Chapter 5
Over the twenty years since Matthew Pyne's discharge from the service he had moved more than nineteen times. He took count one night over a lonely bottle of gin. That didn't include his brief visit of Ohio when his father died in 1951. He remained long enough to sell the family acreage and pay off his father's debts, and he used the remaining four hundred dollars for his return passage to London.
Before 1951 he had remained in Germany, but he chose England afterward. He wasn't sure why. It just seemed the thing to do. He made brief trips out of the Isles, when finances permitted, but London became and remained his headquarters. He even managed to secure work papers, and that was quite an accomplishment.
In West Germany, after the war, Matt worked for an American consulting firm as a public relations director, but the novelty wore off when his duties were reduced to occasional interpreting jobs for the boss. He loafed for a while on his war bonus forwarded from Ohio, and later took up residence with a flabby German countess who wanted a man around the house to help her adjust to postwar life in her native land. She had weathered the war in Spain.
The alliance began with sex, and several delightful months transpired before the countess became hung up with a young German actor. Matt had to close their account when the countess once more looked to him for love and affection. He had grown accustomed to gardener duties and chauffeuring, and she had grown fatter by then and wasn't getting any younger.
He landed a small part in a American movie, playing an American Air Force officer. He later acted as liaison between the Hollywood studio and the German film industry. This job petered out when the American production company went bankrupt. Since the office was leased and the rent paid for another year, he gathered together the abandoned klieg lights purchased in Europe for the earlier film, and called himself a "famous Hollywood photographer." This happened after he had bought a battered view camera in a pawn shop for ten dollars. His first sittings were a series of disasters, but he practiced his technique on every pretty fraulein he could entice to the studio. Before long he was fairly skillful.
The original equipment remained in West Berlin because he never returned there after the death of his father, but when need came for a livelihood he reinstituted his professional photographic status by the acquisition of some more secondhand equipment. He bought out a retiring photographer with promises, and, by a series of flukes, was able to finally pay off the aging lensman.
Matt had never been short on charm, not when it was important, and his ability to mix landed him several good advertising accounts. His professional career thrived for five years, but the inevitable happened. Love reared its devastating head. It very nearly destroyed him.
His choice of lover was a successful model who was a ringer for Rachel. But she lacked Rachel's devotion. Once he was firmly hooked, she started sleeping around, and he neglected his business to play detective after her. He crouched in a Mercedes back seat in Cannes, peeped through a French window in Nice, and bugged her bedroom in Madrid. He pulverized her paramours on each occasion, and won her remorseful attention in between lovers. But her compulsion for promiscuity continued. He finally abandoned the hopeless cause after she married a Greek shipping magnate. He didn't give up easily. He even attempted to storm her honeymoon cottage. But her husband's five bodyguards were there to receive him.
After a slow mend in a military hospital, Matt changed his ways. He didn't love less, but he became more quiet about it. He didn't give up booze, but he stopped letting it rule him. He turned into a fairly respectable human being. That, in a sense, was his downfall.
He lost his accounts in advertising, and, in his passivity, soon found himself struggling for the rent for his dusty upstairs studio. He lived there, made love there, and, for the better part of three years, starved there.
A pleasant refreshment arrived when Carey discovered him, but fun didn't pay the bills. She turned down modeling jobs to run his office, but her austerity program was too late. The funds weren't there to be careful with. It was a lost cause.
As Matt relaxed for the last time in the creaking swivel chair, he contemplated his misspent past. At the same time he speculated on the intrusion of Roland Guthrie into his present. He had always hated the sissy jerk until today, but now he wasn't sure. His proposition was interesting, and the twenty pound note was real. Matt would have to weigh it all, and wait until later for final decision. Of course he had already promised Guthrie he would join him, but what was just one small lie in a lifetime of giants?
Matt packed a cardboard box with odds and ends of personal belongings scooped up from the back sleeping room, and started out for Carey's flat. She had invited him to park there, so perhaps he would. For just a few days, of course.
The month was May, but it was cold. It wasn't at all like the balmy springtime days he recalled from his childhood in Ohio. The air was clammy. There was the snarl of evening traffic as Matt walked the six blocks through the back streets of London, and he felt a deep chill burrowing into his bones. He was lost in deep introspection when the beep, beep of a cab horn brought him awake.
"Taxi, Gov?" shouted the cabby, idling beside him at the curb.
Matt waved him on, and plodded forward. The sound of a rowdy pub almost drew him off the sidewalk, but he sniffed the beer, sighed, and remained on his path. Carey would have supper waiting, and he had no money. There was Guthrie's twenty, of course, but that was Carey's. He owed her that and fifty more.
He was touched by a dirty-faced old vendor who mournfully reduced the price of his last bouquet for Matt's benefit, and Matt would have enjoyed surprising his girl, but no-Carey was too practical to appreciate flowers when the cupboard was bare. He refused the offer apologetically, and turned into the hallway of 112 Dewhurst.
The doorway was hunched between a betting shop and a chemist's. The narrow door was painted black, and the upper part was multi-paned with sparkling, clean glass. This was Carey again. She painted the door and kept its glass clean. Quite a gal for a mod.
She adopted the standards of the American hippies except for one single, all-important detail. Carey was the cleanest human being Matt had ever known-with one exception of course -with the exception of Rachel.
He climbed the three flights and paused at Carey's door to detect what cooking aromas might be emanating from there. Strange-no smell at all. Matt was sure each neighbor judged the others by their cooking odors, but Carey's place offered no competition. He shrugged and rested the box on his lifted knee, and managed to open the door. Once inside, he could see why no cooking odors were escaping. The rooms were dark. Carey wasn't home.
Matt turned the light switch inside the door and glanced about the living room, dining room, and kitchen combination. There was a couch and two chairs to the right. The dining room table and chairs were directly in front of the door, and the kitchen was to the left of the dining room. Each insert was separated by a partial wall with double doors in their center. Beyond the kitchen was a wall of windows. Beyond the windows was the narrow bedroom. It overlooked the downstairs court. "Carey," he called out to be sure. No answer.
He put the box down on the chair inside the door and went into the kitchen. Then he found a note pinned to the cupboard door. "Lover," it said. "Took a job. If I'm late, have a drink on me. Booze in the fridge." It was signed with a C.
Matt sighed and opened the ancient refrigerator. He found a fresh bottle of Beefeaters and an accompanying bottle of dry vermouth. He grinned. She must have blown her last farthing on the booze, and she hated martinis. The vermouth was all for him. He hastily built a drink.
Matt took his liquid refreshment to the dining room table and analyzed his attitude. When he had walked in and found the rooms vacant, he had felt dispossessed. Why? Now, as he sipped his private poison, he wondered if the old insecurity was creeping upon him. He hadn't cared about losing his smelly studio, but he was behaving strangely.
It made one thing very clear. He would call Roland to reassure his commitment. He wanted the adventure to get underway at once. He didn't want to go through what he had experienced twice before because this time it would really be ridiculous. Carey was a swinger. She was carefree, emotionally irresponsible, and was even a vociferous advocate of free love. And besides she was hardly more than a child. She was twenty-he was forty-two. He drank and laughed aloud. "You're a sick man, Pyne. A sick, dirty old man."
After his second blast he went downstairs to the hall telephone. He called Guthrie to emphasize his growing enthusiasm for the project.
"In that case," said Guthrie, "perhaps we should get together at once. Can we meet tonight? I'll run over what we have."
Matt gave Carey's address and went back to the apartment to wait. He mixed another drink and was finishing it when Carey arrived. It was seven and he was hungry. "Where the hell have you been?" he said without humor.
She tossed her make-up case next to the chair that held Matt's cardboard box, and lifted her arms joyfully. "I got me a smashing job, Ducks," she said, dancing across the room, her lithe body undulating provocatively under the tight miniskirt. She plunked herself on his lap and locked his neck in a tight, affectionate embrace. "Wait'll ya'ear about it. It's a dilly, it is."
"You're loaded," Matt said, avoiding her kiss.
"True enough, but ow'd ya know?" she said, staring at him in puzzlement.
He shook his head. "Your cockney's showing. You always drop the culture when the gin takes over."
She giggled and hugged him again, "not gin, luv," she corrected. "Scotch it was. Very expensive Scotch."
"Then let me catch up," Matt said grouchily. He took her tiny waist in his hands and easily removed her from his lap. As he mixed another martini, he listened silently to her account of her day. She said she had posed for a new agency, and afterward they were so pleased they made some sample poses for a lipstick company. The boss took her with him along with the prints to the advertising company manager, and she was hired on the spot.
"We're rich bastards," she exclaimed. "Our worries are over. I'm guaranteed twenty thousand by contract, but there are millions of extra fees. Ain't- isn't that smashing, Matthew love?"
"If you walk in with that accent, they'll tear your contract in a million pieces," he said sourly. "Want a drink?"
"Nope," she said, hanging on his neck, and grinding her curves against him. "I want your naked body. That's all I want."
"Cut it out. Carey '' he protested. "I'm not in a very good mood."
"But you have t be in a good mood. Our luck has changed."
He sighed and slipped around her to the dining room table "You're lucky baby. Not mine."
He had seceded in ruining her gaiety. She dropped her arms a id followed him forlornly. "I thought you'd be happy. I couldn't wait to tell you the news."
"I am happy," he said sarcastically. "Happy for you."
"We can start another studio for you," she said hopefully. "A fine one-in a good location -with new lights and cameras and everything. Maybe I can help you find some new accounts too."
He shook his head. "I landed a job today myself," he said. "I won't be around much anymore."
"A job? You'll be leaving London?"
"Mm hmm. A guy I used to know wants me to do some contract work for him on the continent. He's meeting me here in a few minutes to fill me in. Hope you don't mind."
She stared blankly, almost on the verge of tears. "I-thought you were beginning to like me, Matt. I thought . . ."
He managed a grin with his shrug. "Sure, I like you. We've had some great times. But we both agreed it was for kicks, didn't we?"
"Sure, Matt," she said, stunned. Her pretty face had lost all traces of happiness. She looked like an abandoned child. She sat on the edge of the nearest chair and stared at the sugar bowl in the center of the table. "I said I liked variety, and you said you wanted no encumbrances. Guess I forgot that for a minute."
He gulped down his drink. "The intelligent way to handle a love affair is to know when to stop. You have to read the signs. You got a great job today, and so did I. You'll be meeting all sorts of guys now. Those in a more realistic age bracket."
She nodded. "That's true, but I've always known men. Lots of them. But I felt comfortable with you, Matt. I can't explain it."
"Look," said Matt, "I know this is your place, but could you do me a favor? I'd like to be alone with this guy for an hour or so. Could you hide out in the bedroom maybe?"
"Have you eaten?" she asked.
He shook his head. "I'm not very hungry."
"I am," she said, already lifting the mini-dress over her head. "I'll change to some pants and go out and get us something."
Matt started to protest but was halted by the sight of her fantastic nudity. The knitted orange and white dress was tossed aside, and Carey was utterly naked underneath. Her strong, handful breasts bobbled, their tiny pink nipples pointed and proud. Her delicious belly moved gracefully, her lean hips slithered forward as she stepped close to Matt. Carey's legs were long, considering her moderate height, and her upper thighs were beautifully shaped. She wore her hair extremely short. It was very black. The hair on her head would suggest a hirsute body, but this was not the case. Her body was white and silken with legs that rarely needed shaving. There was a splash of color prominent in his view, but even here it was minimal, and soft to the touch-like down. Matt wanted to ignore her nudity. He had seen it before. But the light was bright and there she was. She put her hands about his neck tenderly and drew his head against her belly. That was all she did, but Matt was lost. He locked his arms about her hips and kissed her feverishly. "You are a terrible whore," he murmured. "Do you know that?"
She ground herself against him, strengthening the embrace. "That's what bodies are for," she whispered, clinging. "Take me, Matt. Get your clothes off and give it to me good."
He held her buttocks with both palms and dug his fingers into her firm flesh. "I told you -this guy's coming."
"We'll have time. I know we will."
That was enough invitation. Matt let go and rose to his feet. Within moments he was naked. The closest nest would be the living room couch, so that was were he headed. They plunked down together in a savage embrace, and soon her body was opening to accept him. The warmth of her bodily welcome was electrifying. She locked her young thighs about his hips and began her wild, searching, thrusting, arching ride. Matt removed all thought to enjoy his pleasure. He knew she didn't believe it, but this would be one of their last mergers. As such, he was determined to make the most of it.
Their moment came simultaneously, but that wasn't unusual. Only the degree of fulfillment was surprising. They had always been good together, but this was greatness. "Eeeuhh!" Matt grunted in his final surge.
Her body quaked and shuddered, and he felt her pelvis cutting against his groin. Up, up, up, she lurched to steal every trace of his gift. "Mmmmm," she said, locking his head in both arms.
They held together long after their rush of joy, and were in exactly that position when a light knock sounded at the door. Matt tensed in waking and recalled his expected visitor. He was about to call out, but it wasn't necessary. He looked up to see Roland Guthrie standing in the doorway to the living room. His mouth was open.
Matt was good at holding his cool in moments of crisis. Some inner mechanism refused to let him show alarm ever. "Ah-there you are, Guthrie," said Matt casually, "Meet Carey Harper."
"I-I-I'm sorry," he said gesturing toward the door helplessly. "You see-it was open a crack. I thought ..."
Matt eased off his partner and sat up on the couch. When he freed her, Carey sat up beside him, running a hand through her dark hair She seemed more sleepy than shocked, but that was Carey. "Hello," she said, leaning her head against Matt's shoulder. "Guess you caught us."
"I say," said Guthrie, "I am sorry-truly. Suppose I go out and come in again."
He was already headed for the door off the dining room, so Matt let him go. When he was outside, Matt retrieved his trousers in the dining room, and Carey exited to the bedroom beyond the kitchen.
In a moment Matt was dressed sufficiently to receive Guthrie. As he let him in, Carey returned wearing a sweater and form-fitting slacks. She smiled at Guthrie as though worried about his embarrassment. "You should shave off that silly moustache," she said confidently. "You'd look much younger."
"As a matter of true fact, I intend to," he said in a remarkable recovery. He smiled as Carey kissed Matt's cheek and departed.
"That's quite a girl you've got there, Pyne. The interruption was unintentional, but I can't say I regret it."
"She's just an oversexed street urchin," Matt said with a shrug. "Makes the cold nights a bit more comfortable."
"My word-I should certainly hope so," said Guthrie, removing his coat. "You're remarkable, Pyne. Absolutely remarkable."
"Shall we get down to business?" Matt said, taking a chair at the table.
"Yes, of course-by all means."