Chapter 17
The phone was ringing, rousing Trevor from a deep and peaceful sleep. It seemed as if he had just closed his eyes he was so tired. The light was on; he had fallen asleep and forgotten to turn it off. Wondering what time was it, he tried to clear his head and focus on the clock. It was a few minutes after seven a.m., and he rubbed his eyes, sensing but not certain that he had been in the middle of a dream about Maggie. He found the receiver and mumbled a greeting as he rolled over to see that the other side of the bed had been slept in.
“Mr. Harwood?” an American voice was asking him a question, but he was distracted, trying to smell peonies on his sheets. He found a faint odor on the pillow, and there was no mistaking Maggie’s perfume.
“Trevor Harwood here,” he said, not clearly. He was trying to find her by turning his head in circles. The bathroom was empty and the house was quiet, and he saw that her dress was gone from the floor. “I’m sorry, who is calling?”
“Did I call at a bad time?” the woman inquired. “Are you awake? Should I call back later?”
Trevor sat up, trying to shake the sleep from his head. He was positive that she had been there, but at that moment he had to presume that she had left him in the middle of the night, without a word of goodbye. “Yes, I’m awake, I’m fine,” he replied. Looking again, he could find no shoes, no deliciously seductive bits of French lingerie lying about on the floor. Even his clothes had been picked up, folded, and placed neatly on the end of the chaise longue near the windows. Ciaran had made some comment last night about her strength, and Trevor began to fear that this was an example of Maggie’s fortitude. Immediately he began to review the previous night, searching for the one thing that he might have done to make her run away.
“April Marziniak, from the Brandenburg Theatre. I hate dealing with agents so I call direct. We start rehearsals this Monday, Mr. Harwood, and I’ve sent a script overnight that you should receive today or tomorrow, I can’t figure out the time change in my head. Daniel Mason has written a new drama and I’d like you to play the lead; Tony Casorio has already signed on to play your nemesis. Tony asked for you, in fact, to play opposite him; he was very impressed with your performance on Broadway several years back. Well, you can call back after you’ve read the thing and we’ll discuss the rest of the cast. There’s no problem working with me, is there?”
“I cannot commit to anything until I’ve read the script, Miss Marziniak,” he said, every syllable one of restraint. Daniel Mason was as well known and respected as Eugene O’Neil or Arthur Miller, an artist who painted with words. To be asked to appear in his newest work, and to open at the Brandenburg Theatre, was all too impossible to believe. His mind was swimming with confusion. “After that, I will have to make a decision.”
“Bullshit, Mr. Harwood, you’ll be here the minute you can get a flight out of London. We’re set then, so I can call your agent to make final arrangements,” April concluded, firm and direct, with no nonsense in her speech or actions.
“Fine, call him and I’ll read the script as soon as it appears at my door,” he said. He longed to get off the phone and get out of the bed he had shared with Maggie for only three or four hours before she bolted.
“Oh, by the way,” April quickly added a postscript, “when you see Maggie, could you tell her that I’d rather have the black turtleneck, the cashmere and not the lambs wool. Don’t forget to tell her, I’m dying to get my hands on something from Glasgow House.”
He hung up the phone and sat on the edge of the mattress, trying to remember everything that had happened during the night, to discover the problem so that he could find Maggie and fix things between them. Dead tired still, but he did not want to crawl back into the empty bed, not when it reminded him of all that had happened the night before. He stumbled into the bathroom and turned on the water in the shower.
While he waited for the temperature to warm up, he looked in the mirror and an old man looked back. There were scratches on his left shoulder; he could remember very distinctly how they had gotten there. Last night had been the best night of his life, and he was positive that he had returned the favor, had given Maggie as much pleasure as he could, for her glowing smile was not an act and Maggie was not an actress. It could not be over, not so quickly, not so coldly.
The water ran over his head as he searched his memory. The first time had been pure bliss, but the second time he clearly recalled that he had lost control of himself completely. Looking back, he felt guilty for just running wild instead of making love. He reached for the bar of soap and sighed, admitting to himself that what he had done was more properly called rutting, a step away from an assault. There was no concern then about condoms and protection and safe sex, and after his very witty bon mot about dipping his wick. Dipping that wick in a veritable cesspool, that was the implication, and Maggie must have been furious with him.
Always saying the wrong thing when he was around her, and he tallied that as yet another fine example. If Maggie thought he was a sex-crazed old goat with a long string of lovers he would not be surprised. There had been just such an implication, when he claimed that he was concerned about exposing her to who knew what kinds of horrible diseases. She was too kind-hearted to blow up at him in the middle of everything last night, and Trevor felt grateful that she had at least waited until he was sleeping before she walked out his door. One phone call would clear up the misunderstanding, once he explained to her that he was only joking. Even if Maggie wanted more assurance than his word, he could make an appointment with his physician for a full battery of tests, anything to set her mind at ease.
Slowly, as the pulses of water beat his brain awake, the memories grew more distinct. She would never have stopped him the second time. Despite his self-centered focus on his own satisfaction and his own pleasure, he was aware that Maggie had enjoyed herself thoroughly. There was one more recollection that popped into his head. She had whispered to him, twice in fact, using such sweet sighs to tell him that she loved him. All at once it hit him, and he was ashamed of his behavior, for all he had done was to greedily consume her love, acting like a dog on a bitch in heat. Somehow or other he had even ripped her stockings, although he truly he had no recollection of how he had done that. Unlike him, to be so callous and downright rude, but the fact remained that he had said nothing, not a word before he fell asleep, and he wanted to tell her that he loved her, from the minute she laughed at him with her eyes. It was obvious to him now, as he bemoaned his oversight. Maggie had been insulted, driven away because he was too wrapped up in his own lust to show her a simple courtesy.
Trevor leaned against the glass wall of the shower stall, beating his head against his fist. “Why didn’t I tell you, Maggie, why didn’t I just admit that I love you?” he shouted into the air, resting his tired forehead against the wet glass.
“Do you drink coffee in the morning?” Maggie asked, looking awkward yet deliciously sexy. She was standing in his bathroom wearing his shirt, not knowing what was supposed to come next. “I brought this up when I heard the water running. Would you prefer tea? I wasn’t sure if Englishmen always drank tea, or if that was something from the movies.”
Staring at her with a look she did not understand, he opened the door and took the cup from her hand, carefully taking a sip of the hot liquid. This was absolutely something from a movie, where the female lead was meant to appear sophisticated and worldly, as if she were in the habit of serving coffee to wet, naked men. Her slight frown asked if she was doing it right, looking to the director for advice. It was only the first take, after all, and it was not asking too much that he cut her a little slack.
To begin with, her morning face was pretty horrendous, with a pallor that resembled the living dead until she could stroke a swath of blush across her cheekbones. Her mascara had smeared and now her eyes resembled a raccoon’s face, but with her cosmetics bag in her hotel room there was nothing she could do about it here. As for her hair, the perfectly styled crown that appeared at the party was now sticking up here and there in some bizarre ways that looked more than disheveled. None of that would matter if he focused on her lips, and the way that her mouth turned up into a lovely grin as she thought about their night together, replaying the scenes in an unedited version that was unashamedly X-rated.
The caffeine must have hit bottom, surging into his brain and jump-starting his heart. Without taking his eyes off her he put the empty cup on a shelf, not noticing the sponge that was knocked to the floor. He pulled Maggie into the shower and kissed her as he had kissed her last night. “You know I love you Maggie, I never had to tell you,” he said.
Men were said to be visual, aroused by something as insignificant as a photograph in a magazine. He created a picture last night, a man’s way of expressing things even though women liked and needed words. She accepted his inability to communicate feelings because she had been out in the world for enough years to know that men did not express themselves well, they were put together differently than women and that was actually a good thing. For his benefit, she would show him a picture that was worth the thousand words she might have used, an image that began with her eyes locked on his as her tongue slid along his belly, licking up a drop of water that rolled down from his chest. In an instant, he was grabbing hold of the doorframe to steady his wobbly legs, and she was satisfied that the message had been received, processed and unquestionably understood.
His forehead rested against hers, his eyes closed in a blankness that meant that he was, at the present, nothing more than a bundle of quivering nerve endings that were soaked in euphoric neurotransmitters and electric pulses that inhibited anything beyond just feeling marvelous. “Coffee…good,” he finally spoke, coming back to reality. “Yes, I do. In the morning. Drink coffee. Um, Maggie, do I…do I still have legs? You’ve left me a bit unsteady here.”
“Nice legs, yes.”
“Why did you get up, did I wake you, love?”
“You got me drunk, you naughty man, and I never fell asleep, I passed out. The room was spinning when I woke up so I walked around a little to clear my head,” she said, feeling silly about her overindulgence in champagne. “I tried to stay in bed, it was so nice to have you next to me. And then too I had to rinse out a few things, since I came so totally unprepared for an overnight stay.”
“This shirt looks better on you than it does on me,” he complimented her as he removed the soaked silk.
“Oh, no, Trevor, your shirt,” she gasped, “it’s ruined, I’m sorry.”
“My dear, I could never wear that in public again after this morning without being embarrassingly aroused,” he replied. The water was growing cold as he turned off the tap. Reaching across to the rack that stood near the vanity, he picked up a towel and wrapped her in soft, warm cotton before drying off himself. He lifted a bathrobe from the hook behind the door and slipped it over her shoulders, tying it jauntily around her waist. She sat on the bed while he dressed, making conversation about last night’s party in a way that reminded Maggie of an old married couple.
With his arm around her waist he led her downstairs to the kitchen, saying, “I missed the pasta last night, so now you have an opportunity to make up for it. What are you making me for breakfast?”
Free to poke around and explore the perfectly appointed kitchen, she set out her ingredients on the cooking island while her audience of one sat at the counter facing her. Putting on a cooking show, Maggie lined up slices of bread left over from last night’s party, some eggs from the refrigerator, and a bottle of brandy from the bar. While she whipped up eggs and sugar with a splash of orange juice, they interviewed one another, in a way, because they knew almost nothing about each other. Trevor watched her cooking while sipping his coffee; Maggie was at center stage and he was her most enthusiastic fan.
“Your friend April called this morning,” he began, but his nonchalance was too strained to be credible. “She wants you to get the black cashmere. Say, is she a long time friend?”
“April Marziniak? She was my cousin Theresa’s roommate in college, but they were friends in high school before that. How did she know I was here?” Maggie asked as she dipped the bread in the egg batter.
“I, um, left the number at the hotel in case you were needed overnight. I cancelled your car,” he said with a sly grin, feeling perfectly comfortable with what he had done. She was about to say something, to tell him that she was glad he had done it, but Trevor had a few more questions to ask. “How long has she been a director at the Brandenburg?”
“Not sure, actually. She was acting when they started out, back in the old days when they rented a church basement to put on their little dramas. Once she split with Paretsky, I think she started leaning towards directing. They were living together for years, but I think Jim got a little too big for his britches when he started believing the press clippings. Oh, Trevor, what fun days when we were young.”
“Don’t tell me that you were part of the troupe,” he said, as if it would be a catastrophe if she had been.
Maggie laughed at the idea, smiling at him while gesticulating with the knife she had just used to put a pat of butter in the pan. “You are talking to one of the first stockholders, Mr. Harwood. April and Jim, the whole group, they were all so enthusiastic and really determined to start up this theatre. I scraped up enough money to pay their rent for the first few months, never told my husband or he would have gone nuts. It was right after we were married and we didn’t have much. Anyway, I gave Jim the rent money and he gave me a paper napkin with a note on it, and that was my stock certificate.”
“Do you sit on the board of directors, have any say in who gets cast in the plays?” he asked, trying to sound like he was only making conversation. The sugar began to caramelize around the edges of the bread as the pain perdue fried to a crisp golden brown. She delicately lifted a piece, pretending to take careful note of the color while trying to figure out what he was driving at. In the back of her mind, she began to fear that she had misjudged him, that he was only using her to get a part in a play and he would pay her off with the best sex she would ever have. Except that the sex would not be good anymore if that was the case.
“Of course not, I only did it to help out. Well, there was one time,” she said, focused on her work. “My neighbor’s son was a great actor in high school, not a good student at all but on stage he was outstanding. Well, they were worried about him, about his future, so I asked April to give him an audition. They took Tony right away, but only because he was talented.”
“Tony Casorio?” Trevor asked. Her nod of assent seemed to relieve every scrap of tension that had accumulated in the muscles of his face. “He’s been cast in Daniel Mason’s new drama at the Brandenburg. Rehearsals start soon.”
“Will you come to Chicago, Trevor, to see the play?” Maggie asked, her voice rushed as she nearly pleaded on her knees. She put the slices of pain perdue on two plates and looked at him intently, but he said nothing. She poured more coffee, and came around the island to sit next to him, to lay things out in the open instead of leaving with words left unsaid. “Last night, when we were making love, I kept thinking about asking you to come see me in Chicago. So, do you think you could?”
He sampled his breakfast, a delicious confection with a scent of brandy, the like of which he had never tasted before. “This is brilliant, Maggie, really fantastic. We should have a few friends over for Sunday brunch and serve this, maybe Will and Callista with the Barringtons, people you’ve met and had a chance to chat with.”
“This Sunday will be my last in London,” she sighed.
“Actually, love, you won’t be here on Sunday. Change your ticket and don’t worry about the penalty, and get me on the same flight, something that flies out on Friday. I know about the play, you see, because I am playing opposite your old friend Tony. Sorry to cut your trip short, but I have rehearsals starting on Monday.”
She did not realize that she was sitting there, slack-jawed, until he put a piece of pain perdue in her mouth with the sing-song warning, “Here comes the train. Choo, choo, now there’s a good girl.” He was laughing, feeding her and moving her jaw up and down to help her eat because she was too stunned by the turn of events.
“It makes no difference if April offered me the part to get me to Chicago or if Tony really asked for me,” he said. “It’s the chance of a lifetime, Maggie, and I won’t pass up an opportunity because of the way it was handed to me.”
“But it’s a blow to your ego,” she said.
“It’s the nature of the business. There’s nothing wrong with letting the air out of a man’s ballooning ego. You’ve done it well enough, when it needed doing.”
Rude, but unavoidable, he rushed her through the meal and cleaned up the kitchen haphazardly while she dressed, barely able to wait to get to Strand House so that Maggie could check out and move into his house. As they drove along Park Lane, Trevor declared that he would walk up to the desk clerk and ask for the key, and if that snooty man gave him a look then he would look right back. Trevor Harwood was going to give the man one wink that said yes, we are lovers and you can tell the world.
While Maggie fixed her hair in her hotel room, Trevor lay down on the bed. His eyes grew heavy as he estimated that he had slept for less than four hours before April rang up at an uncivilized hour. She tidied up the dresser top while he figured out a schedule for the day, with activities commencing at eleven when they would meet Callista for lunch. He was genuinely happy that there was time for a short nap, something that she agreed would be most welcome after a long night, with another late night to come.
“Would you like to go for a little drive this afternoon? I was thinking that you might like to see the university at Oxford,” he said as she sat next to him, a pillow plumped up behind her back. “Tomorrow we could run out to the Midlands so you can see the countryside, for a change from the city.”
She smiled at him, amused by the intimate tone that lay at the base of their chatting. As if they were old friends, he discussed Callista’s wedding and she knew that her invitation was implied and its acceptance assumed. He asked after Joey with genuine interest, a man who was involved in a relationship rather than a few hours of lust abatement. Lying next to her was proof that she had finally taken control of her life, without mindless prayers and superstitions creating roadblocks. Trevor could not possibly understand what she had accomplished when she took a chance and took him to bed, anymore than he could appreciate her rejection of Ciaran. Last night had been the best night of her life, Saturday night had been the worst, and she was not sorry that she had experienced either one. It was not the power of prayer that healed her; it was the power of living, the power that she held in her hands.
“There’s an aura about you,” Trevor said. “You’re as unattainable as a vestal virgin, and no man can resist the challenge to sway you. I know that times have changed, Maggie, my daughter reminds me of it almost daily. But men haven’t really changed that much. We all admire the lady who holds us at arm’s length, even if we complain about not getting any from her. Devious, isn’t it? To send out all these messages that you want her to give it away, and then calling her a slag for doing it.”
“Last night was my choice,” she said, growing defensive. “I didn’t want to have an affair with Ciaran, and if I didn’t want to sleep with you, I wouldn’t be here now. I could call him up right now and make plans, and give Noel a quickie before dinner if I wanted to.”
“No you won’t.” He gave her a serious look that broke into a silly grin.
“How can you be so sure?”
“You won’t.”
“Would you have come to Chicago without the offer from April?”
“Absolutely. I want to be with you.”
“It’s funny how it came about. Almost like a miracle.”
“There’s nothing miraculous about our friends plotting and scheming behind our backs. April’s ploy is quite a grand undertaking for a bit of matchmaking, and you have no idea how often Nigel or Bea rang me up for a pep talk. I would have gone after you anyway, chased you down if need be, but I wasn’t going to give up unless you sent me packing.”
With her head beginning to ache with the threat of a hangover, Maggie got up to take an aspirin. She took a minute to look around the room one more time, to enjoy the plush décor, when she caught sight of the porcelain heart. For one night, she had been desired but unattainable, and that was a rare perch to occupy. Smiling to herself, Maggie thought back, and recalled how close she had come to falling off the pedestal.
“After your wife died, did you miss sex?” she asked.
“Not as much as I missed making love. You know what I mean, don’t you?”
“That’s what I missed, the emotional connection.”
“Young ladies today don’t appreciate that. Hop into bed so quickly they might as well advertise their bodies as sperm receptacles. All this emotional mumbo-jumbo and feelings get worked up in their feminine brains, and we men don’t really care all that much who is underneath us when the urge strikes.”
“And you took advantage when you could?”
“Of course I did. I’m only human, my dear, a mass of hairy sweat and testosterone and a tiny little brain in my crotch that does most of the thinking.”
“That’s what scared those old Catholic theologians, the power that women had over men. One whiff of perfume, a little flash of skin, and rational thought goes right out the window.”
“If I were twenty-five, Maggie, my rational thought would be on the wing right now. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.”
“Do I sound too mercenary? It’s just that, if a girl doesn’t sleep with a guy unless he agrees to marry her, to take care of her and their kids, what’s wrong with that? I mean, for the women. I can see what’s wrong with the arrangement for men.”
“There has to be some kind of give and take, doesn’t there? Men can’t have babies; it’s as simple as that, and we do want children, in spite of what you might think.”
“So women get the relationship that they want, they get sex, which they want, and the guy gets what?”
“He gets roped into the deal because Mr. Crotch is doing all the thinking. We aren’t complicated at all, are we? Give us sex and we’ll give you whatever you want in exchange. There’s good reason that prostitution is the oldest profession.”
“Still, I don’t get why we girls would give up that control so easily.”
“Because you like sex, too,” he suggested. “How many times have you eaten a box of chocolates and then wished you hadn’t? But when you were eating them, you weren’t thinking about the extra pounds that you would have to deal with afterwards. It was all taste and texture and yum this is good and then oh, my God I can’t fasten the waistband on my skirt.”
Back in bed, she nestled her head against his chest. She had to agree with Trevor, with his honest assessment of men’s duplicity. They championed sexual equality, but there was such a thing as too much equality, a fact that they revealed in subtle ways. Since the beginning of time they had been pressuring women to give in, only to think a little less of the ones who submitted. Their disregard was no longer put on display, but it was there all the same, and that was why Maggie had been so attractive to Ciaran and Noel and even Trevor. She was pristine and unsullied, relatively speaking, and when the crown prince of seduction failed to capture her, she became that much more irresistible.
She rolled over onto her side because Trevor was snoring in her ear. It was a comfortable sound, a sound of small dinner parties with great conversation and a charming wine. His snoring was a frank admission that this was his real self, without a need to be on best behavior because they were, after all, lovers in a relationship that lived with honesty and brushed off artifice. Maggie knew enough about men to know that the sound meant Trevor was going to be gloating because he was quite aware that he had beaten a rival and now stood on top of the heap.
“I’ll give you that one for your ego,” she said.
The curtains were opened, framing windows that were spotted by rain. All she could see was gray fog, but in her mind she could still remember her first glimpse of London as she stood at the same window only a few days ago. Turning her head, she could see the mirror that had reflected last night’s perfectly styled hair and taupe-shadowed eyes. She had looked into the image of a confident woman and she had vowed to stay true to her convictions, that no sex was better than bad sex, even though it had been the most difficult thing she had ever done, and now she was blissfully happy.
There were plenty of men who were looking to get into her panties, but it was better to save herself, not for marriage, but for the man who wanted to get into her heart and mind as well. With Trevor, she shared an emotion, a connection, which made them lovers instead of sex partners, an intimacy that would remain in a lasting friendship. After so many years of marriage, she wanted the closeness and familiarity of a relationship, making casual sex a waste of time and effort. He snorted and rolled over onto his back, as if to put an exclamation point on her thoughts.
“The epilogue,” he murmured. “Best ever.”
THE END
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