on his plate, he reached across and fed me some of his portion
with his spoon. Watching me, his gaze moving across my mouth and my eyes. It was the nearest he’d come to touching me.
He drove me back to the flat in Garratt Lane. He didn’t kiss me.
The next week he invited me out again. He told me he didn’t much like the dress I was wearing — it was the only other dress
I possessed, ankle length and lackluster, from the bargain rail at C&A — and he took me to a hushed boutique off Sloane Square
and bought me another. It was in a rather obvious style, strappy, made of silk, but the color was wonderful and subtle, red
with a blackish bloom, like mulberries.
The third week we went again to Mon Plaisir.
“Sinead is with her mother tonight,” he said, his eyes holding mine. “We could have coffee at my flat. Would you like that?”
I nodded; I understood.
We drove there in silence. I wondered how it would be. I worried that he saw something almost virginal in me, something that
was an illusion, a kind of innocence — a product, perhaps, of my diffidence and rounded open face and ignorance of the urbane
world he inhabited — that he would therefore be disappointed in me.
He took me into the living room.
“I’ve bought you something,” he said.
It was in a long thin box. I felt unsure: I’d never been out with the kind of man who buys you jewelry. But he’d chosen well;
it was easy to be pleased. It was charming, a silver chain with a stone the color of cornflowers. I had no way of knowing
what kind of gem it was. Precious stones were a mystery to me then, like Rolexes or makes of car or expensive bottles of wine.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, and made to put it on.
“Wait,” he said. And, when I looked at him quizzically, “I want it to be perfect.” As I’d said in the restaurant, taking care
over my choice.
“Come here,” he said. He stood me in front of him, in front of the overmantel mirror. I thought he was finally going to kiss
me. He put his hands very lightly on my shoulders, turned me to face the mirror, started to ease the straps of my dress down
off my shoulders.
“Someone might come in,” I said.
He pushed the front of the dress down over my breasts, doing it very slowly, in this concentrated way, yet scarcely touching
me, so I felt only the slight brush against my skin of the warm tips of his fingers.
“No one will come in,” he said.
I saw how my face looked older, more knowing, in the lamplight. I tried to help him undo my zip. He moved my hand away.
When he’d taken off all my clothes, he took the pendant and fastened it, still standing behind me, watching us—in the mirror.
I seemed somehow more naked with the chain around my throat. The metal was cold against my skin, and I felt a quick, taut
shock of desire. Though I had done so many things, some of them things I now regretted, with men who’d fucked me hastily in
cars or riskily in public places or with their wives downstairs, I felt the shock and thrill of it so keenly. It was, I think,
the sense of exposure, him looking at me and taking me in so completely, when we had as yet no sexual connection, when he’d
scarcely touched me.
He looked at me for a long time. Then he lifted up my hair and kissed the back of my neck above the clasp of the pendant,
still watching me in the mirror, and pulled me down and made love to me on the rug in front of the fireplace. And it was good,
but more ordinary then, as with other men, pleasant but predictable.
Chapter 11
W E WENT TO VENICE for our honeymoon. His choice; I loved it coo. It was so beautiful — like walking through a fairy tale, at once enchanting
and confusing, so I never quite knew where we were. It was almost as though the patterning of the streets and alleyways changed,
shifted from day to day, from hour to hour, so that what this morning had felt familiar, this afternoon, in a new light —
gray, with mist coming
with his spoon. Watching me, his gaze moving across my mouth and my eyes. It was the nearest he’d come to touching me.
He drove me back to the flat in Garratt Lane. He didn’t kiss me.
The next week he invited me out again. He told me he didn’t much like the dress I was wearing — it was the only other dress
I possessed, ankle length and lackluster, from the bargain rail at C&A — and he took me to a hushed boutique off Sloane Square
and bought me another. It was in a rather obvious style, strappy, made of silk, but the color was wonderful and subtle, red
with a blackish bloom, like mulberries.
The third week we went again to Mon Plaisir.
“Sinead is with her mother tonight,” he said, his eyes holding mine. “We could have coffee at my flat. Would you like that?”
I nodded; I understood.
We drove there in silence. I wondered how it would be. I worried that he saw something almost virginal in me, something that
was an illusion, a kind of innocence — a product, perhaps, of my diffidence and rounded open face and ignorance of the urbane
world he inhabited — that he would therefore be disappointed in me.
He took me into the living room.
“I’ve bought you something,” he said.
It was in a long thin box. I felt unsure: I’d never been out with the kind of man who buys you jewelry. But he’d chosen well;
it was easy to be pleased. It was charming, a silver chain with a stone the color of cornflowers. I had no way of knowing
what kind of gem it was. Precious stones were a mystery to me then, like Rolexes or makes of car or expensive bottles of wine.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, and made to put it on.
“Wait,” he said. And, when I looked at him quizzically, “I want it to be perfect.” As I’d said in the restaurant, taking care
over my choice.
“Come here,” he said. He stood me in front of him, in front of the overmantel mirror. I thought he was finally going to kiss
me. He put his hands very lightly on my shoulders, turned me to face the mirror, started to ease the straps of my dress down
off my shoulders.
“Someone might come in,” I said.
He pushed the front of the dress down over my breasts, doing it very slowly, in this concentrated way, yet scarcely touching
me, so I felt only the slight brush against my skin of the warm tips of his fingers.
“No one will come in,” he said.
I saw how my face looked older, more knowing, in the lamplight. I tried to help him undo my zip. He moved my hand away.
When he’d taken off all my clothes, he took the pendant and fastened it, still standing behind me, watching us—in the mirror.
I seemed somehow more naked with the chain around my throat. The metal was cold against my skin, and I felt a quick, taut
shock of desire. Though I had done so many things, some of them things I now regretted, with men who’d fucked me hastily in
cars or riskily in public places or with their wives downstairs, I felt the shock and thrill of it so keenly. It was, I think,
the sense of exposure, him looking at me and taking me in so completely, when we had as yet no sexual connection, when he’d
scarcely touched me.
He looked at me for a long time. Then he lifted up my hair and kissed the back of my neck above the clasp of the pendant,
still watching me in the mirror, and pulled me down and made love to me on the rug in front of the fireplace. And it was good,
but more ordinary then, as with other men, pleasant but predictable.
Chapter 11
W E WENT TO VENICE for our honeymoon. His choice; I loved it coo. It was so beautiful — like walking through a fairy tale, at once enchanting
and confusing, so I never quite knew where we were. It was almost as though the patterning of the streets and alleyways changed,
shifted from day to day, from hour to hour, so that what this morning had felt familiar, this afternoon, in a new light —
gray, with mist coming
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