Transgressions by Sarah Dunant Read Free Book Online Page B

whose name she couldn’t remember, a youngish man with a square face and floppy hair in a suit that was fashionably too big for him. They were talking and eating, balancing kabobs and glasses on their laps. He was expressing some witty reservation about the cinematic talents of Tarantino, in a manner that suggested intelligence as well as just cultural perversity. She looked across at him, and the apartment block in Prague came mischievously back into her mind. What would you do if I bent down now and slipped off my panties, she thought. Would it bring us closer together? His fingertips were greasy with sausage fat. She imagined herself licking them. Afterward. The thought was absurd. Outrageous. She had another drink, and found herself choking a laugh into it.
    “. . . that kind of violence. What is it? You all right?”
    It got worse before it got better. In the end he had to thump her across the shoulder blades. The perfect introduction to intimacy. She managed to get herself back in control. “Nothing, nothing. Just an unexpected idea.”
    “If it’s that funny I’d love to hear it.”
    “Really, I doubt you would,” she said, this time with a straight face.
    “You sure about that?” He smiled the question, inviting in his curiosity, but she couldn’t rise to it. The moment had passed and she found herself already withdrawn and embarrassed at the same time.
    In the end he gave up. After a while he drifted away and she knew suddenly that it was time to go home. She made her way through the house to the front hall, where she called her local cab company who said it would be fifteen minutes at least. She was still deciding whether or not to wait for them when her hostess appeared.
    “Eliza! You’re not going home already, are you? The dancing’s just getting started.”
    Sally, glass in hand, equally the worse for wear. “Sal, hi. Yeah, I’ve got to go. I’ve . . . I’ve got an early morning.”
    “In which case you’re going to be tired. It’s after one o’clock, you know.”
    “Is it?”
    “Hmmm. You must have been having fun. He’s all right, isn’t he?”
    “Who?”
    “Who? The man you were supposed to meet three weeks ago, that’s who. Malcolm. Fuzzy hair, nice body, good eyes.” Malcolm. Of course. The name she couldn’t remember. “Are you going to see him again?”
    “No. Why, are you?”
    Sally laughed. “I do believe you’re drunk, too. Tremendous. At least I feel I’ve accomplished something tonight. So, tell me, how have you been? God, I’m sick of talking to your answering machine. I was ready to give up on you. I tell you, if you hadn’t said yes to this, Patrick was all for changing sides.”
    “Changing sides?”
    “Yes. He was going to invite Tom instead.”
    “He didn’t, did he?” she said, altogether too anxiously.
    “No, of course not. Don’t worry. I told him it was verboten. By the way, talking of which, have you got that key back yet?”
    “Yes.”
    “Good. And how about the business with Van Morrison?”
    “Oh . . . er . . . I found them again.”
    “Where?”
    “In the house.”
    “There, I told you. Too nasty even for our Tom. Still, you are in his thoughts, you know.”
    “What?”
    “Tom’s thoughts.”
    “How do you know?”
    She looked sheepish. “Because Patrick had lunch with him a couple of days ago. Don’t worry. I promise, no secrets. Since when did I tell Patrick anything anyway? But he said Tom was a bit down.”
    “Why?”
    “He’d been for some interview or other. In Canada? Was sure he hadn’t got the job. Politics, I gather.”
    “Yes. It usually is.”
    “So. Poor Tom, eh? Patrick said he misses you.”
    “Did Tom say that?”
    “Lord, no. That was Patrick’s take on it. He said he seemed in a bit of a state. He got quite drunk apparently, and a bit bitter about things.”
    “Things?”
    “Yes, well, you know. You and him. Life, all the old Tom-type stuff. Patrick felt sorry for him really. That’s why he wanted to