Eighty Days Blue (16 page)

He took a deep breath.

Circled her. Her back was white as snow, but Dominik couldn't help imagining past marks, faint and dull across her back and buttocks, like a long-forgotten lattice of minor tattoos moving in straight and perpendicular lines across the pallor of her flesh. How he imagined the ropes she had told him about would have briefly marked her.

He moved closer, his whole body just inches from hers. He placed a delicate kiss on the soft tip of her ear.

Her eyes still closed, Summer shuddered, the involuntary movement causing a slight shimmer in the flow of the melody she was playing. Her back straightened.

Dominik moved a foot or so back and circled Summer again, now facing her.

Without impeding the movement of her arms as she played on, he ran one finger from her shoulder down her side, twisting his hand to trace her bikini line and skirt the edges of her painted lips. He kneeled before her, using both
hands
to widen the gap between her legs. He moved his face closer, almost touching, but not quite. He was aware that with the violin in place she could not see him, not see his tongue as it slowly approached her wet, inviting lips.

Summer continued playing, although he was aware that every cell in her body was screaming for her to throw the precious instrument aside and grab Dominik and provoke him into exploring her body faster, harder. She knew he was teasing her. Playing with her. Tempting her to stop concentrating on the violin. Become more active. She was aware how unsteady the music was becoming, how unprofessional. The musician in her was appalled by the poverty of her music, but the woman inside just couldn't help it.

Dominik stopped for a brief moment, savouring the moment, savouring the taste of Summer. The waxy taste of the lipstick she had used was sweet and cloying and no doubt emigrated to his lips. He'd probably look a bit like a clown should he see himself right now in a mirror, he reckoned, light-hearted. Summer was terribly wet and he felt her react to every sweep of his tongue inside her, but she kept on playing regardless. He buried his face into her intimate parts, the extremity of his tongue flicking her clit, feeling it harden, and taking it between his lips, pressing it, massaging it, repressing a strong desire to actually bite her. She adjusted the angle between her legs without missing a beat of the melody, inviting him deeper into her. His hair brushed the inside of her thighs as he gladly accepted the invitation and dug deeper into her, his lips tasting the flow of her juices.

Summer came with a deep shudder rising like a wave from the core of her stomach just as the music reached its appointed end.

The rain outside had stopped and there was a long moment of total silence, Summer standing to attention like a statue of salt in the centre of the loft space, eyes still firmly shut, and Dominik on his knees, facing her. Both hesitating as to who should speak first, say something, as if the decision might have terrible consequences.

The silence was broken by Summer's staccato gasps as she now struggled to steady her breathing.

Dominik rose from the hard wooden floor, glanced around him and noticed a length of rope lying on one of the kitchen area's granite worktops alongside Summer's handbag, her pink mobile phone and a set of keys. Something from her workshop, maybe?

‘Stay there. Keep your eyes closed,' he said, walking over to the worktop and picking up the short length of rope, weighing it in his hands. It was just long enough, he estimated. Just right.

He stepped back to Summer.

He stood by her side and delicately passed the piece of rope round her neck and secured it with a loose knot fixed in place.

He could feel her nervousness as she attempted to control her breath, slow it down.

‘Come,' Dominik said.

He pulled gently on the improvised lead. Summer brought her legs together, hesitantly put one foot forward and followed in the direction the rope was stretching.

Dominik led her to the bedroom.

Dominik had been in New York a whole fortnight and he and Summer had fallen effortlessly into an easy routine.

He fitted in his hours at the library with her rehearsals
and
so far there had been no conflicts, although they were both aware that it would soon prove more difficult as her solo gig approached. She would require further hours to practise and had agreed to have some extra-curricular coaching with Simón, the orchestra's conductor. Dominik had suggested they all have dinner together, but Summer had been hesitant to organise this, under the pretext she wished to keep her personal and professional lives strictly apart.

‘We can't keep to ourselves all the time,' Dominik remarked.

‘Can't we?'

‘It feels as if we are prisoners of the loft. Just you and me against the world.'

‘Isn't that what being together is all about?' Summer said, with a hint of irritation.

She wasn't sure what to expect when she had agreed to move in with Dominik. She was unsure whether she was ready for this domesticity. True, there were still moments when he surprised her, was unpredictable, connected with her inner slut, when he took control in unforeseen ways she craved but couldn't always express. And Summer also knew it was unfeasible to sustain that feeling day after day. On one hand, she felt a captive of the necessary routine of their relationship, while on the other, she endlessly yearned for some sort of additional challenge. Oh, damn, it was all so complicated . . .

He was curious about her time with Cherry, the rope workshop, the mild scenes she had got herself involved with. Maybe she should introduce him. Surely it couldn't be harmful.

‘There is a friend I've made – you know, when I tried out
the
rope. Her name is Cherry. Maybe we could meet up, have a drink. I think you'd like her.'

‘Absolutely. Why not?'

Summer picked up her phone and made the arrangements. They would meet up at four at a bar she knew on Bleecker Street. They would have at least a couple of hours, as Cherry was performing that same evening at a joint on the Bowery.

Bleecker Street was its customary early evening bustle of bohos, wannabes and tourists. They'd walked there, crossing Houston and passing a million other bars along the way.

‘Why the Red Lion of all the places around?' Dominik had asked Summer.

‘It's English, isn't it? We thought you might enjoy a touch of home.'

As a non-drinker, Dominik had never been a ‘pub person', something that Summer seemed unaware of. All their non-sexual encounters had been in small cafés or Italian espresso bars dotted across London.

As it happened, there was a big European football match being broadcast live on TV that same evening and the Red Lion was packed to the rafters with a loud crowd of expatriates and curious Yanks, so they were forced to move on further down Bleecker Street to Kenny's Castaways, a folk club that had survived from the Greenwich Village heyday of Baez, Dylan and others, where the bar was quite empty and there were still tables available and a modicum of privacy.

Dominik was struck by how short Cherry was, not what he would have expected from a burlesque performer.
She
was small and compact under her pudding bowl of shocking-pink hair, and the bulging canvas bag she was carrying, slung over her shoulder, dwarfed her frame.

‘My gear,' she pointed out, as she lowered the heavy bag to the floor. ‘I always seem to pack more than I need. A spare outfit, accessories, half a dozen pairs of shoes . . . It's just the way the job is – you never know what you might need,' she said apologetically, pulling her ring-laden fingers through her dyed hair to straighten it out.

Dominik had forgotten to ask the barman to go easy on the ice and his Coke arrived ultra-American style, smothered in the stuff. Both of the women ordered pink cocktails in homage to Cherry's hair. Not the sort of thing Summer usually drank, Dominik observed, particularly as the bar had a selection of Japanese beers behind the counter.

‘So you're Dominik?' the pink-haired buxom friend of Summer's said, checking him out. Her black leather jacket was frayed at the edges and patched up in places. She was wearing a skin-tight pair of leopard-print leggings and glittering skyscraper heels, an outfit that would be better suited to a cabaret act than a pub.

Dominik had forgotten to ask Summer how much she had disclosed of their relationship and past to her new friend.

‘The one and only.'

‘Very British,' Cherry remarked.

‘And you're Cherry, the rope lady.'

Summer smiled, observing their initial sparring.

Cherry raised her glass. ‘To new friends,' she proclaimed.

They followed suit.

‘I'm no good on American accents,' Dominik said. ‘Where do you come from, Cherry?'

‘Canada, actually,' she exaggerated her drawl to emphasise the point.

‘Ah. My humblest apologies.'

‘I'm from Turner Valley, Alberta, a small town just south-west of Calgary. You've probably never heard of it, but I'm guessing it's exactly what you expect. Wild country, not a skyscraper for hundreds of miles, and certainly no cabaret bars. I got out at the first opportunity I was given. Topless waitressing to start with, and that's where I met a few girls who taught me to dance. Soon as I had enough tips saved, I hit the Big Apple. Ain't never going back.'

‘New Zealand backwaters, Alberta and London,' Summer remarked. ‘We're all exiles, strangers in a strange land.' She felt uncomfortable, relying on clichés now to keep the conversation going, unsure whether bringing Dominik and Cherry together had been a bright idea after all.

‘I'll drink to that,' Cherry said.

‘So you're here alone? Your family are still in Alberta?' asked Dominik.

Summer shifted on her seat, becoming more and more uncomfortable with the direction in which the conversation was headed.

‘Not exactly alone. My boy-friends keep me warm at night, but they're both out of town at the moment. One travels with his band and the other with his work – he works in sales and is on the road a lot.'

‘You have two boyfriends?' Dominik smiled and raised an eyebrow quizzically.

‘You'd think I wouldn't spend as much time alone as I do. Maybe I should look into hooking up with a third.'

‘Would you like another drink?' Summer interrupted, an
attempt
to stop any further talk about Cherry's multiple partners.

‘My round, I think,' Cherry replied, balancing her weight on the table as she lowered herself to the floor. It was a long way down for her short legs, and she paused for a moment to check her stability before putting all of her weight on her heels and teetering towards the bar.

‘Your friend is an interesting woman.'

‘Yes, she's . . . different. But I like her. She's honest.'

‘Does it work, do you think, her with her two boyfriends?'

‘It seems to. I haven't met either of them yet, but she seems happy enough. I don't know how she does it. With all the rehearsing, I barely have time for one. She says the trick is in the diary management.'

‘I know you're busy, but I hope you will manage to find enough time for me.'

‘Oh, no, I didn't mean it like that. Of course I have time for you.'

‘Not interrupting, I hope?' said Cherry, easing a tray with two pink cocktails, full to the brim, and a glass of Coke onto the table. ‘I noticed you weren't keen on the ice, Dominik, so I watched the bartender like a hawk. I hope this is OK for you.'

‘Perfect. That's very kind of you.'

First, they had to find the right dress for Summer's solo performance. Dominik had insisted she wear something brand new for the occasion, not her old fallbacks. Price was no object, he added. His suggestion they spend a weekend visiting the fashion stores dotted across the lower reaches of Fifth Avenue and below Houston on Broadway was quickly
dismissed
by Summer. She knew she was unlikely to find the right garment in such stores. An afternoon wandering through SoHo darting in and out of designer boutiques was similarly unsuccessful. The styles were just not right for her, Summer felt, let alone the extortionate cost of most of the dresses on display, despite Dominik's insouciance when it came to money. She felt so much in debt to him already, and this concert was to be her hour of glory and she was conflicted about his involvement. He had paid God knows how much for the Bailly, and she knew the rental cost of the loft was pretty exorbitant. She had insisted on contributing, but knew the amount she paid wasn't close to half. Enough was enough. It was pride, she knew, but damn it, she was who she was and had no intention of changing now and becoming a kept woman.

There was only a week left to the gig, and Summer was bone-tired from the rehearsals, Simón's persistence in pursuing her and Dominik's silent looks of disapproval when she returned to the loft after dark, hours later than he had expected, exhausted by the mounting pressure of the impending concert and her own insecurities about how good she actually was and whether she deserved the solo gig. She knew she was not easy to live with these days.

They took their meals in silence, then moved to bed, where the lovemaking had become prosaic. All this time, Dominik kept to himself too, never talking much about the research he was doing at the library, handling Summer with kid gloves. He hadn't told her he had made contact with Miranda and was planning to see the Columbia administrative assistant a few days later for lunch, the old demons inside him striving to be rekindled.

As the end of June approached, the temperatures in
the
city were rising. On a lazy Sunday afternoon, they'd resolved to take a walk, maybe amble over to Washington Square and sit by the fountain to listen to the musicians, have an ice cream and get away from the prison of the loft and their own awkward silences. There was a street fair in full cry across a couple of blocks along Waverly Place and the north side of the park. Smells of food drifted on the air – kebabs, fried onion, burgers, Mexican fajitas – and there were stalls galore with trinkets, pashminas, leather goods and T-shirts, plus lemonade and smoothie vendors and a parade of tables full of old, dog-eared books. Dominik was automatically drawn to the bookstalls, while Summer noticed across the way from them a tent-like marquee with old vintage clothing scattered randomly across its length. It was a veritable jumble of colours and fabrics, but her attention was quickly drawn to a slightly crumpled dress hanging askew from a railing towards the back of the improvised awning.