The Pleasure Quartet
Read The Pleasure Quartet Online
Authors: Vina Jackson
the
Pleasure
Quartet:
Summer
By the same author:
Eighty Days Yellow
Eighty Days Blue
Eighty Days Red
Eighty Days Amber
Eighty Days White
Mistress of Night and Dawn
THE PLEASURE QUARTET
Autumn
Winter
Spring
First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2015
A CBS COMPANY
Copyright © Vina Jackson 2015
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.
® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved.
The right of Vina Jackson to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
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222 Gray’s Inn Road
London WC1X 8HB
Simon & Schuster Australia, Sydney
Simon & Schuster India, New Delhi
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
PB ISBN: 978-1-4711-4157-7
EBOOK ISBN: 978-1-4711-4158-4
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Typeset by Hewer text UK Ltd, Edinburgh
Printed and bound in Great Britain by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY
Contents
1
It’s Not You, It’s Me
It was the squirrel’s fault.
Following a late brunch in the West Village, close by Greenwich Avenue, Noah and April headed for Washington Square Park. The Sunday warm-weather crowds were out in force. A pianist had wheeled his large ambulatory instrument close to the afternoon shadow of the arch and was playing an improvisation on a melody from a Rachmaninov concerto with loud flourish. The hordes of guitar players spread across the park strummed away in total discordance, echoes of their songs clashing indifferently against each other in the sultry air, and the resident pigeon lady sat further south against her usual railing, busy knitting. Around the fountain, children and adults dipped their toes in the water while tourists snapped photos on their sleek mobile phones. A street fair filled the side roads on the other side of the park by the tall university buildings, stalls alternately offering aromatic bites, handcrafted jewellery and other items Noah would never have contemplated gifting even to his worst enemies. Not that he believed he had any genuine enemies.
April had suggested eating at a vegetarian gourmet on Sixth Avenue that she had developed a strong liking for and, just under an hour later, Noah still felt hungry, his taste buds and appetite barely tickled by the somewhat tasteless food they had been served, and now the combined smells of barbecued meat and grilled onions floating across towards them from the fair seemed to swirl around him and make his mouth water. He now regretted not having talked April into visiting Toto’s sushi joint on Thompson Street.
They held hands, strolled lazily along the pathways, turning right after the fountain to avoid the dog enclosure, April’s shoulder-length hair gently animated by the breeze.
She wore a simple floral print summer dress that reached to just under her knees, her tanned legs straight and sporty, her movement relaxed above the tread of her flat, pale-pink thin-soled shoes.
Rushing around a corner, two children on scooters sped towards them, weaving their way through the crowds. The boy, blond-haired in blue shorts and a yellow T-shirt, must have been six or thereabouts, and his hardy sidekick was a tiny girl with a massive green helmet that dwarfed her features, round-faced and dark-eyed and with a look of utter determination, as if intent on colliding with them if they didn’t steer clear of her path.
Noah couldn’t help chuckling at the sight. April gripped his hand tighter. They slowed down, anticipating the accidental collision but, just inches away from their feet, the two speeding kids veered away with practised grace and rushed by, oblivious, as if they owned the park, never slowing down.
‘That little one was so cute,’ April remarked.
Noah smiled.
‘There’s space over there,’ April said, indicating a wooden bench a stone’s throw away which was just being vacated by an elderly couple and was shielded from the sun by the shadow of a nearby tree with low-lying branches. ‘Let’s go and sit.’
They had no plans for the afternoon. Noah thought that maybe later, towards evening, they might catch the new Michael Mann movie at the Union Square multiplex, but until then there was nothing on the cards. All he wanted to do was relax, slob, what with the rush of meetings he had scheduled at the office the following day. Similarly, he knew that April’s following forty-eight hours would be frantic and involving as the monthly magazine where she worked as a production assistant had to go to press. They regularly relaxed this way at the end of the weekends, their Sunday routine.
Noah remained silent as they sat. April did not interrupt his reverie. She took a sip from her bottle of water and offered it to him. He declined it.
Usually content to sit alongside him in silence, she seemed unnaturally restless today. Even after almost two years together, she often complained that she couldn’t read him properly, interpret his changing moods with any degree of accuracy. She was upset by his impassivity.
She finally broke the silence.
‘Something worrying you? You seem . . . distant.’
‘Not at all. Just daydreaming.’
There was something on his mind, but he couldn’t put a finger on it, define it, isolate it. It burrowed away in silence, unsettling him.
He looked around at April, sketched a silent kiss on his lips and directed it towards her. Her mid-length hair was shaken by flutters of gold as the sun snaked its way between the branches that mostly shielded it. Her bare shoulders were a similar shade of warmth, the tan they had both acquired that summer in Cancun persisting.
He couldn’t help but find her beautiful. Always had. His golden girl.
‘I love you,’ April announced.
‘And I you,’ he responded.
He had spoken the words automatically, not for the first time in answer to the same phrase, he knew. As if not actually responding in kind was not lying.
Other couples walked by, young and old, trailed by dogs or children on occasion, many hand in hand, their faces blank, their body language a mystery to him.
Noah’s throat tightened.
April lowered her hand to his right knee and squeezed it.
Noah watched her slender fingers as they gripped the material of his jeans.
‘Oh . . .’
She let go of his knee.
She was no longer gazing at him but was looking at the tree behind the bench that faced them, on the opposite side of the pathway. He could hear her holding her breath.
He peered ahead. There was nothing out of the ordinary.
April eyes widened.
‘Wow . . .’
Noah blinked, and finally noticed what was catching her attention.
A bushy-tailed grey squirrel was peering at them through the railing, sashaying its way from the tree across the sparse grass, its slow but steady straight-line movement like a clockwork toy’s, its eyes round and dark and fixed on April.
She hesitantly extended her hand, bidding it welcome.
Noting her invitation, the hardy squirrel ventured past the wide opening of the railing and took a foothold on the busy path, in blissful ignorance of the passers-by, unafraid of being kicked or run over, and inched its way towards the bench where April and Noah sat.
‘It can see me . . . it’s coming towards me,’ April whispered.
‘It’s that come-hither smile of yours. Bet you it’s a male squirrel . . . Or maybe it thinks you have some food for it . . .’
The small animal had finally made its way across the path and faced them, actually looking up at April, whose happy grin was broadening by the second.
What was it expecting? For her to stroke it, feed it?
April dug her fingers into her small handbag, searching for some food she could offer the squirrel, but came up with nothing.
She glanced at Noah, hoping he could help.
He shook his head.
The diminutive animal sat facing her like a supplicant.
April slowly extended her hand downwards in its direction.
Her palm was just a hand’s length away from the squirrel’s face when the speeding duo on the scooters returned and the squirrel raced back across the path and onto the safety of the lawn to avoid them.
April straightened.
Noah could sense her disappointment.
Silence fell.
Had she been expecting the squirrel to lick her, kiss her?
A thin smile appeared on her face, as she reflected on what had happened, wry, lonely.
Noah finally recognised her mood. It wasn’t the first time in the past months that he had witnessed it. She was getting broody, not so much distant but restless, as if something was missing from her life, their relationship.
And although he would never admit it to her face, he knew she was right.
And his feelings were not dissimilar, although they expressed themselves in different ways.
She wanted more.
He wanted more, or at any rate something different. But where April was no doubt aware, deep inside, of what she sought, Noah was not, aside from the fact that their paths were imperceptibly diverging.
A family, each respective member greedily enjoying ice cream cones in a variety of pastel colours, walked by, two small dogs on leashes trailing them, tails wagging.
‘Want one?’ Noah asked.
‘What?’
‘An ice cream?’
April didn’t answer.
‘Do you have any gigs this week?’ she asked instead.
‘A couple. The Nevsky Prospekt are playing at the Bowery Ballroom, and the Holy Criminals are doing an unpublicised appearance as support at the Knitting Factory.’
Viggo Franck, who’d fronted the Criminals for years, had allegedly retired or, alternatively, gone solo, although in the latter case he was not contractually committed to Noah’s record company should he come up with new product. The group had found themselves a new singer and were hoping to bed him in away from the attentions of the press and fans.
‘Cool,’ April said. ‘Can I come along?’
‘No problem.’
The spectacle of the squirrel, and the kids with the scooters, had triggered maternal thoughts, he was certain of it. Yet again.
After their time in Washington Square Park, April had expressed the wish to walk more and they’d strolled over to the High Line and ambled along its length twice, mostly absorbed in the flow of their private thoughts.
‘Make love to me,’ April asked as they closed the door to the apartment behind them.
Noah turned towards her, blissfully enjoying the sight of her beauty. After so many hours spent walking in the sun, her freckles were breaking through, delicately scattered across the bridge of her nose and the sharp ridge of her cheekbones. The golden sheen of her hair was now burnished with warm shades of bronze, the pale emerald hue of her eyes now matching the paint she had used to decorate the narrow corridor that led to their white bedroom. Noah had never been much of a visual person and had allowed April total control over the apartment’s configuration, shades and furnishings when they’d moved in together a year previously, his only proviso the integrity of the wall of CD shelves in his study. She’d initially argued he could transfer them all to digital – it would take less space – but Noah had insisted on keeping them, arguing that music was his job and he was allowed this idiosyncrasy.