London Broil (2 page)

"But you always
get white wine."

"Well, ask George
what he thinks would go with aubergine, and if he says red,
please bring me a glass of the Cabernet Sauvignon. And if he
says white, then the Chardonnay."

As they
conferred, the man she liked to watch was being shown to the
next table on her side of the aisle; his companion was the
elegant woman with the chignon, again in a suit and heels. Even
in heels, she was not as tall as he. He must be a few inches
over six feet, she decided. They sat down, and the woman's back
was to her. She turned her attention to her book and her meal.
The peppery eggplant was delicious, blended with yogurt to a
creamy consistency, and garnished with toasted walnuts. She
concluded that the Cabernet was a good match for the dish, and
pondered an entrée. She ought to continue with another red, but
what other vegetable dish would be a good match? As she tried to
recall the possibilities from the menu, she heard the woman at
the next table say in an irritated voice, "James, you know I
can't do that. Why do you keep asking me?"

A cellphone went
off and she quickly averted her eyes as the woman leaned over to
retrieve it from her bag.

"Hello? What?
Right, I'll be there in twenty minutes. I can cut my dinner
short. I'm sorry, James, but I don't have time for this, and
frankly, I don't have time for you. I have to go."

As a few of the
other diners glanced over, the blonde picked up her bag and
stalked off. He made a pretense of getting up when she did, then
sank back into his chair. His first look of surprise had given
way to an expression of almost comical resignation. Now they
were facing each other, with only the two empty seats between
them. His eyes fell on hers, and without any thought or
hesitation, she smiled wryly and raised her glass to him, then
put it to her lips and took a generous mouthful.

After a moment,
he rose and stepped over to the chair opposite her. He was
wearing a dressier suit than usual, dark navy with a white shirt
and a burgundy-colored paisley tie. He had that slight paunch
that fit men of a certain age get unless they are very athletic,
or fastidious dieters. He is neither of those, she thought. It's
a silverback thing, a sign of maturity. How unfair that older
men can look attractive even with fat, whereas older women
cannot. In order to maintain her figure, she had to limit her
intake of food on the non-restaurant days of the week.

"Perhaps it's
time we met," he said. "Since you're drinking a red tonight, I
wonder if you'd like to share the rest of my bottle. It's barely
been touched-- an Australian GSM blend." Something in his tone
told her that he had observed her habitual preference for white
wines.

"I'd be
delighted," she said. "Thank you. It's true I don't often drink
reds. GSM's... aren't those similar to the Rhône reds?" Be
careful, she said to herself. You've already had one glass. Let
him drink most of it.

As he leaned over
to retrieve the bottle and his glass, she rose and pointing to
the seat he was about to take, said, "I'll sit there. You sit
facing the front." She quickly slid into the chair, brushing
past him and inhaling his scent, which was warm spice mingled
with tobacco. She pulled her plate and flatware across the table
toward herself, and then leaned over to draw her purse from
under the table and slip her book and reading glasses into it.
As she looked up at him, still standing beside her chair, he
raised one brow slightly, and then nodded. After arranging the
wine, he settled in the chair opposite and put one hand up to
loosen his tie. He refilled his glass, took a drink (holding the
glass by the stem, she noted with approval), and there was a
moment of silence while they assessed one another.

The bustle of
moving had attracted the attention of Babur, who arrived with an
unhappy look on his face. "I'm sorry about the trouble, Babur,"
she said, adding firmly, "we're going to finish the meal
together." And to him she said, "Did you already order your
food?"

"Yes, beef
qorma
and sesame
naan
."

"All right.
Babur, would you please bring me some
sabzi
?" As the server
left, she returned her attention to her new dinner partner, and
thought, I can't believe he is sitting with me. How strange, and
how delicious.

"American, are
you?" he said. "Why do you come here so often, and what shall I
call you?"

He was
surprisingly direct for an Englishman, almost rude, she thought,
but answered calmly, "My name is Laura, and I come here because
I like the food. I've been eating here every Friday."

"Yes, I know," he
replied. "You usually come alone. That lanky bloke with the
glasses, is he your boyfriend?"

She paused, and
then said smiling, "I don't see that it's any business of yours,
but no, he is not my boyfriend."

"Live around
here, I suppose?"

Instead of
answering the question, she said, "May I ask your name, and why
you
come here so
often?" With so many different women, it was on the tip of her
tongue to add, but she didn't.

He put out his
hand and said, "James Whelan. I work near here. At the
London Herald
."
Grasping his hand, she gave it a firm squeeze and a shake,
trying to ignore how warm it felt. So he was a journalist after
all. That made sense; probably some of the people he brought
here were those he worked with. The red-haired woman in the
pantsuit, definitely, and the man. But she was not so certain
about the others.

"A journalist.
That explains why you ask a lot of direct questions," she said.
"I can't make anything of your accent. Are you a London native?"
She finished her glass of wine and he quickly poured her some of
the GSM.

"Oh no, Ireland,
though I don't have much Irish left in my speech. Belfast. I've
not lived there for many years." He frowned slightly as he said
this, causing two little lines to deepen between his brows. She
wondered whether he'd been affected by the Troubles. If he was
in his fifties, he would have been a young man during some of
the worst days in the seventies. It might be a sensitive
subject.

Babur arrived
with their food, deposited it, and left, still radiating
disapproval. Whelan looked after him, grinning, and then turned
to her.

"I believe our
mutual friend Babur is concerned for your virtue."

"He needn't be,"
she replied lightly, sounding more confident than she felt, and
trying to hold his gaze. She realized that his eyes were hazel,
mostly brown but with a slight tint of green.

"I'm wounded," he
responded in the same tone, adding, "Am I as unattractive as all
that? I must be getting old." Rascal, she thought. You know very
well how good looking you are.

"No, it's just
that... you seem to be well supplied with female friends
already. Adding another one could dangerously tax the strength
of a man your age."

He chuckled and
raised his glass. "I see. You're really twisting the knife now."

"Well, then,
let's say instead that when I'm sleeping with a man, I like to
have his full attention."

"You've certainly
got mine now," he said, sitting up straighter and then leaning
toward her with an exaggerated leer.

She felt her
cheeks burning. How could I have said something so crude? she
thought, and then: my face must be bright red.

After a few
moments, he slowly said, "Did you know that when you blush, the
color travels all the way down your neck?" His gaze slid down to
her chest and back up to her face. She was wearing a silky brown
top with a deep V-neck, and a simple strand of faceted,
colorless crystal beads. It was true; once she had looked in the
mirror after a particularly trying faculty meeting, only to see
that there were blotches of pink on her neck and chest. Now she
only shook her head, speechless.

"Have some
water," he said then.

She took a drink
of the water, then set it down. "Sorry. I'm not used to
flirtatious conversations with men. I spend most of my time with
books, but I can see I've been missing out on a great deal."

"What do you
do?" he asked.

"I teach English
at a university in Pennsylvania."

"Pennsylvania?
I've been to Philadelphia, once. And New York City, of course."
As they ate, they talked about travel and Americans visiting
Britain, and the British and Irish visiting America, and his
acquaintances at the
New
York Times
and the
Daily
News
, and she felt the flames on her face and chest begin
to recede. He asked about the reason for her visit.

"I'm here on a
research leave. I study the libraries of British writers. Right
now, I'm trying to gather information on eighteenth-century
authors."

"Ah, that
explains it. I thought you looked a bit like a librarian. A
couple of times, you wore a white blouse with a cardigan. Put me
in mind of the librarian in my grammar school."

So he had noticed
her. She set this aside to ponder later, and replied coolly,
"Yes, I brought only my dowdiest clothing on this trip. Dressing
like a librarian tends to prevent unwanted advances from strange
men. Usually, that is."

He smiled. "Ah,
but your strategy is all wrong," he said, and leaned forward
conspiratorially. "A naughty librarian is like catmint for men
in London."

She laughed at
the absurdity of the exchange, but also with the pleasure of it.
Here she was, conducting a flirtation with a virtual stranger.
This had to be very tame stuff by some people's standards, but
to her it was exciting. He was exciting, she corrected herself.
She couldn't imagine having this conversation with any other man
she knew.

"And the
librarian in your grammar school. Was she naughty?"

"Very."

Eventually Babur
brought two checks, without asking whether they wanted dessert.
"If you live near here, may I walk you to your flat?" he said
casually as they dealt with the payment (she leaving an extra
large tip for Babur).

"I'd like that,"
she said, thinking about the wine she had consumed. It was late,
and she would be glad to have the company on the walk home. On
the other hand, she thought, I have few inhibitions left. What
if he asks to come in?

As they left, he
smoothly placed his hand at the small of her back, as though to
guide her toward the door. On the street, he took her hand and
tucked it under his arm, and they set off in the direction of
her flat.

"My wicked,
wicked ways are not as degenerate as you think," he said. "One
of the lasses you saw me with is my daughter Claire," --here he
seemed to be trying to recall whom he might have brought to the
restaurant-- "one works under me in the crime section of the
Herald
, and one is my
ex-wife. She's now a DCS with the Metropolitan Police."

She nodded, but
said nothing as she absorbed this information. His daughter was
perhaps the dark-haired young woman who held her wine glass by
the bowl. The blonde with the chignon was certainly his ex-wife.
What favor could he have been asking tonight? There had been
scandals recently involving unsavory ties between journalists
and the police in Britain. And his ex-wife was a DCS-- what rank
in the police was that?

They talked a bit
about Claire, who was twenty, an aspiring journalist and one of
a pair of twin girls. He seemed proud of her, though unsure
whether he wanted her to take up crime reporting. "It can be
dangerous," he said. "And journalists are less than popular
here. In the States, you have a much higher opinion of them than
we do." She silently agreed. In America, people still thought of
Woodward and Bernstein, or Erin Brockovitch, when journalists
were mentioned. But in Britain, one thought of phone hacking and
poor dead Diana.

They reached her
door and paused, facing each other. She looked up at him, noting
the fine, pelt-like texture of his dark hair, and feeling
tempted to touch it. It was very short on the sides, and fuller
at the top. He combed it straight back, but the breeze had
ruffled it; in front a few strands had come loose and flopped
down over his forehead. His lips were not full, but shapely, and
during the dinner she had noticed that his teeth were good.
Innocent of American-style orthodontia, but pleasing enough. He
was looking down at her with a slight smile.

"Laura."

Slowly he bent
down and kissed her gently on the cheek. He paused, and then
moved his mouth to hers. They kissed tentatively, only their
lips touching. The kiss ended and she put both hands on his
chest, an intimate touch, yet one that kept him at a distance.
She could feel his heartbeat.

"Good night,
James," she said, and walked up the steps and through the door.

3.
Aristotle and Artichokes