unbuttoned her shirt. René grinned and helped her with the buttons as her fingers had unaccountably turned clumsy. ‘That is firewater, my dear. And that young man is going to seduce you if you don’t watch out.’
‘Indeed,’ agreed Phryne, who had made up her mind on this point.
‘Well, you know your own mind,’ said Toupie. ‘Dolly!’ she called. ‘You know how you like seductions. Here’s one happening right before my eyes.’
Phryne reflected that she ought to be embarrassed. She wasn’t. From the first moment she had seen him, René was her destined lover, forever and forever amen. She had known that he would come along if she didn’t think about it. She hadn’t, and here he was.
A dark-haired young woman in the ambulance uniform perched on the arm of Toupie’s chair. She was the image of her Uncle Oscar, even down to the beautiful Wilde hands and the sparkling, seductive eyes. She folded the long, sensitive fingers on her knee and said, ‘How thrilling! Ah, René, when you pursued me for so long and so unavailingly! My chevalier is faithless at last!’
‘As you say,’ said René.
‘I like your taste,’ said Dolly, examining Phryne from several angles, fingers poised as if she were holding a quizzing glass. ‘Oh, yes, she has points.’
‘I believe so,’ said René, holding Phryne tighter. She felt heat rising in his lap, matched by her own ascending temperature. How long was this wake going to last?
‘You are aware,’ Dolly leaned close to Phryne, almost whispering in her ear, ‘that René is a rampant, a self-confessed . . .’ she leaned even closer, her lips touching Phryne’s neck ‘. . . heterosexual?’
Phryne laughed and kissed the red mouth, held out in a pretty pout.
‘I shall just have to accept it,’ she said sadly.
The women watched as she left with René, bundling out into the snow. As she shut the door Phryne heard Toupie say, ‘Another one lost!’ and then she was running in snow, pulled along by René’s clutch on her hand. They dared roads, skidded on ice, found the Impasse d’Enfer almost by instinct and ran inside, shaking off snow, laughing, shivering.
René lit his kerosene heater and completed the unbuttoning of Phryne’s shirt. He kissed each nipple as it was exposed, hard in the cold air. Phryne moaned. He laid her down in his tumbled bed, stripped in haste and threw himself after her, dragging blankets over both of them.
He was not the first naked man Phryne had ever seen, but he was the first she had ever wanted. She handled his body in wonder, so different from her own, the skin rougher, the hair wiry, the touch of his hardened fingers so exciting. And this jigsaw piece, she knew, was meant to fit . . . there.
It felt strange. Not painful. Not pleasurable, either, though it was pleasing René. His swollen lips kissed and sucked, his hips moved in a convulsive, effortful slide inside the cocoon of coverings.
Then a small light lit itself inside Phryne, growing hotter with friction, until it exploded in a burst of such strong sensation that she found herself crying into a sweating man’s neck, her arms around him, collapsed on top of her.
‘Death and love,’ gasped René. ‘Such is life.’
‘I wanted to move in with him,’ she told Lin Chung. ‘But he would not allow it. So I stayed in the Rue de Gaîté with La Petite and kept on being an artist’s model. René was a musician. I used to go to the bal musette to hear him play. In the Rue des Trois Colonnes.’
‘And he broke your heart?’
‘Oh yes, but enough of this. What about your first love?’
‘She was an English girl, when I was at Oxford. Her name was Jonquil—don’t laugh—she was a dancer in the chorus at the Gaiety Theatre and I thought she was wonderful. She had a rope of red hair down to her waist and she could dance like an angel.’
‘I’m not laughing.’ Phryne lounged down into her bed again and took his hand. ‘How did your romance proceed?’
‘I
‘Indeed,’ agreed Phryne, who had made up her mind on this point.
‘Well, you know your own mind,’ said Toupie. ‘Dolly!’ she called. ‘You know how you like seductions. Here’s one happening right before my eyes.’
Phryne reflected that she ought to be embarrassed. She wasn’t. From the first moment she had seen him, René was her destined lover, forever and forever amen. She had known that he would come along if she didn’t think about it. She hadn’t, and here he was.
A dark-haired young woman in the ambulance uniform perched on the arm of Toupie’s chair. She was the image of her Uncle Oscar, even down to the beautiful Wilde hands and the sparkling, seductive eyes. She folded the long, sensitive fingers on her knee and said, ‘How thrilling! Ah, René, when you pursued me for so long and so unavailingly! My chevalier is faithless at last!’
‘As you say,’ said René.
‘I like your taste,’ said Dolly, examining Phryne from several angles, fingers poised as if she were holding a quizzing glass. ‘Oh, yes, she has points.’
‘I believe so,’ said René, holding Phryne tighter. She felt heat rising in his lap, matched by her own ascending temperature. How long was this wake going to last?
‘You are aware,’ Dolly leaned close to Phryne, almost whispering in her ear, ‘that René is a rampant, a self-confessed . . .’ she leaned even closer, her lips touching Phryne’s neck ‘. . . heterosexual?’
Phryne laughed and kissed the red mouth, held out in a pretty pout.
‘I shall just have to accept it,’ she said sadly.
The women watched as she left with René, bundling out into the snow. As she shut the door Phryne heard Toupie say, ‘Another one lost!’ and then she was running in snow, pulled along by René’s clutch on her hand. They dared roads, skidded on ice, found the Impasse d’Enfer almost by instinct and ran inside, shaking off snow, laughing, shivering.
René lit his kerosene heater and completed the unbuttoning of Phryne’s shirt. He kissed each nipple as it was exposed, hard in the cold air. Phryne moaned. He laid her down in his tumbled bed, stripped in haste and threw himself after her, dragging blankets over both of them.
He was not the first naked man Phryne had ever seen, but he was the first she had ever wanted. She handled his body in wonder, so different from her own, the skin rougher, the hair wiry, the touch of his hardened fingers so exciting. And this jigsaw piece, she knew, was meant to fit . . . there.
It felt strange. Not painful. Not pleasurable, either, though it was pleasing René. His swollen lips kissed and sucked, his hips moved in a convulsive, effortful slide inside the cocoon of coverings.
Then a small light lit itself inside Phryne, growing hotter with friction, until it exploded in a burst of such strong sensation that she found herself crying into a sweating man’s neck, her arms around him, collapsed on top of her.
‘Death and love,’ gasped René. ‘Such is life.’
‘I wanted to move in with him,’ she told Lin Chung. ‘But he would not allow it. So I stayed in the Rue de Gaîté with La Petite and kept on being an artist’s model. René was a musician. I used to go to the bal musette to hear him play. In the Rue des Trois Colonnes.’
‘And he broke your heart?’
‘Oh yes, but enough of this. What about your first love?’
‘She was an English girl, when I was at Oxford. Her name was Jonquil—don’t laugh—she was a dancer in the chorus at the Gaiety Theatre and I thought she was wonderful. She had a rope of red hair down to her waist and she could dance like an angel.’
‘I’m not laughing.’ Phryne lounged down into her bed again and took his hand. ‘How did your romance proceed?’
‘I
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