London Broil (21 page)

She returned to
her flat Friday afternoon to find a small package addressed to
her in James' handwriting. Unwrapping the brown paper, and the
white tissue within, she found a vintage orange embroidered bag
with two black bakelite handles, a fringe along the bottom, and
a snap closure. There was something inside. She opened the bag
and drew out a package of very slender cigars enclosed in a
small ziploc bag. They were less than five inches long and the
label said "H. Uppman Demi Tasse." There was also a slimline,
highly polished brass zippo lighter and a tiny glass flask with
a goldtone screwtop lid, filled with an amber liquid. She
unscrewed the lid to smell it. Hennessy cognac. She felt tears
overflowing her eyes and rubbed them away.

A separate
envelope in the mailbox had no postage; he must have dropped it
off on his way to work. It contained one of James' cards with an
inked message in his neat hand:
The pleasure of your
company is requested at a fireside picnic, Saturday at 4:00.
Cocktail attire.

She skyped June,
who was having lunch at her desk, to tell her about the car park
episode and the gift.

"Holy crap.
That's the coolest present I've ever heard of! I'm going to
steal his idea and do something like that for Jillian." Jillian
was June's latest girlfriend, though Laura didn't know much
about her yet. "Even better, he knows how to kick ass," crowed
June. She was a big fan of the martial arts and took classes in
both Tae Kwon Do and kickboxing. "Kid, are you sure you can't
hang on to this guy?"

25.
Menu for a Fireside
Picnic

On Saturday
morning, Laura was in a buoyant mood, having made one last visit
to the Porteous collection to verify that the notation system in
the two volumes of Pine's Horace matched that in the missing
pages. She decided that she needed something vintage to wear to
the "fireside picnic," something that would match the
embroidered handbag from James. She already had a choker of
orange vintage glass beads that matched the bag perfectly. Her
guidebook said that Camden Stables Market had a number of
vintage shops. In the very first one, she spotted a navy
shirtwaist dress with a V-neck, not too low, a feminine gathered
skirt, short sleeves, and buttons down the front. She wasn't
certain of the date or the fabric, but it draped well and was
affordable.

As she was
taking it to the counter, the shop assistant said, "Are you
interested in lingerie? We have some full slips that would work
well under this frock." She led Laura over to a rack full of
lacy and frilly undergarments, many of which dated from the
1960s. Laura was no fan of lace, as it tended to be scratchy,
but flipping through the rack, one item caught her attention. It
was a full slip made of cream-colored nylon, and almost
transparent, with only a modest band of lace edging around the
bust and the hem. As soon as she tried it on with the dress, she
knew it was perfect.

Laura was
squeamish about buying someone else's shoes, and she knew the
shoes in Primark and Topshop would be mostly heels too high for
her to manage, so she went to the Capezio store and found a pair
of navy dancing shoes that had a vintage look, with a T-strap
and two-inch heels. They were expensive; between this and her
splurge buying the volume of Juvenal from J. Roworth, she would
have to forego several of her dinners out. By this time she felt
exhausted and hungry, having lost her way more than once while
navigating the unfamiliar shopping districts. Rather than try to
find a tea shop, she went straight back to her flat with her
treasures. She had a small box of juicy glacéed apricots that
she'd been keeping as a treat for herself; she could bring these
to James as a gift.

Later, as she
dressed and did her hair, she felt a familiar excitement, but it
was bittersweet. Her stay here would end in only two weeks. How
dull her life would be without James! Pushing this thought from
her mind, she fastened her cream-colored bra, another of her
favorite front-closure styles. It was a demibra with low cut
cups and underwires, though not a push-up. She hoped it would
give her enough lift to fill out the dress. And instead of
wearing her panties, she put them in her tote bag along with her
overnight things. Her khaki trench coat completed the look. Rain
was not expected, but she slipped an umbrella into her tote
anyway, just in case. In London, as in Pennsylvania, one never
knew.

After James
buzzed her in, she took off her trench coat and draped it over
her arm so he would see the vintage handbag set off against her
navy dress. As before, he was standing at the door to greet her,
wearing a dark suit, with a white shirt and a wine-colored,
satiny tie. He kissed her at the door and took her coat and
gift, saying "You look very fetching, Miss Livingston." He put
out a finger to touch her orange choker. "Did you like what I
sent you?"

"Oh yes. I
bought this whole outfit just to go with it, except the beads. I
already had those," she replied.

"Did you try one
of the Uppmanns?" She nodded as he put his arms around her.
"What did it taste like?"

"It smelled a
bit like cedar, and tasted like toasted nuts. And with the
cognac, it was heavenly. The smoke had a creamy quality to it. "

"Like a creamy
dairy product?" he asked, smiling. As she bent to remove her
shoes, he said, "No, you can leave those on for now. This way,"
and putting on a pair of dark Raybans in an aviator style, he
guided her over to the fireplace, his hand in the small of her
back. It was a sunny day and bright light was streaming through
the three skylights and the windows, but not bright enough to
require shades. "What are those for?" she asked.

He grinned and
said, "My picnic fantasy. Tonight you're going to indulge me by
disrobing in front of the fire. Would you like a kir royale?" He
pointed to an ice bucket with a waiting bottle of Champagne, a
Moët, but she couldn't see which kind. Before the fireplace,
which had a low gas flame, he had spread several layers of
blankets, studded with cushions from the sofa and a few bed
pillows, and beneath these was the large persian rug. Nestled on
the blankets was an old fashioned wicker picnic basket. He
popped the cork on the cold Champagne, poured a drop or two from
a bottle of
crème de cassis
into each of two flutes, and
then gently tilted the Champagne into the flutes, handing her
one. She set her tote and handbag on the blankets, and walked
over to his wall of pictures, beneath the three large windows.

There was a baby
picture of his twin girls, a closeup of their grave, chubby
faces looking wonderingly into the camera. And a candid picture
of himself and Sita in evening dress. Sita was facing the camera
as a bearded, thirtyish James looked adoringly at her, his face
in three quarter view. Gods, he was ravishing at that age, she
thought. Most of the other pictures on the wall were either
abstract paintings or arty photographs. Her favorite was the
centerpiece, a large photograph. On first inspection it looked
like a desert landscape with shifting sand dunes against a
brilliant blue background, but gradually the viewer realized
that it was the body of a reclining golden woman, viewed from
behind, and larger than life size. It was in no way prurient,
but instead had a classical purity.

"I bought that
when I got my first job as a reporter. It was more than I could
afford and it took me a year to pay it off. I've never regretted
it," he said.
 
They
stepped over to the nest of blankets and she sat down, keeping
her feet off the blanket.

"Give me your
foot," said James, setting down his Champagne flute on a tray
and sinking to his knees. She extended her right foot and he
grasped it by the heel, slowly releasing the tiny tongue from
the buckle of the T-strap, then easing it from her foot and
setting it aside. His hands were massaging her foot, his
fingertips trailing up the sole. His shirt was an expensive one,
with cufflinks in a rectangular shape, set with a stone like
smoky quartz. He still had his shades on, so she couldn't see
his eyes. He reminded her of one of the President's bodyguards
at some swank diplomatic soirée. From the stereo she could hear
the sultry sounds of Illinois Jacquet playing "Harlem Nocturne."
Very sexy, agent Whelan, she thought. But I'll get those glasses
off you sooner or later. And the rest of your clothes.

Pausing to
refill her champagne flute and then reaching for the other foot,
he surprised her by saying, "You have beautiful legs." Nobody
had ever complimented her on her legs except one crusty old
professor in college, when she'd gone to his office hours in a
form-fitting knee-length skirt with heels. Since then, she'd
usually worn sensible shoes, which had the positive effect of
avoiding ugly corns and hammertoes, but did nothing for her
legs. Now James was running both hands further and further up
the sides of her calves. He drew closer to her, facing her and
stretching out his legs in the opposite direction. He
 
continued the motion,
sliding his hands back and forth, higher and higher, under her
slip and up her skirt. She sipped her Champagne calmly, leaning
back on one arm and waiting for him to discover that she was
panty-less. When his fingertips reached her bare hips, she
thought she could see his eyes widen through the Raybans. "Are
you wearing a thong?" he whispered.

She shook her
head. "Not my style. The first thing you always do is tell me to
take my knickers off, so I thought they were superfluous."

He laughed and
slid his hands back down and out from under her skirt. "How many
buttons on that frock?" he said, gesturing at the buttons that
ran down the front of her shirtwaist dress. She counted them.
"Six."

"Good. I have
six things to eat here. Every time you try one, you'll have to
pop one of your buttons."

"But you'll keep
your clothes on?"

"Yes." Opening
the picnic basket, he laid out some Greek-style mezze: fat
grapeleaves stuffed with rice; small spinach pies in phyllo
dough; pitted, dark brown Kalamata olives; cubes of marinated,
herb-laden feta cheese; and creamy hummus studded with pine nuts
and glistening with a grassy-scented olive oil. Last of all, he
unveiled and held out to her a basket of what were clearly
home-baked pita breads. In fact, they were still slightly warm.

"One button," he
said, and she put her glass down on the tray. He handed her a
slender white bread plate and a napkin. She reached up and
opened one button, then watched as James rudely loaded his own
plate with every variety of the mezze and refilled his glass,
not bothering to replenish the
crème de cassis
.
"Wouldn't you like something to eat with your bread?" he asked
in a sly tone. He was enjoying this immensely, she realized.
Doubtless he would have enjoyed staging their picnic somewhere
on the grass of Hampstead Heath or one of London's other parks,
and perhaps one could even find a private spot there, but she
couldn't imagine herself stripping down --or enjoying the other
pleasures that would come with this meal-- in a public park. She
opened two more buttons. "I'll have the hummus and the feta,
please. Could you put some of each on my plate?" And as he did,
she slipped the straps of her bra down off each shoulder, pulled
her arms through, and then drew the entire bra off through her
right sleeve.

"How did you do
that?" he asked, sounding genuinely perplexed. She only smiled
and started to eat. "The bread is good, James. Did you make
these?" He nodded. "I knew you had baking skills." Each pita,
stippled with browned spots, had started its life as a puffed
balloon in the oven and then collapsed, leaving a space for
savory fillings. "Every time I make pitas, they fail to rise."

"That I can
scarcely believe," he said playfully. "But tell me, how do you
handle the dough?"

"I follow Molly
Katzen's advice. She says there's a point during the kneading at
which you have to be very strict with dough."

"Oh no. A gentle
hand is always best. And take your knickers off first. That
should produce the desired effect." He leaned over and held a
grape leaf to her lips. "Could I tempt you with a bite of this?"

"I feel like Eve
in the garden, except I'm shedding clothes instead of putting
them on," she said, taking a bite of the briny, tangy leaf
filled with succulent rice grains. "They sewed themselves aprons
of fig leaves. I wonder what pickled fig leaves would taste
like?"

"I never liked
that story," he said. "Eating from the tree of knowledge ought
to be a good thing."

"But I liked it,
because sharing food was a metaphor for sex," she replied, as he
fed her an olive, and then another. She caught his hand in hers
and licked the oil from his fingers, then grasped his tie and
pulled him toward her for a kiss. There was something sexy about
a man's necktie, especially a fine silk one, and especially on
James. He broke away from her mouth and began to kiss her ear,
whispering, "I believe that's two more buttons you owe me. And
as for the last one, the sooner you taste my pie, the sooner
I'll be able to sample yours."

"By all means,"
she said, picking up a flaky, buttery square of phyllo stuffed
with spinach and feta. She ate it slowly and with appreciation.
Producing really flaky phyllo was another one of her problem
areas, perhaps because she wasn't generous enough with the
butter. Then she stood up and as he watched, unbuttoned the rest
of her dress and laid it aside on the ottoman, standing over him
in her see-through slip, with the fire behind her.