Chapter 8: 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.