London Broil (15 page)

James arrived
punctually, bringing a gym bag from which he extracted a jar of
Venchi gianduja, a spread of dark chocolate and hazelnuts. "It's
like Nutella, but better," he explained.

"Thank you; this
looks wonderful," she said, as he kicked off his shoes and
placed them by the door. Her flat belonged to an acquaintance, a
professor of Classics at the University of London who was
spending the year in Rome. She'd been delighted to find a
trustworthy tenant for several months, and Laura had been
thrilled at the offer of a flat in Kings Cross, near both the
British Library and the British Museum.

"So that's how
you ended up so close to the
Herald
," said James
when she explained this. "But it's not fair-- I want to know
everything about you, and this flat reveals none of your
secrets. It's all someone else's taste."

"Yes. Almost as
though I got to see you naked, but not the reverse," she said,
thinking of the way he enjoyed
déjeuner sur l'herbe
.
She'd put a pan of water on to boil, and now she poured in a
sackful of fresh edamame and set the timer for two minutes.

He looked around
at the décor, which was restrained, a mix of oatmeal, cream and
brown colors with an occasional flash of blue. The tiny kitchen
opened onto a dining area with a table for four, and a living
room with low couches, a coffee table and a television, plus the
desk where she worked and a few bookshelves (still laden with
Celia's collection of early female novelists: Fanny Burney,
Maria Edgeworth, Elizabeth Inchbald.) There was also a small
balcony with potted plants and two wrought-iron chairs. Behind a
partially closed door was the surprisingly large bedroom, with a
king size bed, and a bath that boasted a garden-style tub set
into a tiled enclosure. She'd enjoyed soaking in that tub,
surrounded by candles, more than a few times after a long day
seated at a library desk.

"What does your
place look like?" he asked. "In Pennsylvania. Do you have a
house?"

"Yes. I love it.
It's a sprawling split-level house with huge closets and
bathrooms, and the living room walks out to a glorious garden.
Where the books don't fill the walls,
 
they're covered with
pictures. I have some artist friends in New York who work in
oils, and I mostly buy their stuff. That is, when I can afford
it. I try to find painters whom nobody's heard of."

"Me too, though
I'm more interested in photography," he said.

"What can I give
you to drink? I have a white Burgundy and some Pinot Grigio."
She poured them each a glass of the Burgundy, then neatly
drained the edamame, blotted them with a paper towel, and
sprinkled them with flaky Maldon salt. Meanwhile she transferred
the boiling water to a plastic mixing bowl, into which she
carefully placed the jar of gianduja.

"These are
brilliant. I had them in a bar in Japan once," said James. "They
ate dish after dish of them, with vats of beer. Now you see them
here in restaurants, at exorbitant prices." He picked up a
bright green edamame pod and bit into it, pressing the tender
bean out with his teeth, savoring the salt, and discarding the
pod. Before they knew it, the large pile of edamame had been
converted to a large pile of empty pods.

Next she put out
a plate of Sweet Georgia Browns, buttery crackers topped with
gorgonzola and toasted pecans. Instead of orange blossom honey,
she had used chestnut honey, which gave a more robust flavor. He
didn't comment on these, but by rate of their disappearance, she
knew he approved. They stood in the kitchen enjoying the salty
and rich flavors with the chilled wine.

"James, did you
ever read the
Odyssey
?"

"Yes, but not
until I was grown. I was told that I couldn't understand Joyce's
Ulysses
unless I knew
Homer. Very entertaining, I thought. Easier to read than Joyce."

"Do you remember
when Odysseus's raft is smashed and he washes up on the island
of the Phaeacians? The princess Nausicaa is there with her
maids, and Odysseus has to come out of the bushes naked to ask
for help. All the other girls run away, but Nausicaa stands her
ground because she's a princess."

"Yes, as I
recall, he held a branch in front of himself. Ticklish
situation, that."

"But tremendously
sexy. This macho, bearded warrior walking up to the virginal
princess, but she's the one with the clothes, and he's naked.
It's the reverse of your fantasy, isn't it?"

"Yes, although
he's the one with the power. He could throw her down and have
his way with her any time he wanted."

"That's true, and
yet when you read the poem, it's the furthest thing from his
mind.
She's
the one
with the power, because he needs her help."

"And that turns
you on? When you told me your fantasies," he said, "they were
all passive ones, about having things done to you. It's my
experience that most women enjoy the feeling of the man taking
control. They even have fantasies of rape."

"Yes. Many women
have an atavistic desire to be pursued, and caught, and held
down during sex. It's obsolete evolutionary programming, I
suppose. But that doesn't mean we want to be raped. A rape
fantasy is just the opposite. It's a fantasy, so the woman
controls every aspect of it. She decides exactly what happens,
and how, and who does it. That's a far cry from a real-life
rape," she added dryly.

She was working
in the kitchen, bringing a big pot of salted water to the boil;
though she didn't look up, she could feel his assessing eyes on
her as she worked. She sautéed a mix of tender greens in a
skillet with olive oil and sliced garlic: spinach, arugula,
rapini. She poured in a splash of the wine, and it sizzled with
the greens. Then she added a couple of cups of cannelini beans,
gently simmered the day before with lots of fresh sage until
they were meltingly tender, yet held their shape. At the same
time, she tossed ribbons of fresh pasta into the pot. When it
was done, she drained it and added it to the skillet, sprinkling
the whole with lemon juice, salt and pepper, and tossing the
mixture. Finally, she plated it and garnished both servings with
a topping of toasted panko breadcrumbs mixed with finely grated
parmegiano-reggiano cheese, black pepper, and dried oregano.

They carried the
plates and wineglasses to the table, which was set with Celia's
flowery china dishes and silver, as well as a candlestick with
tall, slender tapers. The light outside was dimming. James
twirled the pasta on his fork and took a bite. He closed his
eyes and said nothing for a moment, then looked at her and
nodded. "Excellent. I've half a mind to propose to you on the
spot, like Nolly. The breadcrumbs put it over the top."

"I'm glad you
like it," she said, breathing a sigh of relief. She'd debated
her menu for hours, finally deciding that the hint of fall in
the evening air justified something more substantial than a
lighter, summer-style pasta. She got up to retrieve the salad,
composed of fennel, avocado, and orange slices (she'd labored to
trim them of all the white pith) with a white wine vinaigrette
and lots of black pepper. "I've not heard your fantasies yet,
James. Have you ever fantasized about rape?" With the salad, she
set out a sourdough baguette and a crock of Plugra butter that
she had mixed with thyme, salt, lemon zest and a tiny hint of
garlic.

"That's a taboo,"
he said, slathering a baguette slice with the soft butter, "but
yes, most men do think about it at one time or another. As you
pointed out, it's only a fantasy. Very few men who think about
it would ever do it. Though as a crime journalist, I admit that
rape is far more common than most people realize. It often goes
unreported by the victims."

"Very true. So
what is a man's rape fantasy like? I don't suppose it's the
counterpart of a woman's fantasy, where you're the pirate who
takes captive a virginal noblewoman and ravishes her?" She
started to laugh. "Right now I'm imagining you in a pirate
costume with a big feathered hat and those boots that come up to
the thighs."

He had a mouthful
of orange and she had to wait for him to swallow. "No, my
fantasies are more to do with teaching pert and saucy lasses a
lesson. Especially when they enjoy teasing me overmuch." He gave
her a meaningful look.

"I see. And as a
man, do you ever fantasize about giving up control, and having
delicious things done to you? At your job, you have to tell
other people what to do all day. Would you like it if you didn't
have to make any decisions or initiate anything in bed?"

"That isn't
really my style, but once in a while I could fancy it," he said.
"I like a woman to climb on top of me and ride. I can see her
face, and her tits from below as she bends over me, and her
hair. But she sets the pace, and after a certain point I always
feel the urge to flip her back under me, or take her from
behind."

"All the better
to administer a few good smacks to the rear end, eh, James? I
still haven't decided how I feel about that particular
predilection of yours, but I wouldn't mind tying you down for
some little games of my own devising."

"Tying me down?
That's more Nolly's thing. But I promise to hold still whatever
you do... no, you have my word," he said, seeing her skeptical
look.

"Have you ever
had a fantasy about a teacher?" she asked as she was clearing up
the dishes. "No, don't get up; I'll take care of these. It
stands to reason that after Miss Sweeney, you might have looked
with new eyes on some of your teachers."

"Now and then,
yes, I had a few notions when the teachers were young and
comely. And in my university days, there was a certain
professor.... at first I majored in ale and fistfights, but then
I switched to journalism and drama. Eventually I got my BA at
Birkbeck, and then did postgraduate work at City, here in
London. We had to meet with our professor and conduct a practice
interview. I was hoping for a repeat of Sweeney Pie, but it
never happened. In fact, I got bloody awful marks on that
interview."

"But you were
turned on during it?"

"Oh yes. She had
glasses like Miss Sweeney, and lovely big eyes, and her mouth
drove me wild; she had this pair of lips that made me want to...
feel them all over me, but especially certain parts of me.
Afterward she tried to help me by quizzing me on all the bits I
got wrong, but I was hopeless. My woody and I had to flee in
disgrace."

She laughed at
the thought of James following his woody out the door. "Who'd
have thought glasses could be a turn-on? But I had a student who
worked nights at a strip club, and she told me that she always
earned more money when she wore her glasses. In fact, they hired
her because they thought she looked like a teacher."

"Mmm," he said.
"I don't suppose you fancied her?" She rolled her eyes. Why did
men find the thought of two women together so exciting?

They were still
seated at the dining table. Laura reached over and took his
hand. "Now, James," she said, looking into his eyes, "for the
next part of the evening, I'm going to be your teacher and give
you a test. Do you promise to be a good pupil and do everything
I say?"

"I'll try my
best, Miss Livingston," he said, grinning.

"Good, come over
to the sofa and sit down. Now turn to one side," she said,
picking up a long, black silk scarf. "I'm going to put this over
your eyes. This is a test about the flavors of things, and the
poetry of flavor. You know a lot about wines, so we'll start
with wine. I'll read you the description of a wine, and you have
to guess what it is."

"Why do I need a
blindfold, if I'm not actually tasting the wine?"

"You're
blindfolded so that I'll have more power and you'll have less.
And also because I happen to think it's very sexy, and because
it suits my purposes," she said, caressing his hair. Just the
sight of him with the silk blindfold over his eyes, skimming his
high cheekbones, aroused her to a surprising degree.

"Do I have to
name the vintage? I'd be crap at that," he said.

"No, no, just the
varietal, or the region if it's European. I'm a very lenient
grader, but if you get it wrong, you have to take off a piece of
clothing."

"And if I get it
right?"

"Then I'll give
you something good to taste, or maybe I'll talk dirty to you.
Would you like that?" He grinned again. "I'm beginning to like
it already," he said.

"Okay, are you
comfortable? Here's the first one: A creamy yet refreshing wine,
with a long seamless finish. Subtle hints of pear blossom and
the toasty aroma of buttered sourdough."

"That sounds
like Champagne," he said.

"Close enough.
It's the 1999 Schramsberg J. Schram vintage sparkling wine, made
with Chardonnay grapes from Carneros. Well done, James!"

"What's my
reward, professora?"

"Just a minute, I
have to get my tray of goodies....open your mouth." She put a
tiny round of dark cake with a crusty top between his teeth.
"What does it taste like?"