The Pleasure Quartet Read online

  He also wanted to see her hit again, and again, and again. He was fascinated by the way the red marks bloomed over her white skin and faded and bloomed again, an animated map of lust. Noah wanted to create his own patterns over Summer’s body, to raise in her the same responses that Vincent was stimulating now.

  She was glowing. The same way that she did after he had made her come.

  Noah wanted to make her glow. Now and forever.

  Finally Vincent slowed and then stopped his assault.

  Summer was visibly in a daze. She hung totally loose from her bonds, almost asleep and apparently unaware of what she had just undergone, were it not for the twitching of her limbs and the wetness that glistened between her thighs and betrayed her unmistakable arousal.

  Vincent stepped back. Motioned to Noah.

  ‘Fuck her,’ he said simply.

  Noah looked to Aurelia for approval. Summer was not in any state, right then, to consent to anything.

  Aurelia nodded an affirmation.

  He hurriedly removed his clothes. His prick needed no encouragement, it had not softened from the moment that he had watched Summer undress.

  Noah slid inside her. Came almost immediately.

  He pulled out, their mixed juices slick over his penis. Saw the stream of their joined secretions running down the inside of her thigh.

  Unbuckled her gag and removed it.

  Kissed her.

  Vincent reached up to her wrists and loosened her bonds.

  Summer fell into Noah’s arms.

  10

  Journey’s End

  Ever since I had been a child, I was always being told I was prone to unpredictability. A teacher, or was it a friend, had told me that I walked to the beat of my own drum. Peremptory voices inside my head insisting I should conduct my life by personal standards that didn’t rely on others.

  I saw no reason not to continue down that path.

  For several weeks I had reached a state of Zen-like acceptance with Noah, basking in the warmth of our relationship and its rhythms of blissful peaks of lust and necessary lows of holy silences.

  Noah had gone up to Scotland for a couple of days to take a look at a band his A&R scouts on the ground had been monitoring for some time. The group were playing a club gig in Edinburgh and he would have to stay the night as it was unlikely to end before the opportunity to catch the last flight back to London.

  As I wandered through the Maida Vale apartment, I realised this would be our first night apart in almost three months. Had I ever spent so long in such close proximity to the same man? Even when Dominik was alive, we were often apart due to my touring and his writing obligations.

  Right now, Noah was probably still in his office by Notting Hill, just a stone’s throw away past the canal and the Harrow Road, still hours to go until his departure for the Scottish capital, but I already felt a sense of loss. Of withdrawal, at the very thought of a whole night alone in our bed. The breakfast leftovers were still strewn across the kitchen table, a slice of toast orphaned and now cold and useless, the empty cereal bowls, dirty cutlery, the strawberry jam pot open, its lid nowhere to be seen. I ignored the mess and rose from the chair. I was once again wearing one of Noah’s shirts, a blue linen short-sleeved one I had picked up from the bedroom floor, which he had worn for work the day before and that still smelled of him. My arse was uncovered, a morning sight I’d enjoyed teasing him with as I pottered around the kitchen earlier, fanning his libido and deliberately sending him off on his way with a hard on.

  My phone was on the bedside table and I called for a minicab and rushed to dress.

  An hour later, I was busy delving through the piles of cardboard boxes scattered across a cold concrete floor in the storage unit by the North Circular Road where I had left most of my belongings before departing London for the Ball, setting aside items of clothing I had almost forgotten about, knick-knacks, books I had never read, pieces of jewellery I would probably never wear again. Motes of dust hung in the air of the narrow compartment. Wielding the Stanley knife I’d borrowed from the office, I slid open another box with a touch of anxiety; I should have labelled them, I knew, but had not done so originally.

  I breathed a sigh of relief. It was the right one. Half a dozen violins, all carefully wrapped in double and triple layers of cloth. Not the Christiansen Bailly, of course, which I’d had auctioned to purchase a place in Rio, the proceeds still sitting virtually unused in my bank account.

  I selected two of them, running my palm across the smoothness of the wood, wiping away the dust clinging to their sides, and set them down on the floor, and continued to make my way through the heavy boxes until I found the one in which I had packed all my sheet music. Rifled through them and selected a dozen or so scores almost at random. Shuffling the thin booklets I noticed one for Vivaldi’s ‘Four Seasons’ and ignored it with a faint smile. If there was one piece of music I could play with my eyes closed it was that one, and I had no wish to ever play it again.

  I had come unprepared and had to go back down to the storage centre’s office and acquire an ugly jute shopping bag to pack the items I wished to take away.

  At the flat, it took me several hours to tune the instruments properly until they almost sounded the way I wanted them again and I was then able to take a closer look at the bundle of scores, some of the music I was deeply familiar with and other compositions I’d never got round to tackling.

  I settled on Saint-Saëns. Slowly reading through one of his sonatas and then the solo section of the third concerto.

  Note by note, the melodies began moving from the page to my brain and then, instinctively, to my fingers, my whole body reading the music, absorbing it by osmosis. On the settee, the two violins sat, still mostly untouched, unplayed, defying me to pick up either of them.

  I hesitated.

  Made myself one cup of coffee and then another.

  Gazed at the instruments, reminded myself of their respective sounds, how the one of darker wood, a violin I had acquired in a small music store in the backstreets of Genoa for a pittance, at the back end of short Italian tour, had sometimes to be coaxed into submission but then delivered a velvety richness of sound once tamed. The other, whose curves felt softer and whose shade of orange evoked a seductive warmth, had been the one I played when experimenting with Viggo and his band, I remembered, its lighter weight and suppleness encouraging improvisation.

  I looked around.

  Somehow Noah’s rooms felt wrong for practising.

  Maybe I should move back in to my own place once the lease expired and I could claim it again. Or buy somewhere else?

  I moved to the bedroom and searched through the right-hand side of the cupboard which I had allocated myself for my clothes. Checked out a couple of outfits but finally opted for that little black dress. My performing uniform of sorts. Also the one I had been wearing in Recife but which I had since had dry-cleaned several times to erase both memories and stains. And then worn again for Noah, on the occasion that I had him witness me in full flight under the influence of Vincent’s ministrations. Despite, or maybe because of, its history, it now felt the appropriate thing to wear.

  The bus that would take me into the West End was just arriving at the stop, a few hundred yards from the apartment. The top floor was empty and I sat at the front, right above the driver’s cabin, watching as the Edgware Road unrolled in front of me as the bus stuttered its way through the heavy traffic into the centre. I alighted near Oxford Circus and walked east down Oxford Street.

  I was seeking the pitch at the bottom of the Northern Line escalators, but to my dismay it no longer existed. Since my last time here, the CrossRail development had remodelled the station and I briefly wandered the corridors seeking out an area where I could busk. I hadn’t applied for or been granted the appropriate licence from TFL so hoped to find a spot well away from the station’s staff and wandering inspectors. It had been years since I let my previous permit lapse.

  I final
ly found an area in a narrow alcove at the intersection of two wide, circular corridors connecting the Northern and Central lines. The light was harsh and a constant flow of commuters rushed by, with nary a look at the hirsute guitar player brutalising ‘Blowing in the Wind’. I hung around a little, standing in a corner until he finished his set, picked up his case full of coins and walked off, then promptly occupied it and took out my violin, shed my coat which I spread across the floor and began to play. I hadn’t brought the Saint-Saëns partition along with me and played from memory.

  At first the sound was something of an echo-strewn screech, until I got a handle on the acoustics of the tunnels and modulated my fingering accordingly to extract a more harmonious flow, adjusting my angle of attack with the bow. It was still some degrees from perfection but at least the violin sounded more pleasant and acceptable as far as my demanding ears were concerned. Although I was also aware that the passing Tube users would generally not know the difference.

  I wasn’t playing for them though; I was playing for myself.

  I shut my eyes. Immersing myself in the music. The notes on the page danced along my closed eyelids. My fingers flew over the strings and my wrist strained as my arm guided the bow through its necessary motions.

  Then the notes disappeared and the fuzzy image transformed, morphing into a ballet of colours as the music began to overwhelm my consciousness and animate me, stealing me away from the draughty corner of the Tube junction of corridors and its cavernous acoustics, transporting me into that zone I now remembered so well. Where I flew through the spheres, where my whole body was just an extension of the music, of my instrument, where my will faded and I became insubstantial, a mere creature of emotion.

  The sound of coins dropping onto my outstretched coat at regular intervals punctuated my reverie as the melody unrolled both in my mind and from the tips of my busy fingers. All too soon, it shivered to an end. The sound of a few hands clapping, and I opened my eyes. Two older women stood, watching me, gentle smiles drawn across their lips. As if expecting me to play something else. I returned their smile, bowed my head in response to their approval. The crowds of passengers came and went in waves, as trains on both lines drew onto the nearby platforms, disgorging their commuters. It was a weekday, so I knew I was not at risk from a horde of football fans as had happened on that first fateful occasion.

  I briefly thought of what I could play next, but none of the prospects pleased me. I was badly out of practice, and in no state to improvise.

  I returned home.

  By the time Noah arrived back the following day, my fingers were raw and the strained muscles in my upper arm were groaning from all the hours I had put in playing, rehearsing, practising, failing time and time again until I was happy with my playing. I had barely slept.

  ‘You look tired,’ he said as he set down his overnight bag in the hall and kissed me. ‘Are you feeling alright?’

  I nodded. When he walked into the study, he caught sight of my violins, the music stand I had set up and the mess of partitions spread across the room on all possible surfaces.

  ‘You’re playing again,’ he said. ‘Wonderful.’

  He took me in his arms.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But early days.’ I didn’t want him to get too excited about it yet, make any sort of plans, but Noah was understanding and careful not to ask me any questions, which I was grateful to him for.

  I felt so thankful for the delicacy of his intuition and a totally crazy thought ran through my mind.

  ‘If you want,’ I told him. ‘I’ll play for you tonight. Something special, somewhere special.’

  ‘I would love that.’

  ‘A surprise.’

  All through the evening, I could sense his impatience, as we ate and then watched a Scandinavian thriller serial on the TV, slyly glancing at me throughout, wondering what I might have in my mind.

  Towards midnight, I rose from the sofa.

  ‘Now . . .’

  ‘I thought you’d forgotten, or given up,’ he remarked.

  ‘Of course not.’

  I changed back into my little black dress. Wearing it had become something of a ritual for me and I wondered whether he was aware of the fact. I chose the Italian violin.

  The minicab I’d ordered earlier was waiting for us downstairs. The driver knew our destination, and I’d agreed to pay extra for his discretion.

  As Noah opened the car door and held it for me, I handed him a black velvet blindfold.

  He appeared surprised.

  ‘For you.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘To maintain the element of surprise,’ I said.

  He slipped it on, sat down next to me and slammed the door shut and the car drove off. The driver remained silent throughout the journey. The roads were empty. I held Noah’s hands as we journeyed east, past Lord’s Cricket Ground and along Regent’s Park and then cut north on the Finchley Road towards Hampstead. The minicab dropped us off on the hill, close to the ponds. Still holding his hand as we exited the car, I could feel Noah’s disorientation as he blindly tried to guess from the directions we’d driven where we might be.

  ‘Hold on tight,’ I said to him as I led him along onto the Heath. ‘The ground is uneven.’

  We passed the ponds. The darkness was overwhelming but I knew these paths like the back of my hand. The slope ascended and ten minutes later we reached the familiar clearing away from the canopy of trees. There was a thin sliver of moon, bathing us in an eerie glow. I pulled an often stumbling Noah along as we took the incline that led to the bandstand. He was remarkably restrained and unquestioning, considering the circumstances.

  ‘Sit,’ I told him.

  He didn’t mind the grass being damp, and did so.

  He was facing the bandstand, looking upwards.

  I slipped out of my clothes, climbed the half-dozen steps and placed the violin against my chin. It felt cold.

  I had earlier given much consideration to what I should play.

  ‘Fingal’s Cave’.

  The initial chill breathing across my body soon faded and I played for the hungry segment of the moon and for my new lover.

  As I squeezed all the beauty and melancholy out of the wonderful piece of music, I kept my gaze firmly on Noah.

  His face was serene. He knew exactly what my intentions were and sat absolutely still, accepting of the theatricality of the moment, not even tempted to pull his blindfold away, guessing I was bare and vulnerable and offered.

  All too soon, carried along by the deep yearning of the melody I came to the end of the piece and knew I had no need for further improvisations.

  ‘You can take off the blindfold,’ I called out to Noah.

  He took his time, savouring the tension in the air, the fading echo of each note and quaver, and delicately pulled the blindfold off, stretching the silk band across his ears, ruffling his hair.

  Saw me.

  His face showed no expression, confirming that he knew how he would find me.

  Without a word he unbuttoned his shirt and stepped out of his trousers and walked towards me.

  We made love on the stone floor of the bandstand.

  Neither Summer nor Noah had ever been to Iceland, though she had always dreamed of visiting the stark landscapes of the far North, home to the legendary aurora borealis alien light show that she had only previously seen captured, still, in photographs. He had once thought of visiting the Holy Criminals’ birthplace when Viggo and his then band had toured there, but another commitment had prevented him.

  When Aurelia’s invitation to the Ball arrived, they both joyfully accepted.

  ‘So – what exactly is this Ball? Are you going to let me know this time what you’re getting me into?’ he teased her.

  They were in Ping Pong by the Southbank Centre, sharing steaming baskets of dim sum. Summer was sipping from a boiling-hot glass of flowering hibiscus tea. He watched her with affection as she stared at the bud unfurling in the water tha
t had now fully bloomed and appeared unfeasibly large and lifelike in all its three-dimensional, tentacular glory, like uncharted flora that belonged on the depths of the ocean floor.

  She looked up. Met his gaze. Her chopsticks were resting on the olive-green, ceramic holder by her napkin as she waited for the next round of dumplings and wontons they had ordered to arrive. Summer was saving space for the seasonal special, a dish of crab shu mai – an open-top pastry with a filling of seafood, turnip and coriander. Noah was unconvinced by the advertised presence of goji berries, and instead filled up on another of his favourites, the sweet and salty char sui buns.

  ‘Honestly,’ she told him, ‘I could try to tell you but I fear that I would only sound ridiculous. It’s better if you rid your mind of expectations, and just appreciate the experience once we arrive. Besides,’ she added, ‘each occasion is different. I can barely believe some of the things that I have seen with my own eyes, let alone explain them.’

  She had provided him with only sparse details of her employment with the Ball and the Network, of the theatre piece that Mieville had mentioned attending in the Spiegeltent, her later performance on the American desert plains of Nevada, and the circumstances that had led her to the Amazon region and then to Rio.

  Noah was eager to learn and to see more but he knew better than to press Summer for details. She tended to close up when she felt harangued. In the course of their communication he learned that sometimes it was better just to leave her be and trust her to open up to him in her own time.

  She continued speaking, as he thought she might.

  ‘There’s going to be a magician at this one, apparently,’ she said. ‘A famous illusionist.’ She paused. ‘I’ve agreed to provide musical accompaniment to one of his performances. Lauralynn too, on cello.’

  ‘That’s wonderful,’ he said, and meant it. He was so glad to see her returning to the violin.

  Her hand was resting on his thigh under the table, grasping him tightly through the denim of his jeans. His fly was a button-up rather than zip, and occasionally she wiggled her fingers through the gaps in the stiff fabric, managing to just brush the tip of a single digit against the bare skin of his shaft. She had insisted he go commando.