Trading Up (31 page)

“But maybe it’s something between them,” he said, frowning. “It’s a private thing, between a couple . . .”

She glanced back at him in annoyance. Was he trying to make a reference to his relationship with Mimi? And giving him an injured look, as if she were personally hurt by his comment, she said, “But that’s just the problem. It isn’t private. And if the girl isn’t lying . . . Well, nobody can know the truth until the baby is born.” Turning her head away, she added, “And there’s poor Patty. All she ever wanted to do was to get pregnant and have Digger’s child . . .”

“Ah yes, that’s true,” he said dreamily, as if he were thinking of someone else.

“For a woman, having a child is the most beautiful thing . . .”
Ugh,
Janey thought—there was nothing more off-putting than a man who believed that a woman’s sole purpose in life was to breed, but she said, “Oh yes. The
most
beautiful.”

They reached the door to the apartment, and turning the key in the lock, he pushed open the door and motioned for her to go through. For a moment, she was startled by how small the place was, and how dismal, and for a second she couldn’t believe how long she’d lived there.

Viewed optimistically, it was the starter apartment of a young person who spent as little time at home as possible, and who wasn’t terribly successful financially. The living room was a narrow chute with a window at the end, overlooking Sixty-seventh Street; the entire apartment had once been one large room, but had been chopped into two rooms with a galley kitchen and a tiny bathroom that con-18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:23 PM Page 166

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tained a molded plastic shower instead of a tub. There was a shallow fireplace in the living room, but it didn’t work and the mantelpiece was constructed of plywood with fake plastic brick tiles glued to the wood—a legacy of the former occupant.

Janey had always meant to replace it with a marble mantelpiece, but she’d never had the money when she was living there, and now that she was renting it out, there didn’t seem to be any point.

“Do you feel better now? Being back in your old home?” Zizi asked, sliding the fur coat from her shoulders.

“Oh yes. So much better,” Janey said.

“I’ll make you some tea.”

“I’d prefer vodka,” Janey said. “A splash of vodka on ice would be nice, with a little twist of lemon if you have it?”

He looked at her curiously, but said nothing; removing his coat and hanging it up in the closet, he went into the kitchen.

Janey moved some papers off the couch and sat down, crossing her legs. The couch was the only decent piece of furniture—it was covered in an expensive red velvet fabric and was a castoff of Harold Vane’s. Janey couldn’t tolerate disorder and had always kept the apartment tidy, but glancing around now, she saw that it was filled with a sort of boy-mess—the dirty accumulations of a young man who doesn’t clean and refuses to put things away. An ashtray filled with old cigarette butts sat on top of the television, the detritus of a long evening spent with a friend; three muddy rubber riding boots were in the corner; a coat and shirt hung over a chair; in front of the window was a folding card table, on which sat a dirty coffee cup. Peeking into the bedroom, Janey saw that the bedclothes were in disarray: a pillow, stripped of its cover, lay on the floor, and the dresser was heaped with clothing. She wondered how Mimi could even come here, and she shuddered to think that this might have been her life . . .

But still,
he
was awfully attractive, she thought, watching him move around the tiny kitchen. He was wearing a black cashmere turtleneck sweater, with the kind of fine, narrow fit that showed off the lines of his chest and was probably designer—

Prada or Dolce & Gabbana—when you were young and beautiful like Zizi, Janey thought, a black turtleneck and jeans could take you anywhere.

“There’s no lemon,” he called from the kitchen.

“I didn’t think there would be,” Janey responded.

He came into the living room, carrying a tumbler filled with ice and vodka, and as she took it from him, Janey noticed his hands. They were large and smooth—a model’s hands, without the knotty joints one often found on slim fingers—and she suddenly wondered what it would be like to have those hands on her breasts.

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He sat down on the couch next to her, watching as she took a sip of her drink.

“You’re feeling better, yes?” he asked. His voice was kind enough, but underneath, Janey sensed a desire to be rid of her, and she wondered why.

“A little,” she said, sipping her drink and looking up at him; his answering gaze was slightly perplexed, as if he couldn’t quite figure out how she’d ended up sitting on his couch. “Can you excuse me for a moment?” she asked, standing up and going into the bathroom.

She checked her appearance in the mirror, and then looked around. The sink probably hadn’t been cleaned for months—there was brown soap scum around the faucet and dried toothpaste in the basin; a can of shaving cream with a missing top sat on a glass shelf, next to a toothbrush with bristles worn down to the nub and a hairbrush filled with blond hairs and lint. She picked up the hairbrush, thinking about the kind of man who had so little regard for cleanliness, and so little self-consciousness, but Zizi was a type of man she wasn’t used to. He was younger and poorer, and, she thought, spotting a mildewing towel thrown over the top of the shower door, more natural—the essential male nature still ran strong in him. Most of the men she had been with were groomed and housetrained, like a carefully bred species of civilized dog. The richer they were, the cleaner they became; evidence of the messy and personal was removed (by maids) and their style of lovemaking was goal-oriented and neat. Replacing the hairbrush on the glass shelf, she imagined what Zizi would be like—raw and unfettered and energetic, that his hands and his mouth would be all over her and that he would be dirty enough to stick his tongue inside her and spread her cheeks and lick her asshole . . .

There was a tentative knock on the door. “Is everything okay?” she heard Zizi ask. Looking around in a panic, she spotted
Maxim
magazine on the floor in the tiny space between the toilet and the wall and, bending down to pick it up, she said,

“I’ll be right out.”

It was the December issue, the one with her on the cover, and seeing her own photograph with the narrowed, come-hither eyes and her hips jutting out toward the camera (her waist, hips, and thighs had all been airbrushed and her torso slightly stretched in order to make her appear longer), she suddenly had an idea.

She would give him the thrill of his life; she would make the imaginary object of desire real. The power of it made her giddy with excitement. It would be fun and sexy, an experience neither one of them would ever forget. As she removed her blouse and skirt with impatient fingers, she remembered that there were other men for whom she’d performed this same act, in this same bathroom in this very apartment, and how much she enjoyed it. She slid off her panty hose, thinking that it had been a while since she’d indulged herself sexually—the last time had been months 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:23 PM Page 168

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ago, in the spring, when she’d gotten slightly drunk (“relaxed” was a better word for it), and had displayed herself across the mantelpiece in the home of a restaurateur; she’d made him lick her pussy from below.

Still, she hadn’t had much sex of the type she imagined she might actually enjoy, and the bland kisses and caresses of most men typically left her cold. She experienced a strange disconnection from her body to her brain, and often felt nothing—but the lack of feeling was made up for by the sense of power she gained in arousing a man’s sexual passions. She felt she could control men with sex, and the
power
was her turn-on. She loved to see a man losing control under her touch; at times it was so overwhelming, she would have a fantasy of reaching forward and placing her hands around the man’s neck, of strangling him and seeing the shock in his eyes; there were moments during the administration of a blow job when she wondered gleefully if the man had any idea how easy it would be to grab a knife and stab him. And there were times when she very occasionally wondered if she would ever lose control . . . but she wouldn’t. She never did.

She heard the phone ringing in the kitchen, and Zizi’s sharp, slightly accented,

“Allo?” Checking her appearance in the mirror again, she wondered if it might be Mimi. But that wouldn’t matter. Even if Zizi told her that she was there, they both had a perfectly logical explanation, and this was still, technically, her apartment; there was no reason why she shouldn’t make the occasional visit. Of course, she wouldn’t tell Mimi right away about Zizi’s indiscretion—she would save it for the right moment, when Mimi was already upset with him, thereby hammering home the final nail in the coffin of their breakup. Or, she thought, idly running her hands over her chest and stomach, she might not tell her at all. Her little moment with Zizi might be something she would want to repeat, and consequently must be kept a secret.

“Yes. No problem. I’ll meet you in half an hour,” she heard Zizi say, and giving herself one more glance in the mirror, she was happy that she was wearing good lingerie that day—a white, lacy push-up demi bra and matching thong panties; on her feet were lavender high-heeled sandals, since it was now considered the height of fashion to wear sandals in the winter, as it implied that you were rich enough not to have to walk. The pearls gleamed around her neck like burnished pewter, and for a moment, she thought of Selden. But
no,
she just wouldn’t
think
about Selden right now . . .

She heard Zizi hang up the phone, and then, pulling open the bathroom door with a flourish, she stood with one hand on her hip and the other resting on the doorjamb. In the same sultry voice she used in her Victoria’s Secret commercials, she cooed, “I don’t think you’re going
anywhere
.” He was standing in the kitchen, filling a glass with water from the tap, and his 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:23 PM Page 169

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shock was so great he nearly dropped the glass in the sink. At first, his look was one of confusion, and Janey expected that in the next second, it would change to knowing anticipation. But instead, he took a step backward and, balancing the glass unsteadily on the edge of the sink, asked in horror, “What are you doing?”

“What do you think I’m doing?” she trilled, taking a step toward him. In a second, they were both trapped in the tiny kitchen and he was backed up against the wall; she slid her hand behind his neck and pulled his face down for a kiss.

His lips were stiff and unyielding, but that was probably only due to the surprise of seeing her nearly naked and available. Keeping her back straight, she bent her knees, sliding her hands down his chest as she gracefully sank to a squatting position—looking up at his face, she saw that his expression hadn’t altered from a sort of disbelieving shock, and she was anticipating how his face would change when she got her hands on his penis. She snapped open the top button of his jeans, and for a second, her fingers were poised above the zipper, as if in delicious anticipation of pulling the little teeth apart. And in that second, his mouth opened and he emitted a mighty roar.

He might have meant to say “no,” but the sound was more guttural than that—

it was more the cry of an animal defending its turf. Reaching down, he somehow got her underneath the arms and hurled her backward; she fell sharply onto her butt and toppled sideways, but before she could get up, he was racing toward her like a linebacker, and scooping her up into his arms he rushed toward the couch. Thinking he was overcome with pent-up desire, she wrapped her arms around his neck, and as he tried to throw her onto the couch, she tightened her grip, so that he had no choice but to fall on top of her. Locked in this deathly embrace, she wrapped one leg around him and began nuzzling his neck, as he struggled to break free. Finally, he grabbed her hands and pinned them over her head, sitting on top of her and shouting, “What the
hell
are you doing?” They were both panting. Janey couldn’t speak—she was overwhelmed by the physical feeling of him on top of her. It was violent and luscious; she was already remembering the soft buttery texture of his skin. Her normally latent sexual desire was aroused—it felt as new as if she were a teenager. Twisting beneath him, her only thought was that he must kiss her. She wanted him to take her, no matter what the consequences . . .

He studied her face for a moment, and then, in disgust, shoved her hands away and stood up. “Is that . . . what you do to men?” he demanded, with a sweep of his arm. His upper lip was curled in anger, revealing hard white teeth with pointy incisors. Janey looked at him, wishing that he hadn’t broken the moment of passion, but pleased that she’d caused such a reaction. Sitting up, she reached out her hand.

“Come on, darling,” she said.

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He shook his head at her and stalked to the bathroom; he returned carrying her clothes. “Get dressed,” he hissed.

She laughed and rolled onto her back. She knew she must look delicious lying on the couch in only her tiny lingerie; giving visual pleasure like this was one of her few sources of self-esteem, and she was still confident of getting him to have sex with her. “What if I don’t feel like it?” she asked, languidly tracing a circle in the air with her finger. “After all, it
is
my apartment. I suppose I can do what I like in it . . .”

“Get dressed!” he said, tossing her clothes on top of her.

The indignity of having her clothes flung at her was like a cold slap, shocking her out of her reverie. She grabbed her skirt and hurled it back at him, but she missed and it fluttered weakly to the floor near his feet. She was willing to take everything he had dished out so far, in the name of dangerous sex, but this was an insult. “How dare you?” she cried, jumping to her feet. She flew at him, driven by a sudden, violent emotion, longing to hit him, to smack him across the face. He stepped to the side, grabbing her wrist and twisting it behind her back, and then pushed her away from him.