‘What happens in the main room?’
He turns to her. In the dark his eyes are tormented pools. ‘Oh, Lana, Lana, Lana,’ he whispers in her hair.
‘Tell me,’ she urges, but he shakes his head. ‘My world is ugly and corrupt. It only looks good from the outside.
When our time is over, I must return you the way I found you, pure and innocent.’
Gently he opens her legs. ‘Let me hide a little while longer in your world,’ he rasps and buries his mouth in her sex. His mouth is warm and soft. Her body responds, arches; her hands come out to grasp his hair; her legs entwine like ropes around his head, and she comes with a gasp while she is wonderfully full of him, but through it all she never forgets what he said—when our time is over.
Twenty seven
ana wakes up and turns around to look at the man Lbeside her. In the dimness she stares at him. He is so heartbreakingly beautiful when he sleeps he makes her want to cry. That hard mouth softened, the thick, stubby eyelashes dark-blue smudges on his face. She slips out of bed quietly. She is ravenous these days. She smiles to think it must be all the sex. She closes the bedroom door and pads into the kitchen. She switches on the light and goes to the fridge. Her hands reach for the tin of caviar and a jar of marmalade. She goes to the breadbox and cuts two slice of nutty bread. She pops them into the toaster and stands by the counter, yawning.
When they are ready, she spreads a thick layer of caviar on one slice of toast and spoons a dollop of marmalade over the other. She slaps them together, pops herself on a stool, and bites into her creation. It is so delicious she closes her eyes to savor it. She opens her mouth to take a second bite.
‘Is this another terrible combination that you Brits have conjured up?’ Blake teases from the doorway.
Her eyes snap open, her mouth closes, and her eyes move over her food. Marmalade and caviar. Slowly her gaze lifts to him. He is lounging against the doorframe as nude as the day he was born.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asks.
She closes her mouth and tries to smile. ‘It’s my own thing,’ she says weakly. Her heart is beating so loud in her ears that she is sure he must be able to hear. She puts the sandwich down and looks at him. ‘Can’t you sleep?’
‘Come back to bed and put me to sleep,’ he invites, his eyes darkening.#p#分页标题#e#
‘OK, I’l finish my sandwich and come join you. Go ahead.’
She smiles at him, willing him not to enter the kitchen, but go back to bedroom and wait for her. He looks at her and as if he has heard her wishes he nods and, turning around, leaves. The air escapes her lungs in a rush. She puts her elbow on the surface and leans her forehead against her hand. She actually feels sick. She opens the sandwich and really looks at what she has concocted. The smeared caviar and marmalade. It is revolting.
Her mother ate anchovies and marmalade when she was pregnant. She covers her mouth.
She’s pregnant.
She looks at the clock above the door. It is two in the morning. She closes the sandwich. Her appetite is gone.
Oh God, what now? She begins to count backwards.
Yes, she is definitely two weeks late.
Twenty eight
lake opens the door to the apartment and instantly Bfeels that she is gone. Not gone out shopping or gone to see her mother, but gone away from him. Forever.
Her presence seems to have evaporated into thin air. He pushes down the sensation of horror and walks down the corridor to the living room.
The curtains are drawn shut. It is dim and cool. He moves to the coffee table. It is empty. He passes the dining room on his way to the bedroom, his eyes skimming the long table. His gaze falls on her purse. For an odd moment, he finds himself staring at it. The thoughts in his brain are foreign. He shakes his head and walks away. Three steps down the corridor, he stops and goes back. Like a sleepwalker he drifts to her bag. He puts a hand out and lifts it by its strap, a metal and black leather interlaced affair.
He raises the flap and looks inside.
Lip gloss, ballpoint pen, compact mirror, sparkly eye shadow and…a small maroon wallet. He fishes it out, runs his finger along the leather and opens it. He looks at what appears to be a collage of photographs cut out from different photographs and carefully, lovingly stuck together. Her mother, Billie and Harry. The child-like innocence of her handiwork causes him pain.
He does not know why it should. He closes the flap, returns it to her handbag, and walks away from the dining room. He has never done such a thing before. His shoulders feel tense with worry and confusion. What is the matter with him? He has never been curious about the contents of any other woman’s purse before.