“…a fusion of non-Cartesian infrastructure and social functionality…” a woman says earnestly.
“Lines of desire implied and then denied…”
Apart from the jargon, I decide, topping-out parties aren’t so very different from the gallery openings I went to when I worked in the art world: a lot of people in black, a lot of champagne, a lot of hipster beards and expensive Scandinavian spectacles. Tonight, the occasion is the inauguration of a new concert hall by David Chipperfield. I’m gradually becoming familiar with the names of the best-known British architects: Norman Foster, the late Zaha Hadid, John Pawson, Richard Rogers. Many will be present this evening, Edward has told me. Later there’ll be a firework-and-laser show, visible through the glass roof, that will be seen as far away as Kent.
I wander through the crowd, champagne glass in hand, eavesdropping. I’m wandering because, although Edward has invited me to accompany him, I’m determined not to be an encumbrance. In any case, it isn’t hard to fall into conversation when I want to. The crowd is mostly male, very confident, slightly drunk. More than one person has stopped me and said, “Do I know you?” or “Where do you work?” or simply, “Hello.”
Seeing Edward looking in my direction, I head back toward him. He turns away from the group he’s with. “Thank God,” he says quietly. “If I have to listen to one more speech about the importance of programmatic requirements I think I’ll go mad.” He looks at me appreciatively. “Has anyone told you you’re the most beautiful woman in this room?”
“Several people, actually.” I’m wearing a backless Helmut Lang dress, thigh-length, cut loose behind so that it moves when I do, coupled with some simple scalloped flats from Chloé. “Though not in so many words.”
He laughs. “Come over here.”
I follow him behind a low wall. He puts his champagne glass on it, then runs his hand down my hip.
“You’re wearing panties,” he observes.
“Yes.”
“I think you should take them off. They spoil the line. Don’t worry, no one will see.”
For a moment I freeze. Then I glance around. No one’s looking in our direction. As unobtrusively as I can, I slip out of my panties. When I reach down to pick them up he puts a hand on my arm.
“Wait.”
His right hand lifts the hem of the dress. “No one will see,” he repeats.
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.”