That and all the consultancy fees from her industrial-design work. The smell of Dora’s cooking teased, and she felt a pang of hunger and a fearful need for Christopher.
Cheyney was quick to make light of it to herself and check the lapse. There was something in Christopher’s character that she knew would make him bolt if he caught any hint of it. And she couldn’t bear that, not now anyway.
In the kitchen, Cheyney opened the oven door and the sumptuous odor of roast lamb, boned and stuffed with mushrooms, apricots, prunes, and sausage meat, gusted out on the escaping air. She checked the rice boiled in a chicken stock and mixed with pine nuts and tiny shrimp, cooking in a wrapped package of thin phyllo pastry. It was crisping nicely. She was admiring the
crème brûle
decorated with fresh-peeled litchi nuts standing in readiness on the kitchen counter, Christopher’s favorite dessert, when the doorbell rang. Her lover had come home.
There was no intercom, just a buzzer to release the downstairs entry door. She pressed it. How many times had she imagined this meeting, and where she would stand, what she would say? She had no idea, but for the moment it felt like a thousand, and she was frozen behind the apartment door, trying to compose herself and to recall just one of her welcomes on cue. She could hear him taking the stairs two at a time.
Cheyney went into automatic and opened the apartment door. She felt unable to meet Christopher on the stair landing, or togreet him over the curved balustrade winding down to the ground floor, or in the barren empty hall outside her flat. All too impersonal, frightening even. And so, leaving the door ajar, she retreated into the center of the living room and watched and waited for him to come to her.
He held a suitcase in one hand and carried, over his shoulder and across his back, a large and heavy roll of unstretched canvases wrapped in a waterproof sailcloth cover, more like a cross he had to bear than an artist’s unmounted exhibition. He wore no hat, and his hair fell to one side over his forehead. Christopher sported a well-worn, black wool dress coat with a tan velvet collar. He was so very good-looking and elegant in his fine coat, but there was something else about him, a cool yet dangerously sensuous air. And then there was, too, that ostentatious ambience he cocooned himself in. It did not hint but shouted, “I am an artist. Handle with care.” It made him appear
very
vulnerable, in need.
If he saw Cheyney, as he walked the length of the hall to her apartment, which he could easily do, or when he entered the vestibule and placed his things on the floor, leaning the heavy sailcloth roll against the wall, he made no sign of it. She watched him turn and close the door, then turn around again and walk toward her, opening his coat. He entered the living room and dropped the coat over the back of the sofa, still walking toward her, and at last they were face-to-face. She realized at once that they were nervous with each other.
He combed the hair back from his forehead with his fingers.
“You have no idea what it means to have you waiting here. New York is always hard for me.”
“You look exhausted.”
“I am, I seem to have been traveling forever.”
“Christopher …”
Before she could say another word, he interrupted her with, “The apartment looks the same, beautiful, chic, extravagant. Smells wonderful. Lilies and Dora’s cooking.”
Pleasant enough words, but the indifference, the chilling denial of love, affection even, in his voice, or his manner … It was all so strange and banal. Not at all what she had envisaged for them, it was no kind of reunion at all. Why didn’t he sweep her into his arms, acknowledge her existence with a touch ofthe hand, a hug, a kiss on the cheek, at the very least? They were, after all, lovers, with the heat and passions of lovers. Was she wrong? Had the fire of erotic love gone out for them? What was all this ice?
Cheyney was quick to make light of it to herself and check the lapse. There was something in Christopher’s character that she knew would make him bolt if he caught any hint of it. And she couldn’t bear that, not now anyway.
In the kitchen, Cheyney opened the oven door and the sumptuous odor of roast lamb, boned and stuffed with mushrooms, apricots, prunes, and sausage meat, gusted out on the escaping air. She checked the rice boiled in a chicken stock and mixed with pine nuts and tiny shrimp, cooking in a wrapped package of thin phyllo pastry. It was crisping nicely. She was admiring the
crème brûle
decorated with fresh-peeled litchi nuts standing in readiness on the kitchen counter, Christopher’s favorite dessert, when the doorbell rang. Her lover had come home.
There was no intercom, just a buzzer to release the downstairs entry door. She pressed it. How many times had she imagined this meeting, and where she would stand, what she would say? She had no idea, but for the moment it felt like a thousand, and she was frozen behind the apartment door, trying to compose herself and to recall just one of her welcomes on cue. She could hear him taking the stairs two at a time.
Cheyney went into automatic and opened the apartment door. She felt unable to meet Christopher on the stair landing, or togreet him over the curved balustrade winding down to the ground floor, or in the barren empty hall outside her flat. All too impersonal, frightening even. And so, leaving the door ajar, she retreated into the center of the living room and watched and waited for him to come to her.
He held a suitcase in one hand and carried, over his shoulder and across his back, a large and heavy roll of unstretched canvases wrapped in a waterproof sailcloth cover, more like a cross he had to bear than an artist’s unmounted exhibition. He wore no hat, and his hair fell to one side over his forehead. Christopher sported a well-worn, black wool dress coat with a tan velvet collar. He was so very good-looking and elegant in his fine coat, but there was something else about him, a cool yet dangerously sensuous air. And then there was, too, that ostentatious ambience he cocooned himself in. It did not hint but shouted, “I am an artist. Handle with care.” It made him appear
very
vulnerable, in need.
If he saw Cheyney, as he walked the length of the hall to her apartment, which he could easily do, or when he entered the vestibule and placed his things on the floor, leaning the heavy sailcloth roll against the wall, he made no sign of it. She watched him turn and close the door, then turn around again and walk toward her, opening his coat. He entered the living room and dropped the coat over the back of the sofa, still walking toward her, and at last they were face-to-face. She realized at once that they were nervous with each other.
He combed the hair back from his forehead with his fingers.
“You have no idea what it means to have you waiting here. New York is always hard for me.”
“You look exhausted.”
“I am, I seem to have been traveling forever.”
“Christopher …”
Before she could say another word, he interrupted her with, “The apartment looks the same, beautiful, chic, extravagant. Smells wonderful. Lilies and Dora’s cooking.”
Pleasant enough words, but the indifference, the chilling denial of love, affection even, in his voice, or his manner … It was all so strange and banal. Not at all what she had envisaged for them, it was no kind of reunion at all. Why didn’t he sweep her into his arms, acknowledge her existence with a touch ofthe hand, a hug, a kiss on the cheek, at the very least? They were, after all, lovers, with the heat and passions of lovers. Was she wrong? Had the fire of erotic love gone out for them? What was all this ice?
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