Her Hungry Heart (6 page)

They had their breakfast in the brightness of a winter sun in a conservatory off the kitchen. Bacon and sausage patties, eggs scrambled with cream, stacks of blueberry pancakes dripping with butter and pure Vermont maple syrup. Endless cups of coffee. She watched him eat when she was not attending to her own plate. He had obviously been ravenous for the luxury of fresh food, virtually unobtainable now in England.

The door that Barbara opened for Karel was at the top of a curved staircase off the conservatory. It opened into an artist’s vast studio whose entire movable roof was of glass and a series of white canvas shades that were adjustable for shifting the light where it was needed.

Chapter 5

This was not the studio of some wealthy dilettante, nor were the paintings those of a talented amateur.

The large wall-size canvases were impressive, serious works of art. More than good. She hung back and allowed him to view them on his own. Watching him Barbara realized that she had brought him to the studio not because she wanted to impress him with her work, but because she wanted him to know all aspects of the woman he had loved for a brief period in his life.

She had no idea that his presence in the studio would affect her in any way, but it did. She sat on the edge of a work-table and was very still, not wanting to distract him. Seeing him there brought her closer to him: it seemed to round out the intimacy, the oneness she felt with him. It was very odd, but as he walked through the studio absorbed by the paintings she realized that while not in the least a shadowy figure, he lived in the shadows of his own life. Her instinct had been right from the beginning when she had first laid eyes on him in the Stork Club. He was a remarkable man, but a man with many secrets, a man whose life was cloaked in mystery. She felt privileged, as she sensed he did, that they should have given themselves to each other so completely. They were a part of each other’s lives: they always would be. Though she doubted they would ever meet again. She felt such a rush of life within her that there was no room for sadness about the imminent parting.

He was in the middle of the studio now. Karel turned
from a painting to face her. ‘You should have told me.’

‘Well, we used our time a different way, I guess.’

‘You are a fine artist, maybe even a great painter.’

‘Yes,’ she assented matter-of-factly.

‘Come to me.’ He opened his arms.

She walked into them and he hugged her. ‘What a many-sided woman you are.’ Together and in silence they walked through the studio viewing the paintings. She knew instinctively that these were not mere compliments: he was not only impressed, but truly understood her work.

She was a powerful painter of sensual images in abstract forms. Her paintings had sensitive souls. The overly large canvases were in themselves yet another form for her subjects and the various media she used in her work. Her paintings had integrity, a quality they shared with Barbara herself.

Barbara Dunmellyn was one of the better-kept secrets of the art world. Admired by Peggy Guggenheim and Max Ernst, Hans Hoffman, Pierre Matisse and several dealers, she refused all offers of a one-woman exhibition. She had the support of four of America’s finest museum directors. Immensely successful painters were her friends. The art critics who had seen her work praised it and prodded her to take a dealer and exhibit. But Barbara bided her time. She never sold, traded or gave away her paintings. She worked and waited. Waited for the war to be over, for a new art direction to emerge from the old one, like the new world that was bound to rise from the ashes of war, evil, and mass-destruction. Then, and only then, would she exhibit in New York and Paris and London. She was grateful that she and Karel had no need to talk about her work. He understood her paintings and liked them. She sensed that they were as personal for him as they were for her.

‘Let’s go downstairs and sit in front of the fire,’ she suggested, though she sensed that Karel would have been content to remain in the studio looking at her paintings.

‘Yes, let’s do that,’ he was quick to reply, understanding that she was communicating more to him than was merely spoken.

‘My work is a great part of my life, and I want you to know that. But it has nothing to do with the few hours we have left together.’

In the living room they stood looking out the window. New York spread out before them was a mesmerising sight. She could see how much he admired it. She felt quite selfish wanting to keep him to herself and not offering more of the city to him. ‘A walk in the Park, would you like that? We could go ice-skating, would that amuse you? Or is there something else you would prefer to do?’

‘I’m too content just being here with you to indulge myself any further with New York City. Let’s just spend the remainder of the time we have, here, in front of the fire. Alone. Just you and I. No Ching Lee, no calls or callers. Wouldn’t you like that too?’

She smiled and took his hand. They walked together towards a sofa in front of the blazing fire. To answer him seemed such a trite response when they both knew what she wanted. She changed the subject.

‘I’ll drive you to the airfield tonight.’

‘They’ll be sending a car for me.’

‘Even better, then I’ll accompany you and save my petrol stamps.’

‘I think you’ll need clearance. It’s that kind of airfield.’

‘Brigadier generals’ nieces get clearance.’

‘Then get clearance,’ he told her, evidently delighted: he would not have to leave her until the last minute.

She kissed him. He liked the relish sensed in her quick kiss before she left the room to make the call to her uncle and dismiss Ching Lee.

When she returned he was sitting comfortably on the sofa in front of the fire, his jacket now open. He was reading something by Voltaire, in a French edition he had found in
the library. Barbara felt relaxed and happy, not at all sad about a lovers’ parting. She tossed a cushion on the floor and then sat down on it between his legs.

He looked up from his book and asked her, ‘Do brigadier generals’ nieces have the influence they think they have?’ He stroked her long blonde hair.

‘Oh, yes. I’ll be going with you. But we have less time than you think to get deliriously tipsy.’ They were not facing each other. She put her hand on her shoulder wanting him to cover it with his. He obliged by grasping it, bending forward and kissing first the back of her neck and then the hand he held. She snuggled up tight between his legs. He abandoned his book to sit with her thus and watch the magic of a log-fire’s leaping flames.

They sat for some time enveloped in an opulent silence that seemed to speak volumes. The sort of hush that touches the soul, enriches it in some mysterious way. The silence was made even more poignant by a life-enhancing force the lovers felt within themselves. It appeared to beat like their hearts. In the tranquillity of the room they could sense, too, a voiceless chorus of beauty and passion. The Matisse painting of a nude reclining on a chaise in a Mediterranean room filled with sunlight sang to them from above the fireplace with its own colourful silence.

Ching Lee appeared carrying a silver tray with a decanter of fifty-year-old Scotch whisky, a siphon of water, a pyramid of bite-sized sandwiches, chunky crystal glasses and crisp, white linen napkins edged in lace, a crystal ice-bucket. He poured drinks for Barbara and Karel and then made his exit. They touched the rim of their glasses and sipped their drinks. Barbara turned back to watch the flames.

That profound silence had not eliminated the sounds and signs of life going on not only within them but all around them. A change in the weather: the sound of the wind, the patter of sleet against the window panes. The almost
inaudible tick of a clock from the far end of the room merely accentuated the calm. Karel found it, although completely different, as exciting and provocative as the sexual excesses they had for days been indulging themselves in.

He leaned forward, reached around Barbara to remove the glass from her hand, and lifted her up and on to his lap. He cradled her in his arms and kissed her affectionately on the cheek. And then, with her still in his lap, he straightened her legs out. He took her shoes from her feet, placed them on the sofa to make her more comfortable, and handed back her glass.

‘That’s better. The other wasn’t bad, but having you in my arms is better,’ he told her.

She liked the happiness in his voice. She rubbed her cheek against his face, touched her glass to his and they drank. She was not unaware that he was studying her. She guessed that he was doing what they had been doing for days: observing each other so as never to forget. She was right of course. He confirmed it now. ‘I want to remember you always naked and in flagrant orgasm with me, and after that how you look now. I love how you look now.’ He took her free hand in his and, turning it over, kissed it passionately in the palm and licked it with the tip of his tongue. Delighted, she closed her eyes for a moment and sighed.

She had taken great care in dressing, wanting him to think she was beautiful. But she hadn’t wanted him to forget what a lustful creature she was either. She had put on a pair of wide slacks that hugged her hips and her provocative, well-rounded bottom, the flat of her stomach. Fashioned from the sheerest of camel-hair cloth, they seductively covered her thighs and fitted sensuously up against her cunt and across her pussy. Tucked into them she wore a white organza shirt, its pointed collar and turned-back cuffs of antique, white Belgian lace in a pattern of chrysanthemums. It was a particularly feminine and
seductive contrast, the well-tailored shirt and the semi-soft, five-inch lace cuffs that moved floppily, enchantingly, with every turn of her hand, the collar with every movement of her head. The semi-transparent silk organza only enhanced Barbara’s beauty and the blouse. With her pale nimbus and nipples it was the full, rounded shape, the heaviness and voluptuousness of her naked breasts that incited, the hint of nipple that tantalized. And, against her skin, under the blouse, a strand of huge pearls to match those in her ears. Brown alligator shoes. A large square-cut diamond on one hand.

Her shoulder-length blonde hair shone silkily. Her velvety brown eyes were filled with contentment and love for him. He missed nothing. He took it all in, flattered that she should love him so well, as several men before him had been flattered and seduced by the attentions of such a lady. She sighed. Contentment. He recognized it. His own state of mind exactly. He hugged her to him. Together they were oblivious of time and place.

When their glasses were empty he eased her off his lap, placed more logs on the fire, and refilled their glasses. He helped her to her feet and to remove her blouse, then lay down with her in his arms. She loved his hands and the way he caressed her breasts. He felt the weight of them in his hands. He stroked her arms and her shoulders, caressed the hollow under her arms, felt her ribs under his fingers. It was as if he were giving her a ritual bath with love instead of water. His tenderness was so sweet, like that of someone petting a favourite animal or a cherished object. He eased his hand under the waistband of her slacks, and she mellowed even further into his arms when he caressed the flat of her belly, the bone of her hip, plied with his fingers her mound of soft golden hair. He was satisfying not mere sexual hunger for her this time but his hunger to love someone.

The light was dying, the setting sun cast a pink winter
glow all through the room. He kissed her on her nipples, and then as tenderly on her lips. He said, ‘Let’s have some light.’

And she understood he didn’t want the day to die. She slipped from his arms after kissing him on the shoulder. For a second she laid her head on his lap, then gave him another kiss. She liked the feel of the rough wool fabric of his flies on her lips, the hardness pulsating within. She caressed him with a gentle touch where her lips had been, and then, bending over him, took his head in her hands and kissed him on the lips.

He watched her naked to the waist except for her pearls, walking around the room putting on lamps. When she returned to him he was standing in front of the fire. He kissed her breasts, and then lightly her lips. He held out her blouse ready for her to slip her arms into. He adjusted the shoulder-line of the blouse. Turning her around to face him, he first buttoned the cuffs, then the front. He poured them yet another drink, and they sat again next to each other in front of the fire. He eased himself away from her, not far, but it was deliberate, as if he had to put some space between them. They turned to face each other. There was no sadness in his voice when he told her, ‘If only we could keep the world at bay and stay where we have been for the rest of our lives. But life moves everyone on. Maybe in another place and another time.’

She stopped him by placing her hand over his mouth. ‘I don’t think that I can bear to hear this. There is so little time left. There is no point in filling it with “if only’s”. You don’t believe in “if only’s” any more than I do. The hell with another place another time, it couldn’t be anything better than what we have here and now. If you’re creating those sentiments for me, forget it. I promise you, you don’t have to. In fact I don’t want you to. I’m all right. I am with you, and will be until that plane disappears from sight.’

‘I’ve never met a woman like you.’

‘Well, I did tell you that when we met, remember?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you didn’t believe I accepted your warning that ours could never be a love story with a future in it.’

‘Was I as harsh as that?’

‘The warning was, but said with more European charm – of which you are a master, by the way.’ She smiled, to let him know she had never taken offence at his declaration but had merely accepted it. ‘I believe your exact words were, “This cannot be a love story. There will be only a beginning, no middle and no end.” ’

They had never been mere words when he had first told her that. Now, after they had become lovers, one might have thought that repetition of those words might distance her from him. But they had the opposite effect on Barbara. She felt closer to him and remembered how wonderful it had all been. How nice it would be to begin all over again. She felt sexually excited by the idea. It came as a surprise to her that her body should still want him so much, when her mind and emotions were happy and content with what they had had together. That made her restless. She found it impossible to sit still. She rose to her feet. He was right at her side and pulling her roughly into his arms.

It was as if he wanted to crush her into his very own body, make her part of himself. Their kisses were passionate and violent, and after several minutes she became breathless with ecstasy. He loosened his grip on her and watched her close her eyes and sigh. He knew that look, that sigh: he had seen it, heard it so many times in the last few days when she had come in exquisite flushes of orgasm. He was mad with lust for her. He found his way into her slacks, she wore no undergarment. With great urgency he searched out with grasping fingers as much of the warm silky stream of orgasm as he could. He brought his hand to his mouth to lick his now luscious fingers clean. His lips were shinily
coated with her. She wanted to weep for the pleasure she saw in his face, and for her own. His heart was beating like a drum. She thought he might be close to tears when, more calmly now, he took her in his arms again just to hold her while they composed themselves. He whispered in her ear, ‘I adore you. I revere you.’