The Girl Before

The hand slides up my thigh, then reaches between my legs. I’m shocked. “Edward, I—”

“Don’t move,” he says softly.

His fingers slide back and forth, barely making contact. I feel myself angling against him, craving more pressure. This isn’t me, I think. I don’t do things like this. He circles my clitoris two, three times, then without warning one finger gently slides inside me.

He pauses to take the glass from my hand and set it down next to his, then suddenly he has two hands on me—one from the back, two fingers sliding in and out, one from the front, delving and circling. The noise of the party seems to dim. Breathless, I leave the whole question of whether someone might spot us to him. He’s in charge now. Despite the unlikely setting, waves of pleasure start to wash over me.

“Do you want to find somewhere private?” I whisper.

“No,” he says simply. His fingers increase their tempo, utterly confident. I feel a climax building. My knees sag and his hands take more of my weight. And then I’m there, juddering and shaking around him. Fireworks flash and flicker—real fireworks, the laser show that can be seen as far as Kent, I realize as I come back to reality. That’s what they’re all applauding, thank God. Not me.

My legs are still shaking as he withdraws his hand and says, “Excuse me, Jane. There are some people over there I have to talk to.”

He strides over to someone who I’m pretty sure is Britain’s most eminent architect, a member of the House of Lords, and with an easy smile offers him his hand. The same hand that, seconds ago, was inside me.

—

I’m still reeling as the party starts to break up—Did we really just do that? Did I really just have an orgasm in a room full of people? Is that who I am, now? He takes me to a Japanese restaurant nearby, the sort that has a sushi counter in the middle with a chef standing behind it. The other customers are all Asian, businessmen in dark suits. The chef greets Edward as if he knows him well, bowing and speaking in Japanese. Edward replies in the same language.

“I’ve told him to choose what to serve us,” he tells me as we sit down at a table. “It’s a mark of respect to trust the itamae’s judgment.”

“Your Japanese seems very fluent.”

“I did a building in Tokyo, not long ago.”

“Yes, I know.” His Japanese skyscraper is an elegant, sensuous helix, a giant drill bit piercing the clouds. “Was that your first time there?”

I know it wasn’t, of course. I watch as he rearranges his chopsticks so they’re exactly parallel to each other.

“I spent a year there after the death of my wife and child,” he answers quietly, and I feel a thrill of excitement at this first tiny glimpse of self-revelation, of intimacy. “It wasn’t just the place I felt at home with. It was the culture: the emphasis on self-discipline and restraint. In our society, austerity is associated with deprivation and poverty. In Japan, they consider it the highest form of beauty—what they call shibui.”

A waitress brings two bowls of soup. The bowls are made of painted bamboo, so light and small they fit into the hand. “These bowls, for example,” he says, picking one up. “They’re old and they don’t quite match. That’s shibui.”

I take a mouthful of soup. Something wriggles against my tongue, a strange flickering sensation.

“They’re alive, by the way,” he adds.

“What are?” I say, startled.

“The broth contains tiny shrimp. Shirouo—the newborns. The chef throws them in at the very last minute. It’s considered a great delicacy.” He gestures at the sushi counter, where the chef bows to us again. “Chef Atara’s specialty is ikizukuri, live seafood. I hope that’s all right.”

The waitress brings another dish and places it on the table. On it is a red snapper, its brilliant copper-colored scales very bright against the strips of white radish. One side of the fish has been sliced neatly into sashimi, all the way down to the backbone. But the creature itself is still alive, its tail curling up like a scorpion’s before flapping feebly down again; the mouth gulping, the eye rolling in alarm.

“Oh my God,” I say, aghast.

“Try some. It’s delicious, I assure you.” He reaches out and takes a slice of the pale flesh between his chopsticks.

“Edward, I can’t eat this.”

“No matter. I’ll order you something else.” He gestures to the waitress, who’s at our side in moments. But the broth in my stomach is suddenly threatening to come back up. Newborns. The word starts to hammer in my head.

“Jane. Are you all right?” He’s looking at me, concerned.