Unnatural Order. Liz Porter

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СКАЧАТЬ six months ago she had been minutes away from fucking a man she had known only half an hour. It had been a hot sweaty London summer night and she’d gone to a rock club with Jane, who lived in the flat upstairs, to see an Australian band. By ten o’clock, Jane was nearly fainting from the heat and smoke. Gratefully accepting Caroline’s assurance that she didn’t mind being left there alone, she fled in a taxi. Caroline, reared on a childhood of Melbourne summers where century temperatures were celebrated with front page newspaper stories, had leaned against a wall while the band set up, enjoying the sensation of sweat trickling down her back. That’s when Dave had approached, or was it Mike? Close-cropped hair. Bright eyes in a bony face and a knowing, cheeky smile. Muscled arms swelling out of a sleeveless T-shirt. A tattoo. A rose was it? Or an anchor? A slight Cockney accent. After 20 minutes of smalltalk he had leant over and licked a bead of sweat from her neck, smiling as she shivered with pleasure. Within seconds she was leaning back against the wall, oblivious to the pulsing crowd in front of her, as he kissed her throat and pushed his hands under her skirt.

      ‘Can we go to your place?’ he whispered sharply. Then reason dragged her back from the edge of sweet oblivion and she was suddenly clever enough to feign regret.

      ‘I can’t,’ she smiled. ‘I’m married. This is my night out with the girls but my girlfriend’s gone home.’ He had smiled understanding and shrugged.

      ‘I’ll just go to the loo,’ she had said, straightening her skirt. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’

      ‘Be quick,’ he said, his teeth wolfish in the dark. ‘I’ll have to make the most of you here, won’t I?’ She had headed for the ladies’ and then doubled back, making for the exit. Then, pushing through the theatre crowds, she ran through Covent Garden and along the Strand, not stopping until she saw a vacant taxi’s welcoming yellow light.

      Footsteps sounded in the corridor and she heard a key fumble in the lock. Pulling the covers over her head, she assumed the foetal position and started breathing deeply.

      Fantasies of escape rushed through her mind while she listened to Karl moving about the room. She heard the creak of an armchair as he sat down, the rustle of a newspaper, the click of his cigarette lighter. An exaggerated breath inwards as he inhaled the first smoke. Almost a sigh.

      Perhaps he’d tire of waiting for her to wake up and would go out for the day. Then she could check out and make for the airport. Why hadn’t she fled the minute she’d woken up? By now she could be barricaded in her room. Or, passport in hand, she could be padding down the street in her T-shirt and jeans.

      But she hadn’t fled and he wasn’t going to leave. There was no way out.

      Reluctantly she made stirring movements. There was an immediate response from the armchair across the room. Soft footsteps tapped across the floor, then the bed gave slightly as he sat down beside her.

      Caroline counted to ten and opened her eyes. Karl was holding a huge bowl.

      ‘My God, you can sleep,’ he said. ‘I went out to a street stall to buy these.’ He held up a large bunch of glistening purple grapes.

      ‘Well?’ His green eyes looked straight into hers. ‘How are you this morning? Obviously you slept well. I couldn’t… I was too excited.’

      ‘I still feel sleepy,’ she murmured, making a small performance of rubbing her eyes. ‘I take a while to wake up. I never know how I feel until I’ve had my first coffee.’

      ‘Have a grape then,’ he said, breaking off a small bunch and dangling them over her mouth. ‘Lord Byron ate exactly this variety of grape for breakfast every morning when he stayed in Lisbon.’

      ‘Really?’

      ‘No.’ He smiled down at her. ‘But my very German, very efficient guidebook said that he stayed in Lisbon. And how would he have been able to resist grapes like these?’

      Caroline raised herself up on one elbow. Her Byron book hadn’t mentioned Portugal, but she was less than halfway through it. Karl’s interest in Byron was a pleasant surprise. Most of the English men she knew seemed to be uninterested in the poetry of their own culture. And here was someone who wasn’t even a native speaker of English. The usual unkind thought popped into her head. Perhaps he had seen her Byron book and was manufacturing another of the many coincidences in reading taste that they had discovered on their day together in Mykonos. But that wasn’t possible. Her new book was still in her handbag, which was back in her own room. And on the beach he had also claimed some enthusiasm for Jane Austen, a most impressive confession for a man. In her experience male readers tended to view Austen as too domestic, too apolitical and just too feminine to attract the interest of a serious red-blooded male, no matter how literary.

      ‘Maybe Byron only went there for a day.’ Karl picked up a solid-looking, red book from the floor. ‘German travel book writers are very thorough. Even if Byron just got off the boat for 10 minutes and walked around, they would have felt obliged to mention it.’

      ‘I haven’t read enough of my book to be sure.’ Caroline picked a plump grape off the plate Karl was holding and bit into it, savouring the sensation as it burst, filling her mouth with sweet cool liquid.

      ‘Byron would never have eaten these,’ she said, taking a small bunch. ‘He was always fussing about his weight. He’d get a paunch and then go on a diet of dry biscuits and vinegar to slim down.’

      Karl smiled and looked down at his own lean brown midriff.

      ‘Poor Byron. I suppose he thought his girlfriends wouldn’t love him any more if he was fat.’

      Caroline tried not to stare at the smooth ridges of muscle beneath the skin of Karl’s stomach.

      ‘More likely he wouldn’t have loved himself any more.’

      ‘You are a cynic, Caroline,’ said Karl. ‘Despite his great success as a poet, he must have remained vulnerable. He had a… Klumpfuss… how do you say it in English…’

      ‘A club foot,’ said Caroline. ‘And I’m not cynical, I’m realistic.’ She looked down at Karl’s long bony feet with their neatly trimmed toenails.

      ‘Anyway forget Byron’s feet. What about his stomach? Does this very efficient, very German book of yours mention important things like the name of Byron’s favourite Lisbon restaurant?’

      Karl took the book back. ‘No. But it says that he went to the town of Sintra. That’s only an hour’s drive from here. And he said it was as beautiful as the Garden of Eden. I think we should go there.’

      ‘I think we should too,’ said Caroline, stretching her arms and legs beneath the covers. ‘But where do you think Lord Byron would have taken his first cafe com leite of the day?’

      Karl smiled.

      ‘If he was anything like you, Lady Caroline, I suppose he would have gone to the nearest place he could find.’

      ‘OK.’ Caroline sat up to get out of bed. ‘Then that’s where we’ll go.’

      Karl caught her wrist as she swung her legs to the floor. ‘Are you glad you came?’

      Caroline paused. ‘Yes, I am.’

      ‘You don’t sound very convinced.’

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