was a hint of chicken in it. And this is the best polenta
I’ve eaten ever, truly. We usually don’t use a mixture of milk and water.
Not stirring it intermittently makes it less mushy. One can still feel the
grits, and the Parmesan at the end gave it the final touch. So don’t put
your cooking down."
"Thank you, Silvio, it’s very generous of you to tell me that."
He reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. "It isn’t only your
food that is delicious. It is also you."
I actually blush. Nobody has ever said something like this to me. I
suddenly realize that Gary simply took me for granted for most of our
time together. I almost get angry with myself for letting Gary intrude into
the easy intimacy between Silvio and me.
We eat the dessert and drink the doubly strong espresso in the living
room, sitting side by side on the sofa.
At one point, he holds my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes. His are
a deep, dark brown, under bushy eyebrows, bright, full of questioning
expectation.
"I want to kiss you," he murmurs and pulls me closer. Our lips touch,
the pressure increasing slowly. His tongue reaches to meet mine,
provoking long forgotten sensations. The urge to unite with him becomes
suddenly unbearable.
"Come, Silvio," I murmurs, "I want you."
Before I can fully rise, he lifts me up, kisses me more passionately, and
asks: "Which door?" and then carries me to the bedroom.
Tuesday, 28 th October, 6:45 a.m.
I wake with a feeling of utter contentment. I would have liked to have
Silvio still next to me, to stroke his well-toned body, to sense his touch
on mine. He left somewhere around two or three in the morning. I stay
with that feeling of contentment. It has been more than two year since
I’ve made love to someone so passionately, so full of abandon, without
holding back. I wonder how it has been for him.
Why is a wonderful man like this not married? … Or is he? I didn’t
even ask him. He didn’t wear a wedding band, but that doesn’t mean
much nowadays, nor have I ever seen him with a woman. When my
parents split up I made a solemn pledge never to get involved with a
married man. I didn’t want to be the one who made a man stray from his
marriage. My father’s affair with Lucy caused the final rupture between
my parents. My mother went into hysterics for days, screaming at him
every time she saw him, ultimately driving him out of the house for good,
although now, with hindsight, I have come to realize that their marriage
had been one on paper only for years before that. I must ask Silvio.
Maybe I should call him later today. The vague sense of unease lingers.
Finally I force myself to rise. The weather has again turned sour, cold,
a light drizzle from a low cloud cover, visibility maybe two hundred
yards. Nevertheless, I go for a run, come back soaked both inside and out,
and then warm my body with a hot shower. Having missed out on the
planned night of work — hacking into Long’s computer — I want to
make the most of today.
Any change in his spending pattern will be a giveaway. I’ll check if he
has finally bought the penthouse he always bragged about. If possible, I
will also check out some of the other Lewis’ employees, particularly Fred
Garland, and hopefully find out if any of them repaid a substantial part of
their mortgage recently. If that line of inquiry doesn’t lead anywhere, I
will see if anyone suddenly drives a fancy brand-new car.
Tuesday, 8:40 a.m.
On the way to the Bayswater underground station, I walk past my van. It
is still where I parked it the day before. By nine I am at the Land Registry
Office.
I am armed with the phone list of Lewis’ employees that I received
early September. It shows their home addresses, as well as their e-mail
addresses. I fill in the request forms and then pay the three pounds for
each of the five addresses I want to check out. Armed with copies of the
registration documents, I return home.
Long has indeed purchased
I’ve eaten ever, truly. We usually don’t use a mixture of milk and water.
Not stirring it intermittently makes it less mushy. One can still feel the
grits, and the Parmesan at the end gave it the final touch. So don’t put
your cooking down."
"Thank you, Silvio, it’s very generous of you to tell me that."
He reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. "It isn’t only your
food that is delicious. It is also you."
I actually blush. Nobody has ever said something like this to me. I
suddenly realize that Gary simply took me for granted for most of our
time together. I almost get angry with myself for letting Gary intrude into
the easy intimacy between Silvio and me.
We eat the dessert and drink the doubly strong espresso in the living
room, sitting side by side on the sofa.
At one point, he holds my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes. His are
a deep, dark brown, under bushy eyebrows, bright, full of questioning
expectation.
"I want to kiss you," he murmurs and pulls me closer. Our lips touch,
the pressure increasing slowly. His tongue reaches to meet mine,
provoking long forgotten sensations. The urge to unite with him becomes
suddenly unbearable.
"Come, Silvio," I murmurs, "I want you."
Before I can fully rise, he lifts me up, kisses me more passionately, and
asks: "Which door?" and then carries me to the bedroom.
Tuesday, 28 th October, 6:45 a.m.
I wake with a feeling of utter contentment. I would have liked to have
Silvio still next to me, to stroke his well-toned body, to sense his touch
on mine. He left somewhere around two or three in the morning. I stay
with that feeling of contentment. It has been more than two year since
I’ve made love to someone so passionately, so full of abandon, without
holding back. I wonder how it has been for him.
Why is a wonderful man like this not married? … Or is he? I didn’t
even ask him. He didn’t wear a wedding band, but that doesn’t mean
much nowadays, nor have I ever seen him with a woman. When my
parents split up I made a solemn pledge never to get involved with a
married man. I didn’t want to be the one who made a man stray from his
marriage. My father’s affair with Lucy caused the final rupture between
my parents. My mother went into hysterics for days, screaming at him
every time she saw him, ultimately driving him out of the house for good,
although now, with hindsight, I have come to realize that their marriage
had been one on paper only for years before that. I must ask Silvio.
Maybe I should call him later today. The vague sense of unease lingers.
Finally I force myself to rise. The weather has again turned sour, cold,
a light drizzle from a low cloud cover, visibility maybe two hundred
yards. Nevertheless, I go for a run, come back soaked both inside and out,
and then warm my body with a hot shower. Having missed out on the
planned night of work — hacking into Long’s computer — I want to
make the most of today.
Any change in his spending pattern will be a giveaway. I’ll check if he
has finally bought the penthouse he always bragged about. If possible, I
will also check out some of the other Lewis’ employees, particularly Fred
Garland, and hopefully find out if any of them repaid a substantial part of
their mortgage recently. If that line of inquiry doesn’t lead anywhere, I
will see if anyone suddenly drives a fancy brand-new car.
Tuesday, 8:40 a.m.
On the way to the Bayswater underground station, I walk past my van. It
is still where I parked it the day before. By nine I am at the Land Registry
Office.
I am armed with the phone list of Lewis’ employees that I received
early September. It shows their home addresses, as well as their e-mail
addresses. I fill in the request forms and then pay the three pounds for
each of the five addresses I want to check out. Armed with copies of the
registration documents, I return home.
Long has indeed purchased
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