Eighty Days Blue (36 page)

As the saleswoman packed our purchases into a discreet bag, I could almost hear the sound of Dominik's mocking laughter ringing in my ears.

That night, I tied Simón's wrists and ankles to the bedposts. His eyes glazed over and he purred as though all of his Christmases had come at once. I stared at the wall over the headboard as I rode him and wondered for the millionth time what it was that I truly wanted. I closed my eyes and played with myself, drumming up a flood of images in my head. Dominik appeared in all of them, but despite that, I didn't orgasm.

Simón fell asleep with the restraints still on him minutes after he came. I untied him gently and moved his limbs together so that I could slide into bed alongside him.

Sleep evaded me like a thief in the night.

I got up quietly and pulled my case out of the hallway wardrobe. I had left the length of rope in one of the zip pockets, the only place I could think of that Simón wouldn't come across it by accident. I put the case back and then went into the bathroom with the rope and a bottle of lubricant.

Simón was a heavy sleeper, but I turned the water on anyway to drown out the soft sound of my masturbating. I could see myself in the mirror as I did so, the rope pressed firmly against my throat.

I was not suicidal in the slightest, nor seeking self-harm. I never pulled it so tight that it might do any damage, even temporarily, but that gentle restriction of my breathing heightened my arousal enough to make me orgasm within minutes.

How I wished it were Dominik's hand that did it instead of a noose round my neck.

Dominik took the subway back to Spring Street. The moment he opened the door to the loft, he knew Summer had been there in his brief absence. The smell of her perfume hung faintly in the air, and her row of shoes no longer crowded the minimalist line of the corridor wall that led into the apartment's main living space.

The violin had gone, and she had, no doubt in a rush, also taken all her clothes. She'd forgotten her toothbrush, some make-up, an assortment of cream and shampoo bottles and tubes, and the old strip of probably out-of-date birth-control pills that had been lingering in the bathroom while she had been touring Australia and New Zealand, like a bequest to him, something to remember her by.

Not even a note.

Even though this didn't come as a surprise, Dominik's heart dropped.

It brought a sense of closure to their relationship.

For the following two days he stayed in, neglecting his minor duties at the library, unable to concentrate on much, let alone researching or writing. He was fearful that any time the door buzzer went off it would be Victor, or the police. Even if Victor didn't bring charges, there was a chance a passer-by had witnessed his attack. He knew that the assault would have looked overly violent, and if someone saw it and told the police, they might choose to arrest him.

By Saturday morning, he'd reached a decision. He packed his stuff, sent a series of apologetic emails, resigning from his fellowship and offering to reimburse any monies he had already been paid to the real-estate company who owned the loft. He took a yellow cab to JFK, knowing that hiring his customary limo service would leave a record of his movements. Here, he booked himself on the first available overnight flight to London.

Hampstead was still asleep in the early hours of Sunday as he alighted from the taxi, searched for his house keys at the bottom of his carry-on bag and opened the door to his house. The heath, in the distance, was greener than ever, a particular shade of green that somehow only belonged to English climes. Now holding his luggage in both hands, he gave the door a gentle kick and the dry odour of his books reached him like a wave of welcome.

He was home.

Two months went by. Time for Dominik to regroup. He agreed with the university to extend his sabbatical for a further two terms and gradually fell into a steady writing routine. He woke, as he always did, early every morning before first light, hammered out a required amount of words on the novel and then allowed himself to relax in the afternoon, reading, catching up on DVDs or walking the heath if the English weather didn't conspire against him.

Of course, Summer was still on his mind and not a day would go by without painful memories as well as joyful ones piercing the mask of his enforced emotional silence. As he trod the damp grass of the heath, he couldn't help recalling
the
sight of Summer making her way across it, towards the bandstand where she had played for him privately for the first time. It now felt like a lifetime ago. He knew it was inevitable and there was no point in fighting it. He just had to accept these bittersweet feelings and survive them as best he could. Maybe time would bring a measure of solace, but he wasn't betting on it.

Having manoeuvred himself one late-winter day into something of a corner with a particular character in the book not behaving as he had expected, which required him to tear up a whole chapter and rejig an important section so that the diverse protagonists' psychological motivations made better sense, he was feeling both drained and aimless when the doorbell rang.

He was wearing his dressing gown and hadn't shaved for four days. He buckled the belt tight round his middle and made his way downstairs. Probably the postman with a late delivery, he reckoned.

It was beginning to rain quite hard outside, he noted, as he passed the landing window, and the bell rang again, more insistent this time. The house's porch afforded no protection from the elements.

He took the latch off, slid the key in the top lock and unlocked the front door.

‘Hey!'

‘Oh . . .'

Lauralynn stood there, holding a newspaper above her blonde hair in a vain attempt to keep herself out of the rain. She was soaked, her thin T-shirt clinging to her generous curves.

She was anything but her customary seductive self, all bedraggled from having travelled through the pelting
showers
, but her aura of sexiness was unavoidable. How could it not be?

‘Won't you invite a wet girl in?' she asked, a faint smile on her full lips.

‘Of course.' Dominik opened the door wide and ushered her in. ‘This is a surprise, but it's great to see you. Excuse my dishevelled appearance. I wasn't expecting anyone.'

Lauralynn shook her head, a thin cascade of water drops flying in every direction. ‘I don't think I'm looking much better,' she remarked. ‘Pouring rain can do that to you. It began pelting down the moment I left the Tube station. You took a hell of a long time to open the door. Didn't you hear me? There were lights on, so I knew you were in.'

‘I was in the upstairs study. Probably didn't hear the bell first time.'

She wore a pair of skin-tight black jeans and her usual black leather jacket over a white T-shirt.

Dominik guided her to the kitchen. ‘Need something to warm you up?' he suggested.

‘Absolutely. Some piping-hot beverage of your choice if you can manage it, to be followed in rapid succession by something stronger. I know you don't drink, but I know you're sophisticated enough to have a bottle or two stored away somewhere, no?'

‘You know me well.' He switched the electric kettle on and searched one of the cabinets for a jar of instant coffee.

‘Instant?' Lauralynn remarked. ‘I would have expected a sleek and shiny espresso machine at the very least.'

‘Sorry to disappoint.'

She'd been back in London for ten days already, she explained. The Yale maternity-cover contract had come to
an
end and she had been offered a further six-month extension, but being stuck in the suburbs didn't suit her. She was too much of a big-city animal. Had it been New York, she would have gladly remained in America, but she had been growing tired of having to watch the clock and rush for the last train to New Haven from Grand Central whenever she'd gone roaming in Manhattan.

‘You left in a hell of a hurry,' she later said as they sat down sipping their coffees.

‘I know.'

They exchanged knowing glances.

‘Victor is all right,' she said. ‘Not that you asked,' she added.

‘I didn't.'

‘You broke his nose.'

‘Cheap at the price.'

‘Didn't think you had it in you, Dominik.'

‘You'd be surprised.'

‘He's also left New York by now. I heard he took up a position at the university in Kiev. The green, green grass of home and all that . . .'

‘I'll know to avoid Ukraine in the future.'

‘I believe that would be wise,' Lauralynn concluded.

‘So what are your London plans, then?' he asked her.

‘Nothing much. I've a bit of money saved. In no rush to do much really.'

‘Where are you staying?'

‘I'm crashing on some friends' sofa in Camden Town. I'll soon have outstayed my welcome, though.'

‘Still have your sleeping bag all rolled up and ready to go?'

‘Of course. Have sleeping bag, will travel.'

‘This is a big house. There is still some space between all the books, I guess, corners where a sleeping bag could fit in.'

‘Is that an invitation?'

‘The nearest I'll get to one,' Dominik said.

‘In that case, I accept, Professor.'

‘It'll be nice to have some company. There was a time when I was comfortable on my own, but things have changed. It was good with Summer while it lasted, but I messed it up.'

‘I think the problem was that you never knew what exactly you wanted, Dominik.'

‘You can say that again.'

‘I think what you need is a teacher.'

‘Do I? That would be an interesting reversal of roles, no?'

‘Want me?'

What did Lauralynn mean?

She noted his puzzlement. ‘You might know a lot about books and other arcane stuff, but there are many other things I could teach you, Dominik, about women, lust, control, what makes people tick.'

‘Is that an invitation?' Dominik smiled.

‘And the lessons come free. With bonuses along the way.'

Dominik remembered the threesome with Miranda and knew exactly what the canny Lauralynn had in mind.

‘Where do I enrol?' he asked.

‘Right now,' she said. ‘So where do you hide your booze?'

Life went on, as it always does.

Eighteen months or so went by in a flash, time swept
away
in the peaceful flow of life with Simón and my music career.

I'd been out of town for a couple of weeks, playing gigs in Memphis and Charleston. Being on the road is like travelling in a cocoon, and I liked it that way, mistress of my own universe. It made a nice change from having to explain myself to Simón every time I wanted to do anything without him, even if it was just a walk to the corner store. I never even switched the TV on in my hotel rooms – just read trashy novels or listened to music, sometimes simply sat in silence and stared at a blank wall. The apocalypse could have come and gone and I never would have known about it. I didn't give a damn about the daily news.

I ran every day when I was on tour. It was my way of making friends with a new city, taking in the sights and smells, ignoring the tourist trails and exploring the depths of suburbia instead. People were much more interesting than museums, anyway.

When I was back in Manhattan for just a few days, I took advantage of my familiarity with the shopping scene to buy a new pair of running shoes. I'd blown the toes out of mine, a fact that gave me no small thrill of satisfaction. I prefer my shoes worn in – they just don't look right brand new – but I'd run all the cushion out of them and had no wish to turn an ankle, so I took the subway to Union Square, with a view to visiting the cluster of shoe shops on Broadway, both north and south of Astor Place.

The spring crowds were out in force, darting in and out of stores as if shopping was about to go out of fashion. After the relative seclusion of lonely hotel rooms, the pushing and shoving and queues for the service assistants to
fetch
the other half of the display pairs quickly got on my nerves.

Maybe I would get more peace south of Houston, where the shops were decidedly more upmarket and the crowds thinner and less frantic. It wasn't as if I didn't have the money to splash out a bit extra, and as a bonus, I'd pass one of my favourite ice-cream parlours on the way. I hadn't had pistachio ice cream since I was in Europe and I suddenly had a craving for it.

I crossed the street at the first set of traffic lights.

The window of Shakespeare & Co. greeted me as I reached the opposite pavement. It was one of the last remaining independent bookstores in the city and somewhere that Dominik had always liked to visit. He spent his time there while I went shopping at the nearby clothes stores and never seemed to mind how long I spent trying on dresses or shoes. He would have happily stayed and browsed the shelves all night if the staff had let him.

The window was its usual busy mess of volumes in all sizes and colours. I had wondered if Dominik had liked the place so much because it reminded him of the shelves in his own house, no order of any sort.

I was about to continue my trek down Broadway when the image of a violin on the cover of a book at the far end of the window caught my eye. I slowed down and peered through the glass.

I stopped in my tracks, frozen in shock, shoppers jostling me from both sides. A strapline across the cover stated it had been a bestseller in the UK, but all I could focus on was Dominik's name emblazoned on the cover like a brand and a photo-like illustration of a violin. He had finished his manuscript, then, and managed to find a publisher.

I walked in and found a pile of his books on the new-fiction table at the front of the shop. I picked up a copy in the way that I might approach a hot plate on the stove. Tentatively.

I opened it, turned past the title page. There was a dedication:

To S
.