast as he could type, the structure of his visions taking shape. Could he do this? Blood infused his chest, his head, opening, welcoming him.
As the sun came up, he climbed into bed, euphoric, unafraid and exhausted. He fell asleep almost instantly.
• • •
ON SUNDAY MORNING, HE slept until noon then got up and went for a bike ride. Two hours later, he walked up the drive, sweating, clear-headed and invigorated. Lara’s car was parked in their narrow driveway.
Michael found her hanging up a load of laundry. She glanced up as he came in. He wrapped his arms around her from behind. At first, she stiffened. He moved his hands over her shoulders and nuzzled her neck, his eyes on her reflection in the mirrored closet. He rocked back and forth, his mouth moved, and her initial uncertainty dissolved into a conscious decision as her hands began unbuttoning her shirt. Her eyes were open now and she tilted her head and leaned into him, turning to one side, kissing him fully, her hands up and winding in his hair. He watched her in the mirror, and slid his hands over her full belly and dropped to his knees, resting his head there, just under her breasts, blowing air and caressing her, his fingers gently moving between her legs, watching as she responded.
Later, he was inside her, his eyes slits and his mouth soft, and he glanced at their moving bodies in the mirror — she on her side, he behind her, his back arched then tensed forward, her sounds rising and falling with his movements, his lips in the curve of her neck, and then his mind tripped, like a hiccup, and Lara’s skin changed and he felt as if he was moving inside someone else, understood that someone else’s golden hair was fanned over the pillow, someone else’s child was growing inside her, and that Lara’s short breaths came from a different source, and then he was back, their perspiration slick, guiding his hands, creating her own friction until she climaxed, his signal to move toward his own.
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