The Polka Dot Nude (3 page)

“I’m ready and waiting.” My stomach emitted an audible growl to confirm it.

He drew my chair before putting dinner on a table heater. But before he put the dinner on, he had to remove the plates, which had been warming. I didn’t have to turn one over to know they were Wedgwood or Minton. The aperitif wine was replaced by a Médoc, which he explained used the same grapes as the former. Nonetheless, the Médoc had to be served in fresh glasses. I bet he was wishing he’d brought along his dish washer.

“This Médoc is more subtle,” he decided, after tasting it. “I like a laid-back wine with dinner.”

Before he went off on another wine spiel, I said, “You’ve done wonders with the cottage.”

“Not much so far, but I’ll soon make it decent. I’m having a rug and a few things sent from my apartment. ‘Gathering my creature comforts around me,’ as Byron said.”

“I’ve decided to try an ascetic work space for the summer. No distractions.”

“Luxury never distracts me, but then I didn’t come to work, as you did. Rosalie Hart’s biography, I think you said?”

I nodded till I had swallowed a truly divine chunk of beef, tender and permeated with spices. “It’s hard to believe she’s still alive. She’s over eighty, but still active. You wouldn’t believe the stuff in her diaries and letters. She knew everyone. I’m half-afraid to use some of the material. I mean the families are still
very
influential—presidents, ambassadors, industrialists, you name it.”

“They say if the past is scarlet, the book will be read. Is this American families you’re talking about?”

“Some of them, but she spent a lot of time in Europe, too. Oh, crowned heads! She knew all the playboy princes."

“It sounds fascinating. Could I have a peek at the research sometime? As I said, I’m probably her number one fan.” The melting glow in his eyes hinted there was room for a younger lady in his life.

“I don’t see why not, if you’re very careful. I’m using the original manuscripts. The ink’s so faded it didn’t photocopy very well. Her story will all be public knowledge soon. Of course I wouldn’t want you broadcasting secrets to your colleagues. Till the book is out, we want to keep all the goodies secret.”

“I’ll be the soul of discretion. How did you come to get into ghostwriting, Audrey? Don’t you find it restricting? The creative impulse would have to be severely stifled, I imagine.”

“Not at all! Of course it’s different from writing fiction. I can’t change the story if I don’t like it, but then in your academic writing, you’re held to another person’s work too, aren’t you?”

“Critical analyses are interpretive work,” he explained. “Fiction would be amusing, creating characters and plots to elucidate important themes, but just to tell another person’s story . . . You must have a very small ego, Audrey.”

My hackles began to lift. “Not as large as some. I’ve never cultivated a bloated ego.”

“Ego is just another word for self. If there’s a lot of self to be accommodated . . .“ He hunched his shoulders.

This oblique comment on the insignificant stature of my ego cut me to the quick. I would
not
argue with him! I was having a superb dinner with a handsome, intelligent man, and I would gush if it killed me. “This is a wonderful dish,” I gushed, and dipped a crusty French bread into the last of the sauce.

It worked. He stopped bragging and smiled. “I enjoy puttering around the kitchen. I don’t know why women despise it. I’m afraid dessert is only fresh strawberries and clotted cream, but I can vouch for the coffee. I have it specially blended.”

Every berry was a ruby jewel. There wasn’t a white-centered, sour one in the lot. The coffee was perfect too, deep and mellow with no bitter aftertaste. We took it to the sofa and relaxed against the velvet cushions. I felt like the queen of the harem, but a tiny suspicion was sprouting that my companion was no sultan. When a man is so actively interested in interior decorating and cooking, there’s a tendency to check the firmness of his wrists.

“Now I’ll allow myself the luxury of a cigarette,” he decided, and helped himself from the silver box on the table. “A little Cointreau with your coffee?” The wrist lifting the Cointreau looked firm enough.

“I’m sated.”

“Oh, sorry!”

“No, I meant it as a compliment!”

“You mean you’re replete. I was afraid I’d stuffed you past comfort.”

What I take to less kindly than anything else is having my grammar and/or vocabulary corrected, especially when I’m wrong. “Actually I meant sated, but it’s not your fault I stuffed myself. I feel like a Strasbourg goose.”

He smiled forgivingly. “I should have known a writer would say what she meant. I’ll skip the Cointreau and have it later for a sleeping draft. When can I have a look at Rosalie’s diaries?”

“Any time you want. I can get some now if . . ."

He held me down by putting a hand on my arm, and melted me with an intimate smile. “I’m not in that big a rush. I’d prefer to get better acquainted with you tonight, and meet Rosalie tomorrow.”

I ransacked my brain for something interesting to say, but I’d shot my bolt in bragging about Rosalie’s biography.

“Where are you from?” he prodded.

The smoke from our cigarettes mingled in the air above us. Candlelight, the exotic surroundings, and especially the model-perfect man beside me created an aura of romantic unreality, as ephemeral as the smoke above. The last thing I wanted to do was drag in reality. In less than two minutes I sketched the history of my life. Born and raised in Brooklyn; university; and the remove to the East Side of New York, where I’d got a precarious foot in the door of publishing. It didn’t take much of an ego to hold my story, or my “self.”

Brad made a more interesting tale of his boyhood exploits in Ireland, his graduation from Dublin University (with a double first), to the English publication of his first critical work, which got picked up in the States, where it caused some stir in literary circles. This led to an offer of a teaching post, so he’d picked up and come to the States.

“I have a copy of my book here. Since you’re interested in modern poetry, you might want to look through it,” he said, and went to a bookcase.

He handed me a slim volume bound in morocco leather with gold trim.
The Art of Eliot
, it was called. A quick flip through showed me such intimidating and pretentious words as
prelapsarian
,
specious
good
, and
coercive evil
. “It looks fascinating. Thanks,” I said, and slid it in my bag.

“I haven’t scratched the surface of
The Waste Land
,” he admitted. “This was my first attempt at literary criticism. I’ve gained more mature insights since then. Maybe I’ll start to analyze them this summer, while you type Rosalie’s biography.”

He would engage in his deep, cerebral, serious work, while I typed. The man was insufferable! “Actually I have to write it, before it can be typed up. Since you’re so fastidious about words, I just mention it.” The voice in which I mentioned it was waspish, but he didn’t take offense. He was too busy preparing more insults.

“A slip of the tongue. I’d be happy to look over your work before you submit it, if you like,” he offered. “If it’s well written, the book clubs might take it up. There should be a serious theme in Rosalie’s life. The legendry of the American dream—the sort of thing Fitzgerald handled so well in fiction, and so abominably in practice.”

I counted to ten, and should have gone on counting till I simmered down, but the silence was stretching noticeably. “The rags-to-riches-to-ruin theme is pretty well worn by now. I wouldn’t dream of wasting your valuable time. The public won’t be looking for philosophy when they buy this book. They already know the story; they want the intimate details.”

“Of course, a sort of long gossip column.” He nodded patronizingly. “You don’t want a literary critic getting his heavy hands on a work of light entertainment. It was just an idea.”

I opened my mouth to remind him that critics were lice on the locks of literature, when he spoke up to subdue my hackles. “To be honest, it was an excuse to see more of you.'

A frank, warm smile creased his beautiful wrinkles. My resentment vanished like dew in the noonday sun, leaving hardly a trace. Here I thought I’d been making a terrible impression on him. That he’d made a terrible one on me was beside the point. “I’ll be pretty busy, but I’m sure we can work something out.”

“I know how hard you’ll be working, that’s why I was trying to find an excuse to hang around. It was a dumb, arrogant thing for me to say to an established writer like you. Blame it on my profession. Once a teacher, you know . . . But you won’t be working day and night, I hope?”

“I only work during the day.”

“That leaves us the best time—the nights.” The warmth had suddenly escalated to sultry, suggestive heat. His eyes looked ready to let off steam. “It was incredible luck, finding such a beautiful, intelligent neighbor. The luck of the Irish, downright serendipitous,” he said softly, and squeezed my fingers.

“Same here.” I agreed enthusiastically. “I thought I’d be stuck with old Simcoe for company. He barges in about ten times a day to see if I’ve broken any of his cracked dishes, or marked his Woolworth antiques. He’s quite a character.” A look of surprise, or impatience, on Brad’s face made me realize I had just botched a romantic opening.

“Yeah, I—you should put him in one of your books.” He laughed and clapped his forehead with the heel of his palm. “Stupid of me. You don’t do fiction, of course. See how you’ve rattled my poor old brains?”

“We’ll blame it on the Château de—whatever. It’s made me a bit sleepy.”

He peered at his Rolex. “It’s not late.”

“I’m planning to do a little research before I go to bed.”

“But the nights were supposed to be reserved for us!”

“I’m sure you have things to do—settle into your new digs.”

“I still have some unpacking to do, and I’ve got a good book to keep me company too.
The Logic of Scientific Discovery,
by Karl Popper. Terrific book. Have you read it?”

I’d never even heard of it. “I don’t read much in the scientific line.”

He blinked in confusion. “It’s philosophy.”

“Oh,
that
Popper.”

“I’ll lend it to you when I’ve finished. Don’t pay any attention to my margin jottings. You’ll love the book.”

While he went to his desk to get it, I strolled to the bookcase. The weighty tomes resting there aroused all my old feelings of inferiority. Philosophy, essays, poetry, with a sprinkling of modern paperbacks. Looking more closely, I noticed a dozen or so by Madison Gantry, a popular writer of men’s racy detective fiction.

Brad suddenly hovered at my shoulder. “Escape reading,” he explained. “There’s a little more to them than the sitcoms on TV at least. Gantry isn’t quite as illiterate as most of the escape writers. Have you ever read him at all?”

“No, my brand of escape is romance. I like Rosalie Wildewood a lot.”

“Try this one—I think you’ll like it.” He banded me a Gantry.

I stuffed it in my purse with the book on Eliot. “I’ll leave you to Popper. See you tomorrow.”

 “I’ll walk you home,” he offered.

It hardly seemed necessary, but I’d left the lights off and the door unlocked, so I was glad for the company. “I’ll go in and wait till you have a look around,” he said.

“I don’t suppose they have many muggers here in the country.”

“They have raccoons, skunks, and other undesirable critters.”

He came in and waited while I turned on the lights and looked around. He strolled to the table and took a diary from my box of research material. “Mind if I take this home with me? I’ll bring it back tomorrow.”

I looked to see it wasn’t a book I needed right away, and told him to take it. “But don’t lose it. I have to give all this stuff back to Rosalie.”

“I’ll be careful.” At the doorway, he stopped and turned around. “Thanks again,” he said, looking at the diary.

“Thank you for the feast.”

After a thirty-second silent pause, during which he looked a question at me, and I apparently gave approval, he drew me into his arms. Even in heels, I had the luxury of reaching up to put my arms lightly around him. His head came down and stopped two inches above mine. “Did I happen to tell you, you’re sensational?” he asked softly.

“It must have slipped your mind,” I murmured.

“Not for one minute,” he said, and kissed me.

I hadn’t realized he was so strong till I felt his arms crushing the breath from my lungs, shaping my body to his. Warm fingers moved over my back, their heat passing through my light silk blouse. Brad kissed the way he cooked—
au
point
. Just the right amount of enthusiasm and pressure to show it was more than a formality, without overwhelming me. The ingredients were right, too; a woodsy scent hovered discreetly around him at this close range. His lips firmed, and a palpable excitement spiced with a soupçon of passion swelled between us. It was a natural chemistry, which took its course, simmering long enough to leave me breathless. I knew in my melting bones that I could easily lose my head over this man.

His index finger stroked my cheek in a delightfully possessive and familiar way. He said, “See you tomorrow. Sleep tight.”

I drifted into the living room on a cloud. I had just spent the evening with a tall, literate, heterosexual male older than twenty and younger than sixty. A man who didn’t consider kissing one of the martial arts. How had I gotten so lucky? He was interesting, handsome, even rich. And he liked me. He thought I was intelligent and beautiful. He thought I was sensational. Nobody ever called me “sensational” before in my whole life. When I stopped in front of the mirror over the sofa, I looked almost beautiful. There was a dreamy smile on my lips, and stars in my eyes.

It would be intellectually stimulating to see him. Philosophy and real literature—I used to be interested in those things when I was at college. I foresaw a wonderful summer of rewarding work and pleasant diversion, culminating in— Now be real. Keep one moccasin on the ground. Culminating in the completed biography of Rosalie, and some more money.