LOVERS

by Roxy Harte

  I watch Emma, sitting in front of her makeup table, going through her nightly ritual… brushing her hair, applying her night facial crème, rubbing lotion into her hands and legs and feet. Once I used to be the one to rub lotion all over her body…

  “I could help you with that,” I offer.

  “You think I’m a bitch,” she screeches, getting my attention with her tone.

  I’d hoped the argument would die when I went downstairs to call Bianca. I guess that was wishful thinking, because this is what we do in our bedroom now…we fight.

  “Well, I don’t care if you think I’m a bitch. Really. Your place is here with me and your children and if I have to be a bitch, constantly reminding you of your higher obligation, then I will be a bitch.”

  She slams the lotion on the table, and I know she is just getting warmed up. This is an argument we’ve had many times before. It’s just at some point, I stopped adding anything to the conversation, and now it is just her aging tirade.

  “I married you because I expected to live the rest of my life with you, raise children with you…grow fucking old with you.”

  I sigh. “Emma! I’m here. This is what you wanted. Can you just stop being angry for a little while?”

  “What? You think I sound angry? Good. Angry is beneficial…anger gets things done, and anger is going to turn your life around, mister. Now that you’re back, there are going to be rules. It’s one thing to swing and attend play parties when there is no one to hurt but each other, add kids to the mix and it’s a whole different story entirely. I realized that as soon as we had a baby and I was stuck home changing diapers and nursing every two hours even though I thought my tits were going to fall off. I thought you would grow up and leave the wild sex orgies behind.”

  “Emma,” I say tiredly, thinking I did not come home for this, “I was poly when you married me, honey.”

  “Yeah, me too! That’s what I’m saying. We were young, single, crazy. We did drugs too. Does that mean I want you to roll a joint in front of the boys?”

  “Now you’re being ridiculous.”

  “No, ridiculous is that bitch.”

  “This has nothing to do with Bianca.”

  “Don’t you dare say her name in this house,” she seethes, glaring at me. “You were done with that scene before her. You’d given up swinging.”

  I don’t argue the point with her that I never did any such thing. I used to. I used to yell back, fight back…when did I stop caring enough to do either? Closing my eyes, I force myself to remember that I am here because I do love Emma.

  “You’re back.” She points her finger at me. “You’ve chosen. You’re mine.”

  An icy chill goes through me at her level of vehemence. I stay silent as she climbs into bed, rolling onto her side to put her back to me.

  “Yeah, she was laughing when you moved in with her, but now you’re back and I’m the one laughing.”

  “Yeah, I can tell.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing, Emma. Go to sleep.”

  Chapter 14

  Bianca

  A high pitched giggle punctuates my dream—and I know I’m dreaming, because my dream self pinches me, but don’t cause enough pain to wake me. Giggle.

  God, no, I know that giggle.

  Light sparkles in a prism over my bare shoulders, the chandelier overhead swaying. But that isn’t the way it happened, I argue with my dream. The chandelier hadn’t swayed. I’d swayed. Not because I was so drunk or so stoned, although I was both, but because I was so focused on the fascinating rainbow of light trailing off my fingers. Pure psychedelia.

  I remember looking up into the tiny, sparkling luminosity of the chandelier, and reminding myself it was a chandelier not a flock of pixies. Laughing pixies, flying toward my face as the colorful reflections of light took flight in a spiraling dance.

  A drop of sweat trickles down my neck, tickling. I swipe it away and close my eyes against the onslaught of fluttering pixies. I know when I open my eyes again it will just be a chandelier.

  Laughter erupts around her. Am I laughing too? I must be.

  So many people, when did so many people arrive?

  I should be used to the crowds by now, but I’m not.

  I tip the champagne bottle to my lips, cool liquid spilling over my chin onto the soft swell of my breasts pushed tight in the Dior gown. I wipe hastily, hoping I didn’t ruin the brilliant blue silk.

  I remember the colors. So real. Living. I remember little else. Psychedelics do that.

  Champagne and psychedelics and whatever is in my hand that I am smoking…

  A friend laughs, her bright red lipstick smeared, her yellow blond hair a riot of permed frizz…and the curl of white smoke spiraling up from a cigarette hides her face. She is a friend, isn’t she? Damn, I can’t even remember her name. We’d shopped together earlier, before the concert, partied after the show at that discothèque…

  “God, I’m so wasted,” the bright red, lipstick smeared mouth says.

  The room spins out of control. “Oh God, I’m going to throw up.”

  “Not on my sofa, dearie.” A man with a thick accent touches my face and takes the bottle of champagne from my hand. He too is smoking. Everyone is smoking.

  He takes the cigarette from my hand. “Stupid girl, you’ve burned yourself.”

  I lean against him, going up the staircase as he mutteres about American’s weak constitutions and puffs a trail of smoke. Spinning like a top, I laugh, stumbling on the next step, almost falling, would have fallen, if the man with the stinky cigarette didn’t catch me.

  “Isn’t my dress beautiful?”

  He fingers a long tendril which falls past my waist. A loose ringlet, strayed from the pile poofed high over my forehead in a dramatic style. My hair is a lighter brown than the dark black coffee bean brown of my eyes. I remember the colors. My beautiful blue dress ripped and ruined, the flash of a shiny silver blade—and later—the memory of the man’s pale, pale skin a blur.

  “Yes, I was in his bed.”

  “The duke’s bed?”

  “Yes.”

  My dress is thrown onto the table between me and the interrogating officer. “Is this your dress?”

  “Yes, that is my dress.”

  “Can you tell us from the top exactly what happened after you entered the duke’s room?”

  “No, I don’t know what in the fuck happened.” I rub my temples, realizing only then than the skin of two fingers are blistered and painful. I can’t stop myself from asking, “He’s dead, isn’t he?” Even though there is no doubt in my mind of the truth.

  Screams had wakened me and I’d jumped from the cocoon of sheets to stare at the pasty white-blue body of a naked man.

  Red flashing lights and so many sirens.

  I was naked too and I’d picked up the beautiful Dior and held it against my face, inhaling the fragrance of a night forgotten…perfume and cigarettes, spilled champagne, marijuana and sweat…

  “Can I go to my hotel, officer?”

  Can I go home?

  Can I go home?

  “I want to go home now!”

  I didn’t get to go to the hotel…or home. I was taken to a foreign jail and questioned for hours.

  “I want to go home. Now!”

  “Wake up, Bianca.” Bishop tenderly shakes my shoulder. “Wake up, sweetheart.”

  I jerk awake and throw my arms around Bishop’s neck.

  “Are you all right?”

  I pull away, panting, panicking. “What did I say?”

  Bishop brushes my hair out of my eyes. “You didn’t say anything, sweetheart.”

  “Good.” I sound sharp and rude even to my own ears. I expect a reaction, but he only hugs me closer.

  “It’s okay, it was just a dream, Bianca.”

  AFTER A TEN HOUR FLIGHT and enough time zones crossed to make it the next day, we arrive but I am questioning the intelligence of crossing an ocean with a complete stranger. I�
�ve always been impulsive, but I think anyone would agree that this was a bit overboard. I don’t regret my decision in the least. Bishop has delivered me to a seaside paradise, the sea being the North Sea, and the house is as near a castle as not.

  As I walk through the misty garden, song birds flutter in the trees, spreading their special brand of cheer. “Wow.”

  Bishop walks up behind me and pulls me back into his chest. He bites my neck gently before asking, “So the boy from Tokyo did good?”

  I nod, enthralled, speechless. Two maids stand at the ready on the rear veranda, formally silent. With a wave of his hand, he dismisses them and I don’t have to bother guessing he is used to servants being at his beck and call.

  “I am so glad I’ve kept up with my passport,” I finally manage.

  He kisses the top of my head. “Me too, it will make things easier.”

  I don’t question his cryptic remark, I just tuck into my heart the hope that it means he wants to see me again. I close my eyes, willing back the panic that filled my chest in the shower. I have never felt so crazy about a man so quickly, I have to get this under control.

  He leads me to the far side of the garden. We stand on a terrace overlooking a negative edge swimming pool. From our vantage point the water seems to blend with the North Sea beyond. The gray waters of both collide with the gray sky, and the restful hue extends on to what seems like forever. “This place is beautiful, magical.”

  “I’m glad you like it,” he says, smiling. “Take off your clothes.”

  I look over my shoulder for sight of the maids, but we seem to be alone. Still, I’m suddenly nervous. I know a power exchange when I see one and this just crossed into that territory. I’m not sure how I feel about that.

  “Is something wrong?”

  I turn to face him. “I’m not sure.” I need to set him straight that I might let him dominate me if the mood strikes me, but if he is looking for a sweet little submissive, he’s with the wrong girl. He just seems so vanilla. Are we really speaking the same language?

  He holds out his hand and I take it; he leads me to a table and chairs. We sit and while I am trying to figure out just what I want or need to say, one of the maids, wearing a dress the color of the stormy sky, appears, bearing a tray laden with steaming tea for two and scones which waft a fresh-from-the-oven aroma. Without a word, she fills two tea cups and adds both cream and sugar to the first, setting it before Bishop. After pouring my tea she looks at me. “Cream and sugar?”

  I startle, surprised that her brogue is as thick as it is. “Please,” I say, even though I’ve never put either in a hot cup of tea in my life. She drops sugar cubes, stirs, pours cream, stirs again, and retreats back into the house.

  “Efficient,” I comment. “This is your house, isn’t it?”

  “It’s one of my houses. I own four.”

  “Really? Four?” I shake my head, feeling like I have been sucked into someone else’s fantasy.

  “I could have as easily taken you to Chicago or Sydney.”

  “Or Tokyo?”

  “Not Tokyo, my family is there.”

  “Ah, so you’re not really in an open relationship.” I lift my eyebrow. “It would distress your wife to know you are here, with me.”

  “She would consider you a necessary convenience.”

  My jaw drops. “What did you say?”

  His squeeze tightens on my hand. “That is not how I see you.”

  I pull my hand from his.

  “I’ve made you angry. I apologize. I was only stating how she would see my relationship with you.”

  I look at him, not knowing exactly how I feel, but knowing that panic is rising in my chest. I’ve allowed myself to get too deeply infatuated too quickly and now I realize that. “A necessary convenience?”

  My next thought isn’t pretty, like a staffed house is a necessary convenience.

  Or the next, because even though Emma knows about me, I still feel like Jameson and I are sneaking around, walking on eggshells. She makes me feel like the other woman.

  “I need to go.”

  Bishop doesn’t try to stop me when I stand. I walk to the edge of the pool. I’m as mad at myself as I am at him. What did I expect? This either has to be a very long one-night stand…or…he makes me the woman he comes to see when he isn’t with his wife. Mistress. I laugh harshly, thinking the word again, caught between the hilarity of the situation and the double entendre of the word. I would be his mistress, but I wouldn’t be his Mistress.

  “What can I say to convince you to stay?”

  I swallow. Hard. Just the timbre of his voice makes me want to stay, because the resonance holds passion…need…desire. But more than that. I can feel myself crumbling, my face breaking, a tidal wave of emotion building. Shut it down. What is it about this man?

  He comes up behind me. Though he is whisper quiet I know he is there. His hand follows the curve of my shoulder, slides down my arm, reaching to touch me but not touching me. I feel him just the same. He does touch me…in a sudden grab…his fingers tight around my wrist. He turns me into his arms, and I fall against him.

  “I can’t explain why I need you to stay, but I need you.”

  I close my eyes. Shut it down. Now! Internally, I command my soul to obey. No emotion. Feel nothing. Slowly, I get control again. The tears that were threatening to fall retreat back into whatever dark cave they hide in. “Just so I’m clear on everything, when you asked me to take off my clothes, was it a command?”

  He snickers. “You think I brought you here to be my slave girl for the weekend? Someone to cater to my every sexual whim?”

  “Something like that,” I say smartly.

  He laughs. “Oh yes, I have every intention of you catering to my sexual whims but in return, I would cater to yours…and I’m almost certain we will have a power struggle or two…but I have no intention of trying to be your Master or make you my Mistress.” He comes near enough to hold me but he doesn’t, he teases, “I may be sorely tempted to spank you though.”

  My resolve cracks and I smile. He is the same Bishop he was last night and this morning. Would it really be so terrible to be this man’s mistress?

  Forever the secondary…

  Didn’t I just decide last night that I need a primary partner? My brain pushes away that notion. Primaries expect more than I can give them. Unyielding faith. Trust. Love. Stop! Just stop thinking so much.

  I unfasten the top button on my sleeveless blouse, revealing the lace edge of my bra. “I think it’s the boy’s turn to take off his clothes first.” I back away, undoing a second button, exposing the entire front of the bra before I sit back down in the chair I so recently vacated and lift one of the cups of tea to my lips. “I want to see you naked, Tokyo Boy.”

  He doesn’t keep me waiting. He strips, then dives into the pool with a laugh. From the edge he calls out, “Your turn.”

  Laughing, I strip and dive into the water. It is an unexpectedly warm rush against my skin. The pool is as warm as bathwater.

  We swim together naked. The sky still threatens a storm and the air is cool, but the water is warm and the space between the cooler air and the cooler water is misty, making me feel lost in time and space. I swim to the edge of the pool and look down at the sea. “I love your pool.”

  “Yes, I had it installed hoping Hiroko might enjoy spending the summers here.”

  “She doesn’t like it?” I gasp.

  “She’s never seen it, except in photographs. Travel is difficult for her, but I thought with this…paradise…waiting for her, she might make the effort.” The sarcasm in his voice hurts. I get the feeling that beyond the fact that he loves his wife, he will do anything for her. I wonder how often she scoffs at his gestures.

  I think that she has broken his heart, repeatedly.

  “She’s been in a wheelchair since she was a teen. Her particular brand of arthritis is very painful.”

  I nod, just listening and watching the emotions as they
pass over his face He looks out across the ocean. “We’ve been married for almost twenty years. We never dreamt she would conceive. The doctor had stressed the importance to her health to not become pregnant, but with my many trips, she was lonely and longing secretly for a child. She stopped using contraception without telling me and was so happy when she found out she was pregnant. She knew I wouldn’t force her to have an abortion even though the pregnancy was very dangerous. Although, when I learned she was carrying twins, my Christian upbringing warred with logic. I wanted her to end the pregnancy.”

  “But she was fine?” I say, hoping in my heart that she was.

  “She survived the early caesarean delivery of our children, yes, and even though the babies were premature by many weeks, they are healthy and very intelligent.”

  I smile, glad for that.

  “We’re occasionally intimate,” he says, still looking away. “When she can tolerate my touch over her pain, I bring her pleasure, but for many years sex has been difficult for her, and she feels shamed by what she sees as her failure.”

  Tears fall over my cheeks for his wife, for him. I start to comment but don’t. It is none of my damn business. I touch his arm instead, letting him know that he doesn’t have to tell me any more. I get it.

  He ducks under the water. When he resurfaces, I have wiped away my tears and swim to his side, wrapping arms and legs around him. I kiss him and tell him, “Thank you for sharing so much of you with me.”

  He looks at me and nods, not smiling, still so serious. I want him to smile, he is so beautiful when he does. Instead, he kisses me, filling me with even more emotion as all of his hurt and pain and need is poured into that one kiss. When he releases my mouth, I am panting with hunger and need. I will do anything to ease his ache. Anything. It is that thought which frightens me most.

  “I want you,” he says.

  “Take me, I’m yours.” I realize as I say the words, I mean them.