Cheyney Fox (6 page)

He combed the hair back from his forehead with his fingers.

“You have no idea what it means to have you waiting here. New York is always hard for me.”

“You look exhausted.”

“I am, I seem to have been traveling forever.”

“Christopher …”

Before she could say another word, he interrupted her with, “The apartment looks the same, beautiful, chic, extravagant. Smells wonderful. Lilies and Dora’s cooking.”

Pleasant enough words, but the indifference, the chilling denial of love, affection even, in his voice, or his manner … It was all so strange and banal. Not at all what she had envisaged for them, it was no kind of reunion at all. Why didn’t he sweep her into his arms, acknowledge her existence with a touch of
the hand, a hug, a kiss on the cheek, at the very least? They were, after all, lovers, with the heat and passions of lovers. Was she wrong? Had the fire of erotic love gone out for them? What was all this ice? This nothingness.

She watched him walk to the dining table, bury his face in the lilies to gather in their scent. He looked across the room at her and for the first time smiled. She felt ill with desire for him. From there he went to the window, looked out, and then drew the cerise damask draperies closed over the sheer white silk curtains. He gazed briefly at her once more. It was a merciless look that told her nothing, but both chilled her and inflamed her unkindled passion for him yet more.

From there he walked to the kitchen. She heard him open the oven door and close it again. “God bless Dora. I’m famished,” he called out. He walked to her now, past a pair of decorative Lalique glass doors. He hesitated. Slowly, seductively, he slid one of the doors open to reveal a bed filling the alcove behind. Christopher looked at it, and then provocatively at her. His gaze steadied on her while he slid the door closed.

His steps now were more swift and sure, not unlike some magnificent jungle cat: a lion, a tiger, who has marked his place, making it his own. She watched him move closer to her, loosen his tie, unbutton the jacket of his gray flannel suit. He stood inches away from her, not exactly cold, not exactly distant. Finally he reached out to her and took her in his arms. She slipped her hands under his jacket and around his waist and crushed herself to him, and felt at once his hard yearning desire for her was at least as great as her own for him. They kissed.

Hand in hand they walked together to the sofa. “Hello,” he said.

“Welcome home,” she answered, “I have missed you so terribly.”

He flicked his hair off his forehead with a quick turn of his head. A gesture of his she always found touching: there was something boyish, innocent about it. He raised her hand and placed it on the bulging erection straining his trousers. Then he brought the open palm that had caressed him to his mouth and kissed it. “And you can see and feel how much I have missed you.” They were both smiling now. The attraction was
still there and as strong as ever. Standing up, he removed his jacket, tore off his tie, and threw them onto the wing chair. His shirt unbuttoned, he stood above her and between her legs, and gently took her head in his hands to press her face against what he knew she yearned for. She remained there caressing him with her face, absorbing the faint raunchy scent of her lover.

Cheyney had to hold back not to weep with joy. Not to beg him to take her. Her need for him to make love to her was enormous. To feel his lips devour her, his hands caress, to feel him inside her dissolving with every thrust the separateness he created between them. Only then, in the toils of sexual intercourse, was he able to make love to her, show affection and passion, a oneness with Cheyney, or express the real depth of his feelings for her. Until he wanted her desperately enough to do that, he would tease her with his sex, torture her with his charm and promise. Cheyney could accept the teasing games of seduction he was so good at, the subtle ploys to gain power and position, the little cruelties he played with her and others who fell in love with him. All this dissolved during those times of carnal lust with her, when he surrendered all of himself to Cheyney, confessed his love and the overwhelming sexual bliss he achieved with her. In gratitude he would turn himself into her slave, shorn of all desire but to fuck her into sexual oblivion.

He pulled Cheyney up by the hands from the sofa and asked, “Are we drinking red or white? A glass now, before dinner, would be nice.”

How shallow his love must be for me, she thought, a shallowness that kept her on guard. It served as a constant reminder that their love had limitations too great to survive. A twinge of sadness, a forced smile to cover it up. She answered, “Red, I thought.”

He placed his arm around her and they strolled together to the table. He busied himself with opening the wine. She eyed him and could understand the Sebastians of this world and the women who had been infatuated with him. What pain he must have caused them with his half-innocent nurturing of their weaknesses, their self-destruction. Not me, she promised herself. For as long as it lasts …: she knew the motto had to be her lifeline.

“How was Kostas?” she asked.

“Not happy about my being here. He’s afraid you’re going to seduce me and never let me return to Europe.”

“I just might.”

“That’s what he says. But you and I know different. You know better than to try. That’s part of the power you have over me. The freedom, no commitment, the sex — all given and all taken with no strings attached. He’s just jealous because he’s not here with us. He loves New York, and both of us, and wants us to be happy. But, at the same time, he’s afraid you are going to interfere with our relationship. Solitary, spiritual brothers working together for a life of creativity.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That I will return to Europe as soon as I have done all I came over here for. That you have your life, your gallery, now. That I don’t intend my life or its goals to change. That you and I have some special feelings for each other, and we’ll see each other when we want to and when it fits in with our plans. Nothing is going to change my resolve that my work, my art, is my life. Everything that comes my way has to serve that end.”

Christopher had never spelled it out so clearly to Cheyney before. Her blood chilled at his explicit warning to her. She was certain that little speech had been discussed between them before Christopher left Paris, and Kostas had been promised delivery upon arrival. There was something sinister about that. A surge of queasiness succeeded her chill.

His eyes on her were as cold as steel when he dropped that hard line. If he were waiting for Cheyney to challenge it, show a reaction, attack Kostas, as she had heard so many others do in the short time she had known them, he would be sorely disappointed. She showed nothing, said nothing, except to herself.

He placed a glass of wine in her hand and toasted her with, “You spoil me. All this,” he waved his arm, “I know you did it all for me, for my homecoming.” The hardness in his eyes faded as he touched the rim of his glass to hers. But the look was more greedy than loving, more arrogant than humbled by her love and generosity. With a raised eyebrow, she said:

“Make no mistake, Christopher, I did it for
us
. When I spoil
you, I reap untold rewards. Just as you do when you’re fucking me.” She tried to make her gaze as hard as the rim of the glass over which she engaged his eye.

“That’s a bit coarse, don’t you think, my dear?”

“Better a coarse truth, perhaps, than a soggy denial of one’s own emotions,
my dear
. Now then, I think dinner, don’t you?”

Cheyney somewhat haughtily brushed past Christopher toward the kitchen. “Not quite yet, I think,” he said, grabbing her by the wrist. “I’m more hungry for you.”

“Only hungry? I’m famished for you.”

“That’s the way I always want you to be. Hungry, famished, starved for me.” And he pulled her into his arms and made love to her with one ravishing kiss. They dissolved. His urgency made her heart race. He slid the Lalique glass screen open and together they climbed onto the bed where they stood opposite each other and disposed of their clothes, tossing them out of their way. Naked and erect, all ego and self lost to the god Eros, he was hers. He placed his hand between her legs, and his fingers searched out that place where he yearned to be. She was warm and moist and it spurred his passion on. She used her hands to caress his rampant, throbbing penis, his velvety balls, her eyes never leaving the handsome, now lustily decadent, face. He pulled her roughly into his arms and together they collapsed onto the bed. All love gone, sex the master of their hearts now.

Chapter 6

S
treaks of dawn pierced the narrow opening where the draperies did not quite meet. A misty light suffused the darkened room, just enough to shadow its shapes and forms: the elegant furnishings, the remnants of a well-savored dinner, the candles that had now gone flickering out. Christopher’s unstretched canvases and collages strewn everywhere — draped over sofas and wing chairs, hung in front of mirrors, leaned against walls and mantelpiece.

In the alcove of the one-room apartment, the light just allowed Cheyney to study the sleeping Christopher’s handsome face. She lay on her side, propped up against the pillows, leaning on one elbow. Sleep never came easily to Cheyney when she shared a bed with Christopher. She was unable to doze off until she was certain he was asleep. And Cheyney was always wide awake long before he was.

Christopher was the only man she had ever shared a bed with all through the night, or washed socks for, or begun and ended days with, the only one she had ever planned to share her life with. And it was shaking her American middle-class morals — only too willing to submit to a shake out of her life forever. In the fall of ’58, when they had met and fallen in love, the pill and the sexual revolution were still a few years off. Which was too bad, because she could have used the new morality of the sixties, its bid for sexual freedom, its open-plan cohabitation with whoever you happened to love, to buoy her. If for no other reason than to get more sleep.

She gazed lovingly at Christopher and was completely absorbed
by him. Asleep, his mesmerizing beauty appeared yet more transfigured. And it combined with the appeal of a sleeping innocent child, for he slept with his thumb at his lips. This virile, masterly lover — who was able to admit his love for her only with slow, sure thrusts, and who taunted her with, “This is what you want. Just this, more and more and more of this,” until he exhausted them both on a wave of shared ecstasy.

She looked away from his face only for a moment. But, in that moment, reality intruded. An interior voice asserted, In love with love: not a bad thing. In love with Christopher: not a bad thing either. But not to be confused. She smiled in the darkness. So long as she could hear that still, small voice in her head, she knew everything between them would be all right.

She poured herself another cup of coffee and then topped up his cup. The mid-morning sun was streaming across the dining table.

Cheyney was still in her silk dressing gown, Christopher in jeans, the shirt from the night before. He appeared relaxed, completely at home, and Cheyney was happier than she could ever have imagined herself to be. They were together. “A November New York sun may shine, but it never warms you the way a Mediterranean sun does. I’m always chilled when I’m in New York.”

He walked from the table to his open suitcase and pulled out a crew-neck, navy-blue cashmere sweater, its yarn worn thin with the years. He drew it over his head. A tight fit, his elbows perilously straining the threads. It was difficult not to feel a pang for the man. The mere sight of his pathetic, threadbare clothing spilling out of the battered suitcase, an address book, several well-worn but clean paint brushes, sable and bristle, tubes of cadmium-white, black, and chrome-yellow oil paints, a palette of watercolor paints, and a block of nine-by-twelve-inch watercolor paper of not the best quality — it all declared: struggle, long hard road, artist.

“My paintings seem to have taken over the entire room.
I
have taken over the entire room. Seems it’s mine. Does that bother you?”

“My home is your home when you’re here in New York.
Here, and, as of tomorrow, my private quarters are at the gallery.”

“I’m anxious to see the gallery.”

“I’m even more anxious for you to see it.”

“Let’s go, after I’ve made some phone calls. I may use the telephone, mayn’t I?”

Cheyney bristled, recognizing that oversolicitous tone he switched on, the seductive smile of a Romeo, a Valentino, he laid on as he reached across the table to take her hand in asking to use the telephone. She resented his thinking he had to hustle her for telephone calls. Rising from her chair, she said, “Christopher, for a phone call? You really don’t need to use your charmer act on me. I have just told you, my house is your house. That includes the telephone.”

He stood up immediately and put his arm around her, “You’re very touchy this morning.”

“Maybe I am. I’m going to have to be, aren’t I, if you lump me in with those to be conquered or used? That’s not what we’re about, and you would do well not to forget it.”

“Is that a threat?” he asked, a teasing tone in his voice, a smile on his lips. He kissed her and pulled her to him in a hug. Before she could answer him, he changed the subject with, “I should go see John Snyder about my exhibition. Do you think I should arrive there for our first meeting with or without the work I plan to show?”

“Without.”

Christopher released her from his arms. “That was a bit emphatic.”

“I didn’t mean it to sound that way. It’s just that there’s so much for you and John to arrange. The concept of the show, the advertising, the catalog, the vernissage. And most important, presentation.”

Christopher ran his fingers through his hair before he spoke. “This exhibition has cost me years of waiting. I’ve been entertaining John with introductions to all the right people in Europe for — oh, it seems a lifetime!” He sighed and then went on, “I’ve brought a strong collection of my work, don’t you think?” She nodded. “He’s seen most of it this summer, when he came to see me at the Greek island house, so there will be few surprises for him.”

Cheyney saw her opportunity to talk to Christopher about the paintings and collages he intended to exhibit, and she grabbed it. “You’re the one that’s going to get the surprise, darling,” she said.

“What do you mean by that?”

“There are some really sassy exhibitions going on in many of the galleries right now. How about you do the galleries before you assemble your show with John? Sort of get into the New York art scene. Get a whiff of what’s going on.” Cheyney continued talking about the art world much as she had with Sebastian the day before. Less of a waste of breath with Christopher. His questions and keen response showed that. His calls were to fellow artists living in the city, as well as to his “A” list ladies of high society and old money. The dowager princesses of the arts he was forever trying to wean off John Singer Sargent family portraits, Corot or Corbet landscapes, or a cross-section of French Impressionists. He reckoned they ought to cut any teeth remaining to them on contemporary art. In particular his own work.

She was finishing yet another cup of coffee and the morning newspaper when he started on his third call. His telephone seductions embarrassed her, she had to leave the room. He grabbed her by the wrist as she passed by him. He could hardly miss the flush in her face. Their eyes met while he kept up the flow of honey to one of “my Mayflower dowagers,” as he called them, on the other end of the line. His gaze quickly turned from affection to something more steely, and he released her.

In the bath, Cheyney relaxed in the almond scent of water made smooth as satin by rich and luxurious oils. She kept working the large sponge; filling it and then squeezing it over her arms and her shoulders. Rivulets of glistening, sensuous warmth trickled over her breasts and teased her skin, caressed her nipples. A tap at the door, and then he was sitting on the edge of the deep, old-fashioned bathtub. He took the sponge from her and continued to bathe her with it just as she had been doing.

“Ten phone calls, ten invitations, ten people at least for the opening of my exhibition. Eight of them millionaires, five of them collectors. Not bad for my first morning in New York.”
Christopher looked very pleased with himself. “Instead of flushing with embarrassment over my seductions, you should have taken notes and headed them ‘How to Play the Art Game.’ I should have thought you would have learned that lesson from Sebastian.”

“Sebastian and I dissolved our business arrangements yesterday. He’s no longer involved in the gallery.”

Christopher stopped caressing her with the bathwater. Simply sat there, sponge in hand, looking at her intently. Then he asked, “What brought that about?”

“Differences of opinion.”

Christopher dipped the sponge in the bathwater and resumed his bathing of Cheyney. “Because of me, my arrival. Sebastian would see himself threatened by my appearance on the scene. Am I right?”

There was a smugness in his tone, a glint of satisfaction in his eye. Cheyney resented his obvious enjoyment of the situation, even as she acknowledged his canny guesswork. Not wanting to feed his evident egotism, she answered, “There was more than one reason for breaking our contract. Now let’s just drop it.”

It was the sponge that Christopher dropped in the water, as he threw his head back to laugh. He stood up and pulled off his sweater and shirt in one wrench, flicked off his shabby shoes. He dropped his jeans and stepped out of them. He was quick, so quick Cheyney hadn’t the chance to say anything before he was in the bath with her. Straddling and looming over her, massively virile and handsome. Cheyney reacted with a racing heart as she reached out to caress a muscular thigh, a slender hip, and confronted the bared sex of the man of her life. He placed his hands on her shoulders and lowered himself into the warm water, “Jealousy. Sebastian is always jealous of whatever I have. Without lifting a finger, I have done you a great service, getting rid of him for you.”

He picked up the sponge and handed it to Cheyney, “Bathe me, Cheyney. My reward for services rendered.” He smile broadly at her and leaned over to caress her cheek, demanding, “Smile. Be happy, you have one less thing to worry about with Sebastian gone.”

“Nice if that were true, Christopher.” She showed him a
faint smile and suggested, “Stand up.” He straddled her once more but not before he used his toes most deftly to toy with her silky warm cunt. She clasped the sponge in both hands and bathed her lover. Again and again she dipped the large sponge into the water and squeezed it out over his shoulders, across his chest, over his thighs, between his legs until he shone like a magnificent Greek statue. She was enchanted by the water cascading down his body, the way it turned his skin to shiny satin, the steam that swirled up from his flesh. She turned him slowly around while still bathing him and transformed his strong back, his sensuous buttocks into live shiny marble. Then spreading his legs as far apart as was possible, she slipped her hand underneath him and caressed him with the hot soapy water until she could resist him no longer. She dropped the sponge and used her hands and then her lips and then her mouth until, unable to hold back any longer, he chose to collapse on top of her in the bath, displacing a huge wave of water, and plunged wildly into Cheyney. In a frenzy of passion he fucked her and they flayed around in the hot, sensuous, slippery water. They came together in a thrilling explosive orgasm, and lay naked, entwined in each other’s arms in the few inches of water left in the bath. Silently each thanked the gods for giving them a glimpse of bliss, a moment of magnificent sexual oblivion.

Cheyney was driving the pale blue Alfa Romeo Sprite with her usual assurance down Park Avenue, Christopher at her side. “Happy?” he asked.

“Very. Happier than I have ever been,” she answered, throwing the gears into third as she wove in and out of the traffic.

“Because of me?”

“Of course.”

“That’s nice. I like that.”

“And me, and the gallery, and us,” she added giving him a delectably winning smile.

“But mostly because of me,” he insisted.

“Question or declaration?” she teased.

“Declaration.”

They turned onto East Sixty-third Street. Miraculously Cheyney found a parking space almost exactly in front of number
thirteen. She switched off the engine, and turning to face Christopher, she placed a hand on his, “Welcome to the Cheyney Fox Gallery. I’m nearly bursting with excitement for you to see it.”

Cheyney had never wholly understood how impressive the gallery and its premises were, or what a monumental change,
and
chance, she had undertaken in creating it, until she saw Christopher’s reaction to it.

She had called before she left the Ninety-fourth Street flat to ask Dora to disappear for an hour. Her secretary, Sally, had been given a similar message. Cheyney opened the front door with her key. It was a far more emotional moment for her than she had expected it to be. Suddenly all the pressure of the last few months — the work, the anxieties of constant decision making, her plunge into New York’s art world, the responsibilities she had taken upon herself, her lone leap into a new and exciting life — seemed to bear down upon her shoulders. She gazed into Christopher’s face as she pushed the door open for them to step into the gallery, and she watched it change almost instantaneously.

Power of place. A special energy, impossible to label. The gallery had that. Cheyney saw it take Christopher over. The way he looked at the paintings, reacted to the internal space of the gallery and its palpable relation to the objects of art. The sculpture garden.

Christopher made no comment during their tour of the public gallery and her private quarters, where they would be living together from the next day forward. It seemed to Cheyney that Christopher was somewhat edgy when shown the bedroom. The place was meant to blot out the rest of the world, be their intimate haven away from their public lives. Their sexual playground where no holds were barred.

For the first time since they began their grand tour, Christopher touched her. He took her by the arm and propelled her from the bedroom into the double-cubed gallery and gently sat her down on the Georgian sofa in the center of the room. He circled the gallery once more, leaving a trail of large shoe prints in the new sunflower-yellow carpet.

When he returned to stand before her, she saw something in his face that she had never seen there before. The arrogance
was gone, and the soft, selfish greed. And yet, there was no humility in his face. Nor surprise. Could it be admiration? He squatted on his haunches, and, gazing into her eyes, he said, “You did all this for me.”