Authors: Roberta Latow
A Rage to Live (27 page)
They were giving each other the best times of their lives. Carlos flew them to Peru and Machu Picchu. There, in the Inca ruins sited on a precipitous ridge flanked by extensive agricultural terraces miles above the Urubamba Valley, they watched dawn rise over the ancient civilisation that once thrived magnificently on top of the world. From there they went to Patagonia, the windswept tip of South America, and Carlos borrowed a friend’s schooner and crew. They sailed the Pacific Ocean to the volcanic Galapagos Islands. On some of the uninhabited islands where hardly a man had ever trodden, they stepped back a million years in time. They walked among the dragon-like giant lizards, the giant tortoises that were five or more feet long, weighing as much as four or five hundred pounds, other animals and birds. And all the while something was happening to Cressida on this trip with Carlos. In her head and in her heart she was gathering a new kind of strength from him that kept adding a richness to herself.
The captain left them on one of the small islands with a picnic and sailed off to the far side where he would pick them up. It was a barren place of rock and caves, mysterious with near prehistoric wild life. The sun was burning hot, the air and wind cold. The rough and wild ocean crashed against the irregular shoreline all around them. They were the only two humans there. It made Cressida feel that they might be the only two humans left in the world. It was an extraordinary sensation to think of oneself as the only woman left alive. They walked round the island with the animals who had no fear of them, no hostility for this intrusion into their domain. Cressida and Carlos made love, had untamed sex in a cave where waves crashed just below them.
He took her from South America to Madrid and then to Paris, and bought her lovely gifts, and was surprised that extravagance embarrassed her. He was enchanted at how little she needed to impress, how solid and yet outrageously free she could be when she chose to be, as she did with him. By the time Cressida left him to return to New York they were a part of each other’s lives. Deeply attached to each other in lust and affection and yet free to live their lives new and fresh every day, with whoever and wherever they wanted.
Cressida, in those few weeks with Carlos and with her success in her work, had begun her life again. She left the pain of Tommy and Vicki
behind. Not forgotten, not forgiven, but behind her. She had met a man like Carlos who by the very nature of his character had inspired her to a new strength and maturity. She became a more whole and independent woman, the one who had been lurking all the time in the background. The libertine had liberated a lady.
A week after Cressida’s return to New York, she took off the remainder of the summer to spend it with Carlos in a magnificent villa in the south of France. A pale pink mansion with a mature seven-acre garden of cypress trees and formal terraces that stepped down the hillside to the sea. The two of them on a French Riviera holiday of fun and friends. It was there that she came to terms with his passion and desire for other women. He needed them. Lusting after women was as much a part of his life as breathing. They were his addiction, and he made no excuses for it.
The first time she saw him lusting after another woman, she said, ‘You will never give up other women for me. Never be faithful to me.’
‘Never give up other women? No. Be faithful to you? In my own fashion. I would lie if I told you differently. And I am never going to lie to you, ever. And you? You will have to find other men or what we have together won’t work. You’ve heard of open marriages? Well, let’s just say we can have an open affair. That actually is a good way of putting it, Cressida. A long-time, good-time, open affair of love and lust. Can you live with that?’
Cressida never hesitated for a second. She answered him, ‘I don’t think I want to live without it.’
In many ways Carlos had met his equal. A woman with a strong libido who could control it. A sexual adventuress. Not a libertine like him. For her it was curiosity, the right man in the right place at the right time, that drove her for a short period of time to lust to be one.
Her trust in Carlos was implicit. She gave herself up to him in a sexual madness where no lines need be drawn. To a sexual death if need be was easy when you were certain to be brought back from the brink. Kane had been the only other man she had had such complete sexual trust in.
Carlos and Cressida took advantage of their relationship. For years he arranged sexual experiences to thrill and delight, sometimes even to frighten. New and thrilling acts Cressida never imagined she would see, let alone participate in. Carlos was sexually corrupting her and they both knew it. They knew too that one day she would tire of it, give it up, as he never would.
Sebastiano become a sometime partner in their sexual life. She resisted and finally succumbed to sexual love from another woman, and was overwhelmed at how different it was to having sex with a man.
Exciting in a whole different way. More like poetry rather than prose. Not one of her preferences, it was experienced but not repeated very often. Not forgotten, however. She would now understand female homosexuality as she had never done before. There were no limits to the erotic experiences that Carlos offered her.
During their years of shared sexual love, Cressida picked up many things from Carlos that changed her life. A love of mankind. The right of every man to live in freedom and dignity. Through her work she strived to add something to the betterment of man’s life by creating living and working environments people could thrive in. He gave inspiration to her. But it was his determination that she should never be dependent on him or any man for love, for material security, for success, for sex, that was his best gift to her. It taught her to be her own woman, that she could do whatever she wanted with her life. She learned her lessons well and that was how and why their relationship survived for more than a decade.
Sami Chow found the brownstone house and took the stairs two at a time. Three names, three doorbells. He found hers and pressed it. No answer. He placed his thumb on the bell again and pushed hard and kept it there. A scratchy sound on the intercom and he heard, ‘All right, all right, don’t make a fuss. You’d better come up, I’m not quite ready. In fact, I’m not at all ready.’
The rasping sound of the automatic lock releasing. He had wanted to tell her who it was, but knew those security doors and thought he had best push the door open before he was left locked out again. Sami walked up the red-carpeted flight of stairs to the first floor. That was what it had said on the bell, her name and first floor. The door, the only one on that floor, was ajar. He pushed the door buzzer and heard her call from inside, ‘It’s open, come in.’
She was nowhere to be seen. He liked the turn of the century building and the room with its twenty-foot ceiling and fine architectural detailing. It was sparsely furnished and the walls were a handsome icy – grey colour, cool and crisp. The furniture was impressive: white silk damask covering Chippendale settees on either side of the marble fireplace. A Rothko painting above it. An eighteenth-century Persian carpet, worn and elegant, on the floor.
‘I wish you hadn’t done this. Set me up like this,’ she called from the bedroom. ‘I’ll just take a quick shower. Why do we have to go? No, don’t answer that. Fancy flying all the way in from London to have Thanksgiving dinner with Owen Merrick. Honestly, I am not in the mood for this. I hate his dinner parties. Especially his Thanksgiving and Christmas dinner parties. He makes me feel we’re all gathered there because he is being magnanimous to the waifs and strays who have no family of their own. What a cheek! Why ever did you accept? No, don’t answer that either. I know, politics, social politics. I hate social politics.’
Sami tried several times to get a word in but she hardly stopped for a breath. Now, he thought, and opened his mouth to speak, but missed his chance yet again. She continued as if there had been no pause at all: ‘Next you’ll be telling me I’m being ratty. That I am always ratty
on family holidays. Well, I do prefer to be alone if I can’t be with the people I want to be with. And there is never anyone interesting there. He never invites me when the people he knows I would like are invited. Waifs and strays, waifs and strays, that’s who he invites me with. Except, of course, you. You are his star client and this is a chance for him to show you his magnanimity. It’s sick making. The same old crowd. I could do with a new face.’
Sami’s inclination was that if she didn’t shut up immediately he would merely leave a note telling her to make her own way to Owen’s frightfully dull party. He did not disagree with her about Owen. And if he were not standing in for Carlos, he would never have endured an Owen Merrick party himself. Helping out a friend was usually a punishment of one sort or another.
There she went again. ‘Black tie, it’s always black tie, which means a long elegant dress. Oh, do for God’s sake select something for me to wear. I cannot make one more decision today. I think I’m brain dead. God, I sound testy, and an ungrateful cow. Sorry, darling. I’ll just pop in the shower and come out a new woman.’
I hope so, thought Sami.
‘Choose anything you would like to see me in. Well, at least we have each other.’
Sami removed the long white silk evening scarf from round his neck and draped it over one of the settees. He walked through the flat until he found the bedroom which was just off the drawing-room. He liked that room too. The walls were lacquered an ivory colour and hung from the ceiling to the floor with white silk as fine as a spider’s web. It was like looking through a soft focus lens. It was ethereal and sensuous and certainly didn’t go at all with the whingeing woman he had decided he was stuck with for the evening.
Against one wall was an eighteenth-century armoire. Faded but still there were the hand painted decorations of birds and fruit and flowers on a silver ground, now tarnished down to a sumptuous and elegant patina that only three hundred years could create. The bed on the opposite wall was king size with half a dozen large square bed pillows whose cases were of crisp linen edged in three-inch borders of lace. The blanket was cream cashmere. The floor of bare boards polished dark and covered with several very worn and faded oriental carpets. On a round table in front of the windows overlooking a pretty New York garden stood a stack of books and a silver-framed photograph by Karsh that was instantly recognised by Sami as being of Byron Vine.
The room was sensuous and seductive, sexual even, yet mysteriously so. It aroused his curiosity, and now
she
aroused his curiosity. Only a formidably interesting woman would create a room such as this for her
bedroom. The only thing he knew about her was her name and what Carlos had told him: ‘I can’t make a Thanksgiving dinner at Owen Merrick’s. I need a favour. Well, two to be exact. Will you cover for me? The lady I am to take there, her phone is off the hook or out of order. Explain that I tried to reach her and then take her to Owen’s for me. You will like her. You’ll have a great deal in common. She’s an architect and not a bad one. She works for Owen. Oh, and Sami …’ He had hesitated and then had obviously changed his mind about what he was going to say. ‘Well,’ he continued, ‘never mind. You’ll see for yourself.’
Sami went to the armoire and opened the doors. A woman of discerning taste but hardly extravagant, was his deduction. There were no more than a dozen things hanging neatly in the cupboard, and only three of them were evening dresses. He chose a long-sleeved black silk – velvet full-length evening dress. Open down the front, it draped elegantly to close on the hip and was held in place by a large black opal. He found a pair of high-heeled black satin shoes. He laid the dress neatly on the bed and the shoes next to it. It was the epitome of chic simplicity. She would have to be mightily attractive to carry a dress such as that off was another deduction.
‘I’m calming down, accepting that you must have a very good reason for accepting this invitation. Make a shaker of martinis, a drink will do it, put me in the mood. I’ll be quick, I promise.’
Sami went to the bathroom door. It was ajar. He was about to say that he was only an emissary and where was the gin, but he heard the shower switch on and water running with considerable force. He had once again missed his chance.
He found the kitchen and the necessary ingredients to make a dry martini, even the glasses and the silver shaker. There was a tray of ice cubes and very little else in the refrigerator. A first class chef himself who kept a well-stocked kitchen, Sami wondered how she could live like that. Where were the homely touches? Had she no friends, no family to entertain? Was she not domesticated enough even to cook for herself? Here was the taste, the style, but where was the home?
He looked at his watch. They were going to be very late. He sat down with his drink, and was pleased. It was a great very dry martini. She wasn’t the only one who needed a drink to face the evening. At the far side of the room on a marble console he spotted a music system, a Bang and Olufsen, the very same as his own. He pressed the CD button. Mahler. After he had lowered the volume to just above a whisper, he thought to himself, things are looking up.
He topped up his glass and was standing at the window looking down at the street. It was dark and looked as if it was getting colder.
Pools of light from the lamp-post, several lighted windows the only signs of warmth or life. Miraculously there was hardly a car parked on the street, not a soul to be seen walking. New York on a national holiday. You really did have to have some place to go, even if it was only staying home alone. He heard her and turned from the window in time to see her enter the room, head down, clasping the opal on her hip, adjusting the neckline of the dress that draped seductively between voluptuous breasts and plunged open to only a few inches above her waist. The swell of creamy-coloured flesh, a breast daringly exposed. It was delectable to contemplate.
‘I think I would pay not go to this Thanksgiving dinner. How could you get us into this? If I …’ She stopped in mid-sentence.
They were gazing at each other. For several seconds neither of them said a word. It was a
coup de foudre
, a blow, like being struck by lightning, love at first sight. That moment when, for two people, the whole world stops, and lovers find the other part of their self.
She had stature, beauty, not the glossy mannequin beauty he usually liked, nor the cinema glamour. Hers was a subtle, elegant, quiet beauty that was sensuous behind the eyes, in the way she moved, in the very bone structure of her face, the silky movement of her hair when she swung her head. Wrapped in her black velvet St Laurent dress, she looked the seductress, sophisticated, pure eroticism and nothing less. The long blonde silky hair against the black silk velvet epitomised sexual mystery, sexual delight.
She was a surprise, a powerful emotional experience that had been instant, and that had left him that much richer. He was taken off guard and felt some embarrassment for what he had felt so instantly, so unreasonably for her. It was she who gained control of herself first. ‘You’re not Carlos.’
The moment she said it she felt stupid. The blood rushed to her face. But that was all she could think of to say because for her too it had been love at first sight for the handsome sexy man standing in her drawing – room. She managed to get a semblance of control over herself and asked, ‘Where has he gone?’
‘He hasn’t gone. He hasn’t come. I’m his emissary. He asked me to come and tell you he couldn’t make it, and to escort you to Owen Merrick’s Thanksgiving dinner. I am one of those boring guests you spoke about that you will have to suffer this evening.’
‘Oh, my God.’
Sami smiled, and Cressida felt an even stronger attraction to him. He had a seductive smile that was frighteningly sensual. Warning bells went off in her head. ‘Heart breaker, heart breaker.’ She had to concentrate hard on what he was saying for more reasons than sexual
attraction. She recognised him, knew who he was, what a great artist he was in his field.
‘He did try and call you. Your phone is off the hook.’
‘Oh. Yes, that’s true. I forgot to put the receiver back on. Damn!’
They were still talking across the room at each other. Neither had moved a step. Sami picked up her glass and walked towards her. ‘I believe you ordered a martini?’
She took rather a large swallow of the crystal clear liquid. ‘Great martini,’ she told him. ‘You should have said something.’
‘I did try, several times actually. But you didn’t give me much of a chance. I’m Sami Chow.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘And you’re Cressida Vine. And you look beautiful in that dress. And happy Thanksgiving.’ He touched the rim of his martini glass to hers.
‘Well, you did choose well. This is my favourite evening dress. I have been an admirer of yours for a very long time. In architectural terms of course. I had no idea you knew Carlos.’
‘Old friends. We have had some very good times together.’
It was so physical between them. The rapport was there, merely being close to each other was unnerving for them. Desire to touch, to feel his skin, was almost overwhelming for Cressida. It took great self – control to hold back. It was no easier for him. Was it any wonder that they lost the thread of their conversation? They drank their martinis in silence, until it become an awkward silence. It was Cressida who broke the spell between them. ‘I must put the phone back on the hook. Where is Carlos?’
‘In the house in Madrid.’
‘I’ll just go and get a wrap.’
‘But you don’t want to go.’
‘No. I don’t want to go.’
‘What would you like to do? No. Don’t answer that. Would you let me give you Thanksgiving dinner?’
‘What about your Thanksgiving and …’
‘Never mind that. Just tell me, would you let me take over your Thanksgiving, because I would like that very much?’
‘We could never get a reservation for dinner anywhere at this late hour, and then I’ll have ruined your holiday. I really think this is terrible of me.’
‘Terrible of both of us. Now what do you say?’
‘Yes, please. Do give me Thanksgiving, even if it has to be at Owen Merrick’s table.’ And she smiled.
‘Where’s the telephone?’
‘The bedroom.’
‘You wait here,’ he told her.
Cressida refilled her glass, her heart beating faster than it should. When he returned he looked triumphant. ‘Done.’
‘How done? What done?’ She was so happy, she began to laugh. ‘This is madness, you know.’
‘A good kind of madness, I hope.’ There was laughter in his voice.
‘I think the best,’ she said, reaching out to him and caressing his cheek with the back of her hand.
He took her hand in his and turned it over and kissed the palm. She closed her eyes and tried to control her breathing. His lips sent shivers through her. Such a little kiss, but it was packed with love and sensuous connotations. He pulled her close into him. ‘I think you have bewitched me.’ Then suddenly he pulled himself up and was able to distance himself from her enough to tell her, ‘Now come on, let’s go. We will have a Thanksgiving, just the kind we want.’
‘What’s that?’
‘You tell me.’
‘Alone, just the two of us, some place quiet and secluded, where we don’t have to share ourselves with anyone. Delicious food, champagne. And I want you to tell me all about you, and I want to tell you all about me. And then …’ Cressida stopped herself. She realised that she was rushing into something that could be very important for them both and she was getting carried away. She could not ever remember wanting so much to touch a man. It was overwhelming not being able to keep her hands off him. She unbuttoned his dinner jacket and slid her hands under it and her arms around him and caressed his back under the fine white dress shirt he was wearing. He felt warm and the scent of him filled her with love and lust.
‘And then?’ he queried.
‘And then …’ She hesitated once more, removed her arms from round him, stepped back and gazed into his dark sensuous eyes, so exotic, mysterious even for their oriental shape. She moved from them to the handsome classic nose, the sensuous mouth. She smiled, accepting that it could happen to her, even at this late stage in her life. And she finally finished her sentence. ‘And then we will have to see if we still want each other as much as we do now.’
