Eighty Days Blue (2 page)

Dominik brought an oyster to his mouth, resting the shell on one palm as he flicked the fleshy meat into his mouth with the delicate silver fork the waiter had provided. There was something savage about the way that he had extracted the juice from the lemon, so firmly you might say he crushed the fruit, rather than squeezed it. Then, almost as the next step in a well-practised ritual, he sprayed black pepper across the dish with two fierce twists of the grinder. He speared the fish neatly, deftly, not allowing a spare morsel or a drip of juice to stray from its trajectory to his tongue.

I preferred to ignore the fork and just suck the oyster straight from the shell, enjoying the slippery feel of it, the
slap
of flesh wet against my tongue, untampered by utensils, the salty juice coating my lips.

I looked up to see Dominik watching me.

‘You eat like a wild creature.'

‘It's not the only thing I do like a wild creature,' I said with an attempt at a sly smile.

‘I can't deny that. It's one of the things I like about you. You abandon yourself to your appetites, whatever they might be.'

‘In New Zealand, they'd think this a refined way to eat seafood. Back home, I've seen people bite the tongues off pipi, the shellfish we have in the shallow water near the shoreline. They flick their tongues out of their shells when you pick them out of the water and the real enthusiasts bite them straight off, eat them alive.'

Dominik smiled. ‘Were you one of those, eating sea creatures alive?'

‘No, never had the heart to do it. I thought it cruel.'

‘You admired it in other people, I bet, though?'

‘Yes. Yes, I did.'

I suppose it's just part of being naturally contrary and something of a rebel, but the more likely a food is to split a room into lovers and haters, the more likely it is that I will enjoy it, or at least admire people who do.

‘Fancy a stroll?' Dominik asked, thanking the staff on our way out.

They responded with a warm goodnight. Dominik was a generous tipper. I had read somewhere that you should always pay attention to the way a man treats animals, his mother and waiters, so I filed this bit of information away in his running positive column.

I looked down at my shoes. Black patent stilettos, and as I had only brought my smallest, most glamorous purse, I hadn't had room for a spare pair of flats.

‘We can get a taxi if your feet hurt,' he continued.

‘Yes, these heels weren't made for walking.'

I thought he would head to the road to hail a cab, but instead he grabbed my wrist and pulled me forcibly to the side. He pressed me up against the wall outside the restaurant by the stairs leading to the East 43rd Street exit and ran his hands down the sides of my body and round to my backside. I could feel the bulge in his trousers against my thigh. I thought he was getting hard, but I couldn't be sure, so I reached a hand down to check. He batted my probing fingers away. Damn him. His habit of getting me all fired up and then leaving me hanging drove me crazy. The quicker we got home, the better.

‘I'll have you off them soon enough,' he said as he set me down again, not bothering to whisper.

A middle-aged woman standing in the now long queue outside the Oyster Bar, dressed in cream trousers, faux-snakeskin court shoes and, despite the heat, a pink cardigan, tutted at us.

Dominik linked his arm through mine, and we walked west up 42nd Street to Park Avenue, jostled by the Saturday-night crowd, a sea of partygoers, tourists, showgirls and spectators, all jazzed up and on the lookout for a sniff of the action. The fun part of the weekend was just beginning for most; their energy was gaining an almost manic edge, feeding off the bright lights and flashing billboards, the traffic whizzing by and Times Square Tower soaring into the sky above us like a gaudy middle finger flipping the bird to the more respectable parts of town.

‘Did you still want to see a show?' I asked, hoping the answer would be no. We'd floated the idea earlier of behaving like tourists and catching a play on Broadway. True, we'd spent most of the day in bed together, but I for one wasn't worn out and I didn't want to waste our last night.

‘I'd rather watch you,' he replied, his eyes glittering, and my heart raced in response as I remembered how much Dominik liked to watch, how aroused he had been after each of the private concerts he'd arranged where I'd played my violin for him in various states of dress and undress. I thought of the precious Bailly that he had bought for me after my own instrument was damaged, on the grounds that in return I would play Vivaldi for him – nude. How after the first solo concert in the crypt in London, he had fucked me against the wall, right there and then, before taking me home to his house in Hampstead and asking me to bring myself to orgasm while he sat in his office chair and watched.

We stood at the intersection while the rest of the world rushed past, and I imagined that if that moment were caught on film, the picture would be of just Dominik and me, our bodies clearly delineated in a whirl of colour, as if we were the only two people who existed, whole, on the streets of New York, while the rest of the population was indistinct, people blending together in a blur, each individual as featureless as the next.

We took a lengthy walk down Broadway, past Union Square, and then veered off towards University Place, avoiding the faded glitz and glamour of Fifth Avenue. By the time we reached my place, my feet were killing me, though the sensation was numbed by the couple of beers I'd
had
with dinner and the light-hearted feeling I had walking alongside Dominik, with his arm threaded through mine, as if all my troubles had been swept away, at least for one more night and one more day.

Dominik didn't know it, but we were standing outside the apartment that I shared with a Croatian couple, Marija and Baldo, who played in the brass section of the orchestra and spent most of their evenings out. When they were in, they filled the flat with the sound of their lovemaking, heavy breathing and head-board thumping, Marija so loud that I was envious, though of course she may have been faking it. I wasn't sure of the status of their relationship, whether they were married, cohabiting or perhaps living in sin, each on the run from their own respective partners, which would explain why the fire of their lust never seemed to dim.

‘My violin,' I said, ‘it's inside, and I promised to play for you one last time.'

He took a step closer to me so that I could feel his firm body pressing against my back, then brushed his hand gently up the inside of my thigh.

‘Of course. I'll wait here if you like,' he whispered softly into my ear.

The tone of his voice was utterly casual, and a little amused. He seemed to be enjoying the effect that his presence was having on me as I desperately fiddled with the fob that opened the main entryway to the apartment block with fingers so shaky that I might have been trying to solve a Rubik's cube.

‘No,' I said, ‘come in. It's Saturday night, so my flatmates are probably out, and if not, I'll introduce you – they're friendly and won't mind a visitor.'

I couldn't remember the last time I had invited a man
home
. Neither Dominik nor Darren, the man I'd dated for six months in London before Dominik and I met, had ever visited me at my flat. I'd picked up the odd one-night stand during my single months, but even then I always insisted on going back to theirs.

There was no real reason for my reticence; I'm just cagey about my personal space. I'm also messy, and I hate commuting, so I tend to end up living in cheaper, small rooms in more expensive parts of town, rather than taking somewhere larger in a less expensive suburb and needing to take the subway every day. My room in the East Village apartment was tiny; if I wanted anything larger, I'd have to move to Brooklyn. Marija and Baldo occupied most of the space and consequently paid two-thirds of the rent between them. I had a small room with just a single bed, a hanging rail with all of my clothes and shoes on display, a couple of photographs from home and a few books scattered here and there. I didn't have a desk, not a single piece of furniture other than the bed and the rail. Ever since I left New Zealand, I'd made a point of travelling light, so wherever I ended up I could pack up and ship off again with the minimum of fuss. I begin to feel edgy when I own more than I can fit into a single suitcase.

I pushed open the front door to the apartment and felt around on the wall for the light switch, sliding my purse onto the kitchen counter.

‘Hello?' I called out, taking Dominik by the hand and leading him inside.

He stood in the kitchen and looked around, while I knocked lightly on the Croatians' bedroom door to check if they were in. There was no response.

‘They're out.'

‘Good,' he said, striding over to me and picking up a handful of my hair, then tugging it gently.

He suddenly swivelled me round so I stood facing the bay window in the living room, looking out into the small communal courtyard shared by the residents in our block. It was dark outside now, and with the lights on and the blinds open, anyone who happened to be sitting in the pocket-sized garden smoking a cigarette or standing at their own window and looking over at ours would likely have been able to see if not everything, at least our silhouettes, me in my short black dress and Dominik in his collared shirt and tie. We'd both dressed for a night out, in case we ended up falling into one of New York's classier bars. He looked good in a suit, never so formal that he might have been on his way to work, but not uncomfortable, like the sort of man who had owned the same outfit for ten years and resurrected it from the wardrobe once or twice a year for weddings and funerals. There was always something of a casual air about Dominik; he had the confidence of a person who knows they're in the right skin, so no matter what he wore, he looked good. He had an easy style.

Underneath that unwavering polite veneer, though, lurked a very dirty mind, and it was that dark edge beneath all the social niceties that stopped me from getting bored and moving on, as I usually did with men after a few months of dating.

I wonder what Dominik is going to do next, I thought, staring into the minuscule garden, watching the fairy lights that a neighbour had erected to cheer the place up flickering like fireflies. Push me against the window? Make me lift my dress up round my waist and then stand back and stare at my arse? Fuck me in full view of the neighbours? He
hadn't
snaked his hand under my dress yet, so unless he had noticed the absence of a pantyline when we had been kissing, him stroking my body through my clothes, he would be unaware that I had elected to leave my knickers at home and had spent all night enjoying the occasional flurry of cool air between my legs.

‘Take your hold-ups off,' he said, ‘but without bending your knees. And don't look back at me.'

I could hear the smile in his voice; he was enjoying this, coming up with a new game that he knew would turn me on. It was the change, the surprise, that filled me with a rush of arousal. So long as I didn't know what was coming next, then it was exciting. My mind would just stop thinking and relax, all my powers intent on following his next instruction. It stopped me from thinking about the laundry that I needed to do, rehearsals next week, when my next pay cheque was coming and what bill I needed to pay first. The sound of Dominik's voice washed every other thought from my head, and when I wasn't thinking, I made up for it by feeling, all my physical senses now on hyper alert, so that even the lightest touch, the softest breath of air on my skin, sent me half mad with desire.

It's more difficult than it sounds, removing a pair of hold-ups without your knees bending. I rolled up my dress, offering Dominik a glimpse of flesh, and hooked a thumb under the sticky band at the top, the lacy border that separated the stocking part from the top of my thigh, and pulled downwards, spreading my legs wide apart so that I could bend over at the waist to touch my toes while keeping my legs perfectly straight. Then I balanced all of my weight on my other foot and gently removed my stiletto, just for a second, so I could hook the stocking over my heel and toes
and
then slip the shoe back on again. Then the same on the other side.

‘Hand them to me.'

I held my hand out behind me, still staring straight ahead through the glass. I wasn't sure what he was going to do next.

‘Give me your hands.'

He hadn't specifically said that I should hold my hands behind my back, but that's what I did, because Dominik always meant exactly what he said, and if he had wanted me to turn round, he would have either told me so or spun me to face him. So I stood with my legs spread, facing the window, my shoulders twisted back in my sockets, chest forward and arms straight and stiff, my hands clasped in the prayer position with my thumbs facing my butt.

The hold-ups made a surprisingly efficient pair of handcuffs despite the stretch in the light fabric. He used both, tying my hands with two elaborate loops, joined snugly at the wrists so my circulation wasn't hindered, but even if I wriggled, I couldn't engineer my way free. I suppose I could have got out of it if I really tried, but escaping didn't appeal to me. I liked the idea of being subject to Dominik's will, a prisoner of my own choosing, to do what he wanted with.

He put his hands on my shoulders and turned me to face him. The ache in my feet following the endless high-heeled walk to downtown was becoming pleasant now, a sharp, exhilarating reminder that I had given my body to Dominik to use and therefore any sensation that I had was because he wanted it.

It had occurred to me before that if I could apply this mindset to other parts of my life, there'd be nothing I
couldn't
achieve. Once started, I was like a train on its tracks, headed straight for whatever outcome awaited me with total disregard to any discomfort of the journey. Submission wasn't something that I could apply wherever and whenever I willed it, however. I needed a trigger. When I was growing up, I had my violin teacher, Mr van der Vliet, who had never laid a finger on me in any way other than as a teacher to a student, but for some inexplicable reason I had felt so bound to please him that I practised far beyond the norm. Now it was Dominik who commanded the same power over me, albeit because I had granted that power to him.