Part 6 (1/2)

”Who me?” Mish teased. She turned to Gunther. ”Isn't she adorable?”

Gunther turned his well-made features to face Meredith and slid his eyes over the whole of her in a way that made her cheeks burn. ”Indeed.” He paused, took a deep breath and broke out of his trance only at the sound of his own voice. ”Listen, I was wondering if you two would like to join my friends and me for dinner. We have a private room in the back and there is more than enough food and drink to go round. I expect you will find it a...unique experience, if nothing else.”

Meredith winced apologetically and began to explain about the problem of their catching the last tube home and tomorrow morning's seven a.m. call to set. But it was funny, because none of her words seemed to come out, or if they did, they were drowned beneath the sound of Mish's cries of acquiescence.

In a blink, they were squeezed together on a love seat in a back room, making slurry small talk with a group of four tall blond men in black business suits. Gunther introduced the men as his ”patrons.” More trays of drinks appeared, and one of the men-a tall, hawk-faced banker named Benedict-stood up and raised his gla.s.s.

”To our good friend Gunther, on the cusp of his great success. Cheers to a true artist among all the other contemporary rubbish. Hah!”

The men banged gla.s.ses and shouted things in German. Gunther went around the room slapping shoulders, heads and b.u.t.tocks like an American football coach.

Meredith glanced at Mish, hoping to share a quizzical look, but her friend was already deep in conversation with a pair of black lapels to her left.

”In Canada, we don't have castles,” Mish was saying, popping the tip of a Silk Cut into the corner of her mouth. ”We have cottages instead.”

”And where exactly are these cottages located?” The man produced a gold lighter and offered her the flame.

”On lakes, or sometimes islands. In Georgian Bay, for instance, you can buy an entire island for like less than fifty grand.”

”A whole island you can purchase? With trees on it as well? For the price of a used car?”

”Oh, yes, plenty of trees. And bushes. And rocks. And everything.”

Meredith felt a nudge. Gunther appeared on the love seat beside her. He inclined his head and smiled like a bashful boy.

”I apologize for my friends. Men in money are inexcusably boorish. But they are mandatory, don't you think?”

”What do you mean?”

”That they are a necessary evil.”

”I understand, but for what?”

”For art.”

Meredith thought this over. ”I guess in another era you'd be having an affair with some d.u.c.h.ess or other.”

”Stealing in the servant's entrance and ravis.h.i.+ng her on the drawing room sofa when the duke is away. This I would prefer.”

”She would expect you to compose works in her honour.”

”Which I would, most dutifully. Pay homage to her everlasting beauty, despite the fact that she is fat and old.”

”And bald.”

”Yes, that too.”

There was a loud collective whoop from the bankers that made Meredith and Gunther look up. A j.a.panese girl in a blue kimono, who looked to be only slightly older than a child, had entered the room. She did not smile, but bowed and took her place beside a potted bamboo tree in the corner. Soon a waitress followed, bearing a large platter of sus.h.i.+, and another after her, who cleared the gla.s.ses and ashtrays from the low gla.s.s table in the center. The kimonoed girl bowed again and in one practiced and elaborate motion untied her sash and let her garment drop to the floor. She was naked and in perfect minuscule proportion, pubic hair trimmed into a tidy little Valentine's heart. The song on the sound system was that big hit by Coldplay. An odd choice for a stripper, Meredith thought, waiting rigidly for the girl to begin grinding her hips in the familiar pot-stirring peeler fas.h.i.+on. But instead of dancing, the naked girl took two steps forward, arched her back and draped herself backward over the gla.s.s table, stomach to the ceiling, feet and head dangling over the side, her throat exposed and quivering slightly. She lay there like a flank steak on a butcher's block. The room was silent as the waitresses began to arrange fish in fans and swirls over the girl's flesh. Hamachi sas.h.i.+mi around the left nipple, unagimaki around the right, raw lobster in between the collarbones, a k.n.o.b of green wasabi in the belly b.u.t.ton, pickled ginger palate-cleanser in each smooth armpit.

”The super deluxe,” Gunther whispered into the nape of Meredith's neck. ”A popular delicacy in j.a.pan. I hope you will forgive my friends' political incorrectness. I understand you Americans can be a bit...unamused by such spectacle.”

Meredith and Mish exchanged uncertain, bug-eyed smiles. One of the waitresses began pa.s.sing around ivory chopsticks. The men laughed and elbowed one another, making cracks in German. They spread their napkins on their laps. The naked girl giggled, and goose b.u.mps rose up under their food.

There was a pause. And it became clear that, for all of their noisy jostling, none of the men was willing to be first.

”I'm hungry,” Meredith announced. Clicking a pair of chopsticks, she reached down, plucked a sea scallop from the point of the girl's left hip bone, popped it in her mouth and swallowed it whole.

8.

Waking up with a hangover was one thing, but waking up hung over two hours from the time you'd gone to bed by a grinning woman in a half-slip was quite another. Meredith pushed her face deeper into the satin throw cus.h.i.+on that was doubling as her pillow.

”Good morrow, Moo,” Irma said. ”Thought you might like a persimmon before work. I found it at the back of the fridge. How 'bout it, my little corker?”

Meredith raised herself on one elbow and fell back again. Her brain rustled in her skull like a bloated pigeon.

”Time?”

Irma consulted her locket. She rarely slept. ”Five-thirty-eight on the dot-you'd better hustle if you want to make it out there by seven.”

Meredith scowled but managed to retain the b.i.t.c.hy remark that pressed itself against the inside of her teeth. She waved her mother away and staggered toward the bathroom.

Half an hour later Meredith scrambled downstairs, late for work. ”Don't forget!” Irma called from the door.

”What?”

”Tonight.”

”What's tonight?”

Irma poked her head over the landing, and her blue kerchief floated from her head and landed on the stairs.

”Blast. Dinner at the club at nine-thirty, darling. I've arranged some specimens for you to examine. Bring your little Canadian friend along. Unless, of course, you'd rather not have the compet.i.tion.”

Meredith stumped down the four flights of stairs two at a time, hurrying to make it before the light timer went out and left her stranded in the lightless stairwell. This country! Timers on lights, cold-water flats, coin-operated heaters, pay-as-you-go public washrooms, the absence of paper towels, napkins or paper products of virtually any kind. Somewhere along the line this great empire had taught its people to live without Kleenex, and its children to bathe in two inches of tepid water. Why? The English must enjoy physical discomfort on some level that North Americans do not. Meredith wondered if the grottiness-the chilly, unheated, unpampered misery among the privileged people was the English way of keeping a connection to history alive. For North Americans it was different. If it was good enough for our ancestors, it couldn't be good enough for us.

Meredith made her way through the urban dawn toward Notting Hill Gate. The pastel-painted town houses seemed dull and two-dimensional. It was the tail end of spring and the sidewalks were covered in fetid brown blossoms, glued to the pavement by rain and fixed there by feet.

She felt surprisingly okay, despite her lack of sleep, and realized it was possible she was still drunk.

The tube rumbled toward Piccadilly, roiling Meredith's stomach inside her. The previous night returned to her in strobe-lit glimpses. Mish slurping a sliver of barbequed eel directly off the thigh of the nude girl. Both of them dancing on top of a single chair until it cracked and gave way. Some commotion involving a car. An overlit flat somewhere in South Kensington with polished concrete floors and hardly any furniture. Dancing again, but this time to something terrible-UB40? The smell of kebab sauce. Talking intensely with Gunther on the couch about his photography while Mish locked herself in the bathroom (to throw up?). A blurry bit. Then home.

She couldn't remember if she had kissed Gunther goodbye, whether they had exchanged phone numbers or even affectionate words. She did recall him begging her to stay, pinning her to the sofa in a half-playful way. She had resisted-though now she was not sure why. What was it with the Pollyanna routine? If she wanted a baby, she was going to have to get tactical.