Scruples (28 page)

Now he knelt on the floor and gently widened her stance so that her legs were parted. She felt his hot tongue tracing her ass and the sensation was so maddeningly good that she pushed back against him and found herself rotating her pelvis without conscious design. Just as she felt that she couldn’t stand still one minute longer without turning around, he lifted her in his arms and carried her over to the open bed. There was no light except a small bedside spot, which he turned off before he laid her down on the sheets and finally kissed her repeatedly on the open, waiting mouth.

As Valentine felt herself getting wetter she tried to clasp him close to her, exploring with her hands the well-muscled, hairy body she couldn’t see. She didn’t dare to touch his penis. She had never felt one in her life and she realized that she didn’t know what to do—how to touch it. But his kisses were so hard, so devouring that she let herself stop worrying about whether she was responding properly. Suddenly, unmistakably, she felt him trying to turn her over on her stomach. She felt a clutch of dismay—she wanted more kisses on the mouth, her nipples ached for his lips, but she turned over obediently. He began kissing her softly down the back, but very soon he was licking and sucking her bottom, almost bruising her with the ferocity of his demanding lips, bared teeth, and strong hands, kneading her ass in an eruption of passion. She was disoriented in the dark; she wasn’t sure exactly where on the bed he was, but now she realized that he was kneeling over her, his legs were holding her thighs wide apart and his hands were clasping the cheeks of her rump so that she was spread wide open. She felt the firm head of his cock thrust into the entrance of her vagina. It went in easily for an instant and then stopped as she gave a gasp of pain. He pushed again, and again she gasped. He pulled out and turned her over abruptly.

“You’re not a virgin?” he whispered, horrified.

“Yes, of course.” Her virginity was so much on her mind that it had never occurred to Valentine that he wouldn’t know.

“Oh, shit—no!”

“Please, please, Alan—keep on—go on—don’t worry if it hurts a little—I want it,” she said urgently, as she tried to find his cock in the dark with her hands to show him that she meant her words. She heard him grinding his teeth, and suddenly, as she lay sprawled on her back in a jumble of sexual quickening, pain, and the beginnings of a huge embarrassment, she felt him shoving roughly into her with two of his fingers, like a battering ram. She bit her lip but forced herself not to cry out. When Wilton had assured himself that the passage was open all the way he turned her over on her stomach again and, with a cock that felt less firm than it had a few minutes earlier, slid into her. As he rooted and grunted inside, Valentine felt him growing stiffer, bigger, until, much too soon, with a cry of triumph that sounded like agony, he came.

Afterward they lay silently, Valentine filled with unspoken words. She was totally confused, almost in tears. Was this how it was? Why had he not been more tender? How could he not know that she was aroused and unsatisfied? But in a minute he put his arms around her and pulled her over so that they were lying face to face.

“Darling Valentine—I know it wasn’t good, but I couldn’t believe—I was so surprised—forgive me—let me—” and with his fingers he played so expertly with her clitoris that she too finally came in a burst of pleasure that made her forget her questions. Of course, she thought hazily, when she came back to her sense of logic, he didn’t expect a virgin—that explained everything.

The next few weeks were among the most puzzling of Valentine’s life. She and Alan Wilton had dinner every second or third night and, invariably, afterward they went back to his house and made love. Since that first time he had been much more determined to arouse her before he entered her, driving her to a pitch of sexual rapture with his lips and his fingers, but he insisted on doing everything silently and in the dark, which she found terribly frustrating. She wanted to see his naked body and she wanted him to see her. With innocent vanity Valentine knew that her very white, perfect skin and her fragile body with the dainty, uptilted breasts and the lusciously tight, firm bottom would please any man. But even worse was his evident reluctance to enter her from the front as she had always imagined a man would do. Now when he pushed his prick into her as she lay on the big bed, he raised her ass in the air with several pillows so that he could use his expert fingers to caress her clitoris in the front while he fucked her from behind, but rarely did he want to try the ordinary position that she longed for. He explained that she wouldn’t feel as much that way, that it was manual stimulation that brought her to orgasm, not mere penetration, which wouldn’t, in any case, stimulate her clitoris directly. But something in her demanded face-to-face confrontation, which seemed, in a symbolic way, to be a meeting of equals in the game of love.

And love it must be, she told herself, as she found herself unable to think about anything besides her rapidly growing feelings for Alan Wilton. She was not just in love; she was obsessed by him because he continued to mystify her. He treated her as one would a beloved, he showed her extraordinary consideration and admiration, he shouted her name out loud now when he came, but she didn’t feel that anything between them was—settled? No, that wasn’t the right word. It was some sort of deep understanding that was lacking—a
compréhension
. With all the dining and talking, all the lovemaking, she still waited to divine the true man she knew she had not yet seen in him.

As the new line of clothes neared completion, Valentine was forced to work late several nights during the last two weeks. Normally Wilton left the office at six, leaving Valentine, Sergio, and their technical helpers to continue without him when his own day was finished. One Monday, rather late, as Valentine passed his office door on her way home, she saw, with surprise, that it was slightly open and that voices, Alan’s and Sergio’s, were coming from it. She started to hurry by when she heard her own name. Was Sergio complaining about her, she wondered, stopping to listen. She would put nothing past him.

“…  your dirty piece of French gash.”

“Sergio, I forbid you to talk like that!”

“You make me puke! You
forbid
me! Mr. Straight forbids me! If there is anything as pathetic as a fag trying to convince himself that he can make it with a woman—”

“Listen, Sergio, just because—”

“Because what? Because you can get it up for her? Sure you can—that’s no surprise. You got it up for Cindy for almost ten years, didn’t you? You got it up often enough to have two kids, didn’t you? But why did Cindy divorce you, Alan, you sickening hypocrite? Wasn’t it because you couldn’t get it up for her any more after you found out what you really wanted? Do you think that just because you do it to me instead of my doing it to you that you are any less of a fag?”

“Sergio, shut up! I admit all that shit, but it’s in the past—ancient history. Valentine is different, fresh, young—”

“Christ! Will you listen to the world’s biggest lying cock-sucker. Until she came along you couldn’t get enough of me, could you? And just where were you last night? I seem to remember you sticking that big thing of yours up my ass until I thought I’d burst—and afterward, who was that sucking me off and moaning and groaning—Santa Claus? It was you, you shithead—and you loved every second of it!”

“It was a lapse. It’s not going to happen again—that’s over.”

“Over! Sure it’s over. Just look at me, Alan, look at my prick. Don’t you want to put it in your mouth? Nice and juicy? Look at my ass, Alan—I’m going to bend over this chair and spread it apart, nice and open, just the way you like it. Can you tell me you aren’t hard already? Can you?

“You’re dying for it—it’s the only thing you really want—stop kidding yourself. I’m going to lock this door and you are going to give it to me in the ass right here on the floor—every way, Alan, every way you want. Oh, the
things
you’re going to do to me. Aren’t you, Alan?
Aren’t you?”

Valentine only heard him gasping “Yes, yes!” in a voice of abject, joyful surrender before she was able to break out of her trance and flee down the hall.

Once she reached home Valentine stopped functioning. She was incapable of doing more for herself than brushing her teeth and washing her face. She spent two days and two nights huddled in bed, under her blankets and quilt, wearing the heaviest bathrobe she had, but she was unable to feel a moment’s warmth. She drank only a few glasses of water and ate nothing. Time had stopped. She felt as if there were two enormous knots linked together inside of her, one in her head, one in her heart. If she dared to think, one of the knots would come undone. She was unable to imagine what would happen to her then. She was paralyzed with fear.

On the morning of the third day Spider began to worry seriously. He had vaguely noticed that there were no signs of life coming from her loft, but he hadn’t seen her regularly since she started going out with Wilton. Still, he should have seen some light, at least, since she couldn’t be away for the weekend in the middle of the week. True, he’d been working late for Hank Levy for the last two days, but quite suddenly he knew that something was wrong.

He went to Valentine’s door and knocked for a long time. There was no answer, but he had the strong impression that Val, or someone, was inside. Months ago they had exchanged keys to their apartments. In case of an emergency, he told her, feeling street smart, it’s always a good idea to have a neighbor who can get into your place. Certainly none of the other characters on the floor were trustworthy—in fact, who knew if they were even there? He fetched his key, knocked again, and when there was still no answer, he entered. At first he thought the room was empty. Puzzled, he looked around carefully. Nothing. No noise except the hum of the refrigerator. Then he realized that the long, almost imperceptible lump under the quilt was a body. He tiptoed over in terror, knowing that he had to investigate. With infinite care he peeled back the quilt and uncovered the back of Valentine’s head, her face, pressed sideways against the mattress, allowed just enough room for her to breathe.

“Valentine?” He went around the bed and bent close to listen to her breathing. He inspected her face carefully. She was not asleep, he was almost certain, but she wouldn’t or couldn’t open her eyes. “Valentine, are you sick? Can you hear me? Valentine, baby, darling try to talk to me!” She lay unmoving, unresponsive, but by now Spider was convinced that she heard him. “Valentine—it’s going to be all right. I’ll just call Saint Vincent’s and have them send over an ambulance—whatever it is that’s wrong, you’ll be taken good care of soon—don’t worry—I’m phoning right away.” As he backed away from the bed toward the phone, she opened her eyes.

“Not sick. Go away—” she rasped.

“Not sick! Jesus—if you could see yourself—Valentine, I’m getting you to a doctor right away.”

“Please—please, leave me alone. I swear I’m not sick.”

“Then what are you? Come
on
, baby.”

“I don’t know,” she muttered and then fell into a heaving contortion of tears, the first she had shed. For more than an hour Spider sat on the bed and held her tightly in his arms, unable to do or say anything more to comfort her. She wept with extraordinary violence, keening and howling, but not one intelligible word came from her. He was totally bewildered, but he held on to his little, wet, shaking bundle and waited tenderly, patiently, thinking from time to time of his sisters. How many little girls, miserable, heartbroken little girls, he wondered, had he ministered to?

When her sobs seemed to be descending to the level at which she might be able to hear him, Spider risked a few tentative questions. Was it bad news from Paris? Had she lost her job? Was there anything he could do?

She raised her eyes, swollen almost closed, and spoke to him with an intensity he had never heard in her before.

“No questions. It’s over. It didn’t happen. Never, never.”

“But Valentine—darling—you can’t just shut things up—”

“Elliot—
not another word!”
He was transfixed. Something fearsome and dreadful in her voice made him understand that if he asked one more question he’d never see her again.

“Know what you need, baby?” Spider said. “I’m going to make you some Campbell’s cream-of-tomato soup with buttered Ritz Crackers.” Spider’s mother believed that this combination was too much of a treat to be given to anyone but a very sick child, and every one of her seven offspring considered it the ultimate remedy.

For the next week Valentine lived on cream-of-tomato soup, cornflakes and milk, and the only other thing Spider knew how to prepare, melted-cheese sandwiches. She allowed him to persuade her out of bed, into the shower, and back to her favorite chair, but she refused to dress. Every morning he brought her hot tea and cornflakes. She sat in the chair all day staring into space, tortured by agonizing spasms of loss, tearing grief at the way she had been used, and hideous, filthy humiliation, because her emotional gift to Alan Wilton had been turned into splattered mockery by blows of reality, the reality of memory. Spider hurried home after work every evening, made the soup and a cheese sandwich, and sat with Valentine until midnight, putting on records from time to time but mainly just keeping her silent company.

Spider was not just alarmed by this collapse in Valentine, he was also intensely curious. He knew it wasn’t medical help that she needed. Since she was so adamantly silent and so passionately secretive, he didn’t know how to go about getting psychiatric help for her. So he just did the only thing he could think of; he combed
Women’s Wear
looking for a due since it was obvious that she wasn’t working for Wilton any more. He found nothing for six days. The reports had started to appear on the spring American Designers’ Collections. Twice a year, during several jam-packed weeks, the new collections are shown to buyers and the press, staggered in such a way that everyone has a chance to get to most of them. Every day during Market Week
Women’s Wear
devoted a double-spread, sometimes two, to sketches and photographs of the best of the new lines. On the sixth day they covered Wilton Associates’ collection with a fire storm of extravagant praise. A double-spread was allocated to the collection, including four detailed sketches. Three of them Spider recognized immediately as being straight from Valentine’s portfolio, although her name was not once mentioned. It seemed impossible that this could be the explanation for her breakdown—after all, he knew that other assistant designers had had the same experience—but it was all he had to go on. Spider made several phone calls.