Degrees of Intimacy Ch. 08

Camden

Marianne never used to smoke. It just wasn't something you ever did in New York. So much had changed in the last year that it was natural to accept the cigarette Phillippa offered her. It was far from the first she'd had today or even the last few weeks.

She balanced the length of the British cigarette on her lower lip, her upper lip holding it in place, while drawing in determinedly on the flame from Phillippa's cigarette lighter. 'Fag' they called it over here in London, England, she reflected, almost smiling, something she had so much difficulty in doing any more.

"So, you don't know when you're going back to work?" wondered Phillippa. "I mean you're welcome to stay here as long as you like, of course, but don't you know just how long?"

Marianne blew out a cloud of cigarette smoke and watched it disperse about the room. She sat back on the huge leather sofa and balanced her elbow on the armrest, her cigarette pointed up to the unnecessarily high ceiling.

"The doctor doesn't know. She says that a trip like this to London, England, might do the trick. Get out of the apartment. Get away from all the memories of Simon and that horrible horrible day! But depression isn't something you get over like a cold. It takes some people longer than others."

"It must be dreadful for you. We were shocked enough when we watched it on TV as it happened. It was afternoon for us, of course, but morning for you. You'd probably only just got to the office when it happened. Though knowing you yanks you'd probably been in the office hours already."

"I wasn't in the office," said Marianne slowly and carefully.

And then, it happened again. Her eyes erupted suddenly, with no forewarning, into an explosion of tears. Her face crumpled with the impact of her sorrow and the embarrassment that even now, after all these many months, she was unable to control her emotions. And she, a woman who was once one of the sternest and most formidable negotiators in her department!

However hard she tried, it always happened. Something would trigger it off again. Couldn't it just go away? Why did she have to forever carry this guilt and remorse around with her? Even though, of course, it wasn't she who had been at the controls of those Boeing 747s. Even though she was in no way culpable in the events that led to her husband's death. And his body never to be found or positively identified.

If only she had let her desires get the better of her on another day and not on the one day that was etched not only in her memory, but that of everyone in the world. A day now codified as two numbers whose very mention, even in the most innocent of circumstances, would invariably trigger the same tears she was struggling at this moment to suppress.

Phillippa carefully removed Marianne's just-lit cigarette from her hand and placed it cautiously on the ash-tray. Then she sat on the sofa next to her friend and bent her head onto her bare breast so that Marianne's nose was buried just by the reddened areola around the nipple. This wasn't the first time Phillippa had comforted Marianne in this way. She was, after all, like her husband, extraordinarily tactile for a Brit, but Marianne was still not wholly relaxed in the habitual nudity or near-nudity in which her friends disported themselves in their huge North London maisonette.

Although Marianne was accustomed to Phillippa's way of consoling her, it was still odd for her tears to drip directly onto her friend's bare skin, which was losing its summer tan and becoming quite pale in the late autumn coolness. It was also somehow more comforting than resting her cheek on the material of a dress or blouse, no hard buttons or stitching to rub against her face, while Phillippa supported Marianne's stouter body, clothed more modestly in jeans and a sweatshirt, and gently stroked her recently cut hair.

"The pain just doesn't go away!" Marianne sobbed. "I thought it would. But even here, an ocean away from Manhattan, whenever I think... whenever my mind returns... at the smallest..."

"Don't worry! Don't worry about anything!" said Phillippa comfortingly, rocking back and forth gently on the huge sofa, a rhythm that must have reminded both of them of the maternal affection neither had the fortune to bestow on children of their own.

Marianne noticed how close her lips and nose were to Phillippa's nipple. It was thin and quite definitely stiff on a small, but pert, bosom. She looked up at Phillippa who gazed down at her almost lovingly.

"You can suck it, you know," said Phillippa. "I don't mind. In fact, I'd love it if you did! I'm sure it would do you good."

"No," said Marianne softly. "You know I'm not that kind of a girl..."

Phillippa sighed. "I know. But sucking a nipple isn't sex, you know. It'd make you feel good."

In actual fact, Phillippa's almost inappropriate act of compassion already cheered Marianne up. Maybe in a woman less sexually promiscuous and less indiscriminate she might have accepted the offer. Perhaps a woman's nipple would bestow again the comfort that her own mother's had provided when she was a suckling babe in arms. But she didn't want to give Phillippa ideas as to her affection toward her that she might regret later. She valued her friendship with her British friend too much to allow it to become something that would never work and for which she had no interest in pursuing.

Would she have felt the same way if a man had shown her affection in such a way? She might have been more certain of her sexual desires, but no less reluctant to pursue a physical relationship even with men since her husband died. And this despite having had obvious opportunities, not only with Gareth, but also, and very openly, with David, Phillippa's husband and Marianne's ex-lover from many years previously.

Marianne let her head fall down onto Phillippa's lap, well away from both the nipples and the shaved bareness of the crotch between her legs. The two women made no comment while Marianne's head rested on an upper thigh and Phillippa continued to stroke and pat her expensively coiffured hair.

In the background, Marianne could hear the soft sound of jazz music pulse from the huge speakers that stood on either side of the wide television screen. From the bedroom in the floor above, she could hear the steady thump of a headrest against the wall as David and his colleague continued the lovemaking that had excluded Phillippa from her connubial bed all night. Apparently, Maurice didn't feel comfortable having sex in the company of a woman, so from discretion and also the desire, no doubt, of ensuring the success of David's latest project, she had slept in the bed in another spare bedroom next to the one that had almost become Marianne's home this last week or so.

When Marianne focused on the sound of two men making love it seemed almost as natural as the passion more often expressed between David and Phillippa, and sometimes their other friends. Despite that, a part of her still didn't want to imagine David, the man she'd shared a room with as a student in the halls of residence, up there on the huge bed fucking, or being fucked by, a man who looked so much like a hairy gorilla. This was an opinion she held even though Maurice had a twinkle in his dark brown eyes that reminded her so very much of poor Simon.

And then Marianne burst into tears once more, her manicured nails digging into the flesh of Phillippa's bare thighs and her body heaving with irrepressible grief.

When she next saw Maurice, an hour or so later, the twinkle in his eyes was hidden behind wire-frame spectacles. He wore a corduroy jacket over a check shirt where thick strands of chest hair peeped out from under the open collar. He popped his head into the living room and waved nervously at Phillippa and Marianne who sat on the sofa watching a Sunday afternoon news programme. He hovered only a brief moment, perhaps startled to see that Phillippa was still wholly naked, a cigarette dangling from one hand.

"I'll be off then!" he shouted.

"Not till after another kiss!" announced David's voice firmly from the hallway.

Marianne found it difficult to concentrate on the discussion between Donald Rumsfeld and some British newscaster while she could also hear Maurice and David snogging loudly and energetically in the hallway, interesting though the discussion was on the threat Saddam Hussein posed to world peace. She wasn't exactly sure what part the man had played in the circumstances that led to her husband's death and her abrupt widowhood, but if he was in any way culpable she was sure he deserved whatever was coming his way.

Eventually, the front door closed and David entered the room, just as naked as his wife, his penis still semi-erect.

"How was it dear?" Phillippa asked, looking up from the television.

"You must have heard, sweetheart. Maurice doesn't half squeak when you prod him. And there's a man whose rear passage you could drive a train through!" He laughed indulgently. "I think we've got the whole thing in the bag, Phil. We'll be signing the contract tomorrow!"

"That's fucking magic!" cried Phillippa, jumping up off the sofa and over to her husband to kiss him on the cheek. "Do you want to celebrate?" she asked giving his penis a little squeeze.

"Not yet, love!" David remarked, disengaging himself and plomping onto a leather armchair. "I'm well and truly knackered! My prick's had more punishment than you can ever imagine! So, what's on the telly?"

"Just fucking Donald Rumsfeld!" Phillippa exclaimed. "What a plonker! Now they wanna do Iraq, would you believe!"

Marianne felt distinctly uncomfortable as Phillippa and David made comments regarding the crusade on terrorism, keeping her eyes glued on the television and resisting the temptation to express her very different opinions. David and Phillippa were great friends, but couldn't they see that extreme acts of terrorism deserved equally extreme retribution? Even the ones that took place in Israel.

"So, Marianne, what plans have you got for tonight?" David asked, while Phillippa lit up a cigarette and offered one to their guest.

"None," said Marianne, blowing smoke out of her mouth.

"Well, I think we're gonna visit a friend of ours. Hamid. He's studying for an MBA at the University of Kingston or some other polytechnic they've upgraded to uni status. He's been a bit down since coming to England, so we've been trying to cheer him up, haven't we, Phil?"

Phillippa nodded her head. "He's become like a monk, though. We've suggested loud and clear that he loosen up a bit, but he doesn't seem up for it anymore!"

"Pity!" David sighed. "A good fuck he was, too! So, Marianne, you game? We'll be meeting him at the Tyburn at Marble Arch. There are a few good Lebanese restaurants round there."

"Is Hamid Lebanese?" Marianne wondered.

"No. Moroccan," Phillippa answered. "From Marrakech. We met him last year when we did our grand tour."

"I see," nodded Marianne.

She wasn't sure what to say. She couldn't very well use as an excuse the thing that most troubled her to turn down an invitation for a night out. She was sure that a couple of liberal Brits with their unsympathetic views on American policy would think her a racist if she were to confess that she wasn't quite yet ready to meet an Arab. She'd never met one before, not knowingly, but now that her husband had been murdered by a group of fanatical Arabs, she wasn't sure she could easily restrain either her sorrow or her anger.

And Morocco? Weren't several of the terrorists on the planes that hit the Twin Towers from Morocco? She was sure of it.

She was actually quite charmed by Hamid when she met him in the pub. He immediately jumped up from his seat to buy a round of drinks for Marianne and her friends, now, at long last, properly dressed and quite lively despite the long delay on the Central Line. He was probably in his mid-twenties with smart black hair, light brown skin, and a playful smile on his lips.

As their conversation proceeded, she was aware of how much more attention Hamid was paying her than her two friends and she sensed a sadness in him. He was easily distracted and would sometimes break off in the middle of a sentence to stare into space before returning to whatever subject they had been discussing.

He was especially excited by the fact that Marianne came from New York, a city he'd never visited but had always intended to. He asked sympathetic questions on the lasting legacy of the cataclysmic events of the previous year and shared her concern that the outrage be properly commemorated on the site of Ground Zero. It almost seemed that he was about to weep as Marianne described the many tributes left around the perimeter of the site. The fading photographs of dead fire-fighters. The banners and messages sent to the nearby church from all around the United States and the rest of the world. The teddy-bears and toys left by children who knew no other way to express the strength of their emotion.

The rest of the evening was spent in a Lebanese restaurant where Hamid displayed his knowledge of the food on the menu, ordering everyone's meal in Arabic, and telling amusing stories about life in Morocco. If Arabs were all like Hamid, they could certainly be disarmingly charming. When Hamid suggested to her as they parted at the tube station, just opposite the impressive building after which Marble Arch station was named, she gladly assented to meet him on another day.

It was the first evening she could remember in which she was able to cast out of her mind the sorrow she carried with her all the time. Perhaps it was because Hamid was so soft-spoken and sympathetic. Perhaps it was that his observations on the bizarre habits of the English were so perceptive.

Phillippa squeezed Marianne's hand tightly in hers as the train thundered and shuddered through the tunnels towards Tottenham Court Road and the Northern Line.

"I'm so glad you and Hamid got on so well. We were worried that, you know, him being an Arab and everything... But it all wentsowell! When are you seeing him again?"

"Tuesday," Marianne replied, unable to disguise the smile on her face.

"He's a good man, Hamid," David remarked. "But don't expect any more from him than a chat. It's like he's taken some kind of vow of chastity."

This actually suited Marianne. She was sure she wasn't ready for anything more than friendship. She was pleased, too, when they kept their rendezvous at Hampstead that the evening did not end with a crude attempt at seduction., Nor did the next couple of encounters, both of which were in Camden near the flat he was renting at ridiculous expense only half a mile or so from where Phillippa and David lived.

Perhaps it was because the promise of sex had not been mentioned at all and that their conversations had steered so completely away from the subject, that when Hamid actually suggested she come back to his flat she accepted his offer. It seemed that he genuinely liked her as a person, despite the fact she was nearly ten years his senior. Their conversations over wine and falafel in the restaurants were relaxed and sympathetic. It was difficult for Marianne to persuade Hamid to accept even part-payment for the restaurant bills; although it was unlikely he had anything like the material wealth she was expecting from the insurance companies when they finally processed her case.

When Marianne leaned up to kiss Hamid on the lips, he seemed genuinely startled as if he had never thought that this holiday friendship could become anything greater. He stood back, flustered and ill at ease. Then he smiled, that sadness still lingering in his eyes, and returned her kiss. It wasn't the most passionate kiss Marianne had ever received and it was very brief, but it was enough for her to know that the evening would not finish on a cup of coffee and a few joints.

Hamid's flat was tidy and sparse. There was a small television, a laptop computer on a desk surrounded by books and folders, and several pictures of people Marianne assumed to be his family. They drank tea rather than coffee and the joint Hamid rolled was much less potent than the ones Phillippa was so intent on sharing.

When it was stubbed out and the two of them removed their clothes, there was a gentle shyness about him. Almost an awkwardness in his movements.

"You must excuse me," he said softly, removing his underpants, the last item of clothing either of them divested. "It's been a very long time since..."

"Me, too!" Marianne confessed, happy she hadn't lost her sexual passion after all.

Hamid's progress about her body was almost in total reverse to that of Gareth, the last person with whom Marianne had sex. He started at her mouth and gradually made his way downwards, over her flattened breasts, over the flap covering her navel, expressing real pleasure in the slight bulge of her stomach and then his tongue finally made contact with her clitoris, which Marianne was pleased he stimulated slowly and carefully.

Marianne had always been slightly self-conscious about how much noise she made when making love. Not all women, she knew, expressed their passion so vocally, but it was, for her, proof of the intensity of her sexual desires. When, bit by bit, she heard herself squeal and gasp, it was a return to her old self that she sometimes worried might be gone forever.

Hamid sat up on his knees, knowing for sure how aroused she was from the squelchiness of her vagina as he pushed his fingers in and out, and produced a condom that must have been very close at hand. Marianne watched as he pinched its end in his fingers and gradually unrolled it down the length of his erect penis which, like Simon's, was also circumcised. This pleased her. It had never seemed right when she and David were an item at King's College, that he had that useless nipple of flesh at the end of his penis, although she had come to learn in her subsequent and concurrent sexual encounters that circumcised penises were rare in the United Kingdom.

Hamid didn't neglect Marianne's breasts and face as he thrust into her. His tongue and fingers stimulated her on all her tender points, while her buttocks reciprocated his thrusts, her voice exploding into those reassuring short shrieks that built up to louder and more urgent cries as he became steadily more energetic.

Eventually, Marianne knew he had released himself, but not after over half an hour of love-making during which time they had shifted from him being above her to she over him, pressing down onto his erect penis while his hands massaged her bosom.

And then their bodies parted. The two of them slumped together on Hamid's bed. Hamid gently withdrew the condom from his penis and Marianne could see his circumcised penis again, only this time much more shrivelled.

She smiled and gently stroked the deflated glans.

"So, Arabs are circumcised as well. Is it religious?"

"No. Not really. Not like with Jews," replied Hamid. "Are you a Jew? You've got a Jewish surname."

"Cohen? Yes, it is Jewish. But I'm not a Jew. It was my husband who was."

"Husband?" asked Hamid, suddenly looking startled. He leaned up on the bed on one shoulder and looked down at Marianne beside him. "Are you married?"

"Well, yes. Or rather, no."

"I don't understand. Are you separated? Divorced?"

"No," replied Marianne slowly, feeling something break within her. Oh shit! Shit! "He's dead."

"Dead?"

"He was working in the North Tower. You know, in the World Trade Center. He was there when it happened."

"He was one of those who..."

"Yes, he was," Marianne affirmed. And then she couldn't hold it back at all. The tears burst to the surface. And perhaps because she was already loosened by the result of just having had sex, she cried more vocally and more wretchedly than she had for many weeks.