The Wedding Officer

35

DESPITE THE thick stone walls and the wooden shutters at the windows, the heat in the apartment was unbearable. James sat at his desk, trying to write a report. Every so often he stopped to wipe his face with a handkerchief. Even writing was difficult: The pen kept slipping from his grasp.

He heard a tiny sound and looked up. Livia was leaning against the open door, barefoot.

“Hello,” he said. “How long have you been there?”

“Not long.”

“Did you want something?”

She made a face. “It’s hot.”

“Isn’t it?” he agreed. He indicated the report. “I’ve got to finish this, unfortunately.”

“You want me to go away?” She opened a button on her dress and began fanning her neck with her open hand.

“No, of course not, but—duty calls, unfortunately.”

“Yes, of course.”

He wrote another sentence, then looked up again. She was still there, and it seemed to him she had undone another button. “I can’t really work with you watching me,” he explained.

“Yes, I noticed.”

“And I really do need to finish this report.”

Five minutes later she was back. “I brought you some cold lemon,” she said, putting the glass down in front of him.

“That’s very kind.”

“It’s too hot to work, isn’t it?” she said, picking up one of his files and using it to fan herself instead of her hand. A page flapped free and wafted to the floor.

“I can’t do anything about the weather, unfortunately,” he said, picking up the stray page and taking the file back from her.

“And I’ve got nothing to do. The food is already in the oven.”

“Ah,” he said. He wrote a note describing the actions taken to suppress looting in the main art gallery, and turned his attention to the theft of an army film projector. “Why don’t you take a siesta?”

“That’s a good idea,” she said, brightening. “Will you take one?”

“I can’t, unfortunately.” He scanned a note about a GI who had been charging wealthy Italians five hundred lire not to have their cars requisitioned, and wrote “Recommend arrest” at the bottom.

“Too busy fighting your war.”

“I suppose so.”

“What important military secrets you must be dealing with. Tell me, what is it today? Have you got a new invasion plan? Or is that one of Hitler’s special communiqués you’re reading?”

“It’s not exciting,” he muttered. “But it does have to be done.”

She watched him a little longer. “Perhaps I’ll take a bath.”

“That’s a good idea.”

“Knock if you need to come in.” The bath was in the kitchen, so privacy was minimal.

“Don’t worry. I expect this’ll keep me occupied for a while yet.”

After a few moments he heard her padding to the door, followed by the sound of running water.

For five minutes there was peace, then he heard her singing in the bath. He did his best to ignore it, but it was impossible. With a sigh he got to his feet and went to investigate. The door to the kitchen had been left open. Livia was in the bath, almost submerged, warbling, only her breasts and knees breaking the surface. He watched her for a moment, closed the door, then went back to his office and closed that door too.

The next interval of quiet lasted almost ten minutes. Then, without warning, his door suddenly swung open. An arm came in. He just had time to identify it as Livia’s, and to see that it was holding something small and round and red, before it hurled the red object at his desk. A very ripe tomato exploded on his open file.

“What the—” he began. A second arm hurled another tomato at his chest, where it scored a direct hit on his uniform.

“You bloody—cow,” he said, outraged.

There was a giggle from the other side of the door. “You’re the one who likes wars.” She ran off, and he heard the door to the kitchen bang shut.

He surveyed the mess with a sigh, and began to dab at the soiled papers with a handkerchief. Then his door opened again. He had just turned to remonstrate when another tomato caught him full in the forehead.

“That’s it,” he fumed, striding into the kitchen after her. She was using the bottom half of her dress as a receptacle into which she was loading half a dozen tomatoes. “This is not acceptable,” he snapped. She threw a tomato, which he intercepted in midair before it hit him. She hurled another, and he caught that too. They were good catches, and he could see that she was rather surprised by them.

“I think you’ll find,” he said tersely, “that the skills of an Uppingham first eleven wicketkeeper are more than a match for your nonsense.”

“But both your hands are now full,” she pointed out, throwing another tomato. This one caught him on the chest.

He hurled the tomato in his right hand back at her. It exploded on her shoulder. “Ow!” she yelled.

“Serves you right.” He threw the other one. It, too, was bang on target.

She retaliated with a bad lob that missed him and spattered harmlessly on the wall behind. With a cry of annoyance she ran at him and simply squashed all the fruits in her lap between the two of them, covering them both with a red mess. He grabbed her wrists, pulling her arms behind her back, and then she was kissing him, and the urgency of their fight became something else entirely. She was biting at his mouth with sharp little teeth, her hands were under his shirt, alternately scratching and stroking, and then his own hands were impatiently lifting off her dress. She pulled away from the kiss just long enough to say, “Yes, James, now,” as the dress came over her head. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath, and her skin was still damp from her bath. She reached for his trouser buttons. And then she was guiding him inside her—so warm, and so easy, like dipping your fingers into olive oil. He stopped, savoring the moment, and she smiled as she brought her arms up and slid them around his neck. Languidly, she lifted one leg and wrapped it around his buttocks, setting in train a whole new series of pleasurable sensations.

“So,” she murmured happily, tilting her head for another kiss.

From the other room an impatient voice called, “Gould?”

“Fuck!” James said. “It’s the fucking CO.” He pulled out of her and grabbed his trousers. They were covered with tomato pulp. “Fuck!”

Livia giggled.

“It’s hardly funny,” he hissed.

“Here, I’ll scrape it off,” she offered. “No, look—take a towel. He’ll think you were having a bath.” She looked at the towel as he wrapped it around himself. “Though you might want to hold it a bit more loosely at the front.”

Major Heathcote wanted to discuss an involved, and to James unimaginably tedious, crisis involving accommodation for staff officers. James hurried him along as much as he could, trying all the time to conceal the squashed tomatoes on his desk, but by the time he went back to the kitchen, people were gathering for dinner. Horris was telling an interminable story about a nine-year-old Italian boy who had been caught red-handed in possession of an entire truckload of cigarettes. Livia caught James’s anguished glance and shrugged helplessly.

“Would you crush me some pepper, Captain Gould?”

He got the pestle and mortar out. Thumping the heavy stone pestle into the bowl, he felt a vicarious satisfaction as the peppercorns gave way beneath the force of his blows. Smash…Smash…Smash.

“Steady,” Livia murmured as she passed him on her way to the stove. “You could hurt someone like that.”

He did not reply, but only banged the pestle even harder.

“Here,” she said, putting her hand on his and showing him. “You’re trying to crush them, not pulverize them. Like this. Slow and smooth.” She took her hand away and watched him for a moment. “Yes, I think you’ve almost got it.” There was just a hint of wicked laughter in her eyes.

Only much later, as he ate dinner, did it occur to him that, technically, he probably wasn’t a virgin anymore. It didn’t feel like much of a milestone.