Rupert Thomson - The Insult

Almost the first thing Nina said when we were in the room was, ‘I don’t want you to get used to this.’

I looked at the orange bedspread and the yellow walls. ‘You’re right. Next time we should spend a bit more. Go somewhere nice.’

She came up behind me, put her arms around me. She’d taken off her shirt and I could feel her breasts flattening against my back. ‘You know what I mean, Martin.’

I turned and kissed her. I could hear voices through the wall. A man and a woman talking. I thought I heard the word divorce. I began to undo Nina’s jeans, but she pushed away from me.

‘First I want to do something.’ She took my arm and led me to a chair by the window. ‘Sit there, would you?’ She moved back towards the bed.

‘I’d prefer it if the lights were out,’ I said.

‘Like people in the suburbs?’

I smiled. ‘Is that how they do it?’

‘Of course.’ Nina walked to the door and switched the light off, then crossed the room again and climbed on to the bed. ‘Is that better?’

I nodded. ‘Much better.’

I could see her in great detail now; I could even see the tiny golden hairs glinting on her thighs as she eased her jeans down to her ankles. She kneeled among the blankets, facing away from me, her hair falling to the top edge of her shoulderblades. I noticed how her body tapered to her waist, two straight lines converging, then curved outwards suddenly below it. She leaned sideways, supporting herself on one hand while the other reached between her legs. She bent over, her face pressed into the pillow. With two fingers, she pushed her g-string to one side and parted the dark lips beneath it. Her breath caught, as if somebody had startled her.

She rolled, almost toppled, slowly on to her back. Her chin resting on her chest, she watched her left hand drift limp-wristed from one breast to the other, hovering above each nipple in turn, then dipping down to it, the way a humming-bird drinks from a flower.

‘Do you know what I’m doing?’

It was hard for her to keep her voice level. Perhaps that was part of it.

I didn’t answer.

‘You don’t know,’ she said, ‘do you.’

She seemed to favour her right breast, and the touching became rhythmical, repetitive, semi-circular. Her other hand was still hidden between her legs; the arm looked amputated at the wrist.

As she reached her first orgasm, there was a kind of fluttering on the surface of her skin, then her whole body shuddered, as though she was cold suddenly, and her back arched and lifted clear of the bed. Her head was turned towards me, her mouth half-open. She came twice more in that position, watching the man who was sitting on the chair by the window, a man who couldn’t see what she was doing — or so she thought — and yet he was in the room with her, he was close to her, almost close enough to touch. Exhausted, she let her head tip backwards, over the edge of the bed. Her breasts falling softly in opposite directions, the neat pincushion of her pubic hair pushed high above her hip-bones. Her thighs, at a slight angle to each other. Her knees bent, her ankles still loosely bound by the g-string she’d only half-kicked off.

At last she called me to her. I stood up and walked over.

‘You didn’t mind, did you?’ she said.

I didn’t say anything.

‘Now I’m going to do something for you.’ Smiling, she handed me the blindfold I had given her. ‘Tie this over my eyes, would you?’

Later, when she was in the bathroom, I lay on my stomach with my cheek resting on my arm. What had she said? Something about not getting used to this. I listened to the rush of cars on the motorway. You could almost believe you were in the country, with a river running just outside the window.

Towards the end of that week I invited Nina to the Hotel Metropole for dinner. It wasn’t the food or the service that you went there for (they were both mediocre); it was the setting. You entered through a baroque archway laden with gilt from the previous century and draped in swathes of scarlet velvet. The room itself was painted cream and gold. Two storeys high, it had rows of windows looking down on it from other parts of the hotel. There was a stage on one side, with a dance-floor in front of it. The waitresses were always middle-aged, for some reason; they wore white, ruffled blouses and maroon skirts.

I was apprehensive walking in — I’d eaten there before, with friends — but no one recognised me, no one called my name. Once we were seated at our table, I relaxed. I looked around and nodded. It was all as I remembered it.

‘That’s odd,’ Nina said.

I smiled. ‘What?’

‘Everyone’s cigarette smoke’s blowing in the same direction.’

I told her that the draughts were famous. Part of the experience, in fact. One Easter my parents took me to the Metropole for lunch. There was such a draught that day, my mother’s hair lifted off her shoulders and flew horizontally in the air behind her; she looked as if she was riding in a speedboat or an open car. (I was exaggerating, but only slightly.) Another time a friend of mine sat too close to the door. He didn’t notice anything at first. But, gradually, as the evening wore on, he lost all feeling in one side of his body. After the meal he had to be carried out of the hotel, like a footballer who’s just pulled a hamstring.

Nina was laughing. I took a small box out of my pocket and slid it across the tablecloth towards her.

‘What’s this?’ she said.

‘It’s a present.’

‘You’re always giving me things.’

‘It’s nothing,’ I said. ‘Just something small.’

It was a silver-plated cigarette-lighter that used to belong to my father. I’d had it engraved: FROM M TO N — LOVE IS BLIND (a bit obvious, perhaps, but anyway). She looked down at it and shook her head. Light caught the gold in her dark-brown hair.

‘It’s lovely,’ she said. And then, a few moments later, ‘You shouldn’t give me things.’

A band played while we ate. The saxophonist was slope-shouldered, shifty-eyed. His gaze kept sliding sideways and lingering on Nina. And no wonder. She was more beautiful than ever — her hair loosely pinned, a long black dress clinging to her body, a smile lurking at the corners of her mouth as if she’d just thought of something illicit.

The main course arrived. My roast pork with plums smelled like a piece of old carpet. Tasted like it, too. The keyboard-player sneezed eight times during one song. Nobody danced. Another vintage night at the Metropole.

‘I don’t think I’ve ever been so cold,’ Nina said. ‘Well, maybe once.’

‘When was that?’ I asked her.

She told me that when she was seventeen she’d had an affair with a married man. They had flown to a city in the south together. He was on a business trip, and they’d stayed in a luxury hotel. But something she said had upset the man. He’d thrown her out. She had no money and no coat. It was February.

She found herself standing next to a park. Snow had fallen early that morning and the streets were still soft with it. Cars came creeping up behind her. You could hardly hear them. If you wanted to make the sound, she said, you had to take a piece of cardboard — an empty cereal packet or the back of a letter-writing pad — and you had to hold it close to your ear and tear it very slowly. That was cars on snow. There was a fairground in the park, she remembered, but it was shut for the winter. There was a Big Wheel. Freezing fog hid the top of it. She stood on the road, clutching her ribs in both hands. She had no idea what to do.

A car went by, more stealthy than the rest. Its wheels fat, its white exhaust fumes flapping. Some foreign make. It slowed down, pulled up just beyond her. She ran towards it. The window on the passenger side slid down. She stooped, that position you see whores in — a figure seven; she could feel the tendons taut in the back of her thighs. The man looked warm, though — that was all she could think of. She stood there looking in at him, his round glasses and his overcoat, the sound system playing opera, the seats of pale leather, and she thought how warm he looked. He was foreign, like the car, but he spoke to her in her own language.